AAR: The Chronicle of Brother Jerome

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(Update Aug. 28: Incorporating some changes to make things a bit clearer, and some screenshots. )

I've been playing around with modding off and on for a couple years, and decided to test some ideas. It's a great bloody wall of text, and not really necessary to enjoy the narrative of the story -- but some people are interested in that sort of thing, so I've hidden it in the spoiler tag. Long and short of it is that several companions are changed; some entirely, some merely tweaked. The Vaegir are more competent on the battlefield. Vaegir, Nords, and Swadians look a little better due to armour changes.

I've been experimenting with modding off and on for awhile; nothing fancy, just little tweaks. No re-writing of code, but playing around with Companions, fooling around with character generation options, re-texturing items, and even designing something new (with a lot of help). So I took Diplomacy's source code, and ran with it. As an aside, I consider the items in question works in progress. I'm not yet happy with how they appear in game.

I was also toying with the idea of tweaking game play to allow more variety in beginning stats, but restricting long-term advancement and weapon skill development -- I wanted to see if it were possible to create the feel of someone who is a prodigy in one field (physical might, in this case) without destroying game balance. To this end, I started a character with elevated Strength and Power Strike, but with XP accrual slowed (player XP multiplier of 0.1 instead of 2.0 -- and occasionally using character import 'cheat' to reset his XP when advancing too fast). The goal is to keep him within a level or two of his companions. Weapon Master has been kept down to level 2 to keep his weapon skills from growing too fast (in hindsight, I perhaps should have set it at level 1). NPCs were also tweaked here and there; from common soldiers to kings.

The overall effect has been a character who is a prodigy of brute force, but whose skill and agility is comparable to -- and often outstripped by -- NPCs. He doesn't hit as often, but when he does hit it's a brutal thing.

My playtest has been a lot of fun, and my imagination's run overtime with it, so I figured I'd put it up as a very story-driven AAR and see if it amuses anybody else.  It's written from the point of view of Brother Jerome -- formerly Jeremus, of vanilla Warband. The narrative blurs the line between real history and Calradia, and this is something I've purposely left vague.  Calradia's a wonderful sandbox, but lacks a sense of culture for the individual nations... something beyond the initial game's scope, but not something that should ever be lacking in a story. And this is a story, first and foremost.

Lastly, I originally mentioned some of the changes I've made to the vanilla game, but it was a clusterf**k of a paragraph, so I'm throwing it up in point form.

  • The Player Character has been altered to change game play
  • Certain Kings & Lords were given more individuality. Example: Ragnar has reduced ranged skills, but is a melee devil who hits like a huscarl. Some lords were given armour more fitting to their culture or station.
  • Several companions were either tweaked or changed from the ground up, dialogue and all. i.e.: Matheld is now "Brunhild", and started with a slightly different skill set and gear befitting her station, but is otherwise unchanged. While Rolf and Baheshtur are now Gunnar Grimspear and Ivarr Greyshaft -- Nordlander brothers who were separated due to ill fortune.
  • Bows were made a little quicker. The longbow had its damage increased so that it's second only to a warbow, balancing the disadvantage of its speed somewhat.
  • Vaegir Marksmen were made a little more effective
  • Crossbows were made slower, with reduced damage. The end effect seems to have been negligible; Rhodoks are still monsters, and even the Swadians still make huscarl shields explode rather swiftly
  • Military cleavers were removed from the game, and replaced with a variety of swords. If anything, this has made the bloody Rhodoks a little more dangerous, while making them look a little more properly "medieval". It's also had the unintentional yet amusing effect of making the PC look like a freak for carrying one.
  • Fighting Axes were added to the weapons of several Nord troops, increasing the effectiveness of the shields they carry around by allowing them to use them a little more often.
  • Several new armours added to the game, including some from Narf's Rus and Transitional Armour packs, along with some of my own experiments. A copy of the pilgrim disguise was renamed and re-statted as "priest's armour", for Brother Jerome.
  • Vaegir troops had more fighting axes and heavy sabres added, while reducing the number of two handed weapons. The Vaegir were previously just moving targets who tended to fall far too easily. They're more of a threat, now. Vaegir Knights also had a stat tweak that make them better at melee; almost as good as the Swadian or Sarranid cavalry. Almost.
  • Changed some of the Kings' banners

I'll be using italicized text to visually separate my own responses from the actual narrative. Finally, "Jeremus" is now "Brother Jerome", a Franciscan monk with an over-inflated ego that makes him an ill fit for the order.

And so we begin.




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The Chronicle of Brother Jerome remains one of the key historical texts illuminating life in mid-late 13th century Calradia. Though some scholars have questioned the accuracy of his depictions, they are widely regarded as an unusually clear source of the considerable shift in both politics and culture that reshaped the north in the closing decades of that century.

In an era when literacy itself was rare, and written accounts infrequent,  the culture of the Nordlanders (referred to as simply "the Nords" by outsiders) proved even more elusive in this regard. Literacy was an exceptional thing, relying instead upon oral traditions maintained by highly-trained Skalds. So it is that Brother Jerome's exceptional circumstances grant us valuable insight into a culture that has been typically (and perhaps unfairly) presented as one of mindless brutishness. In particular, it gives us some insight regarding contemporary figures whose names have become legendary in the passing centuries: King Harlaus IV of Swadia and his dutiful knight, Sir Grainwad; King Graveth I of Rhodokia; Yargolek, whom some  still refer to as the last true king of the Vaegir; and of course King Ragnar I of Nordland, and his champion, Aedvord, more commonly known as Norvordr (trans: north guard, or guardian of the north), and the storied band that he lead.
 
Wow, another aar... Great.
It looks like an era of aar-s starts once more. :grin:
I'll be following this. Right now, it looks good. :wink:
 
August 11th, 1257
I have arrived in Khudan, a city of the god-fearing Vaegir. This is the first opportunity I have had to write since leaving the Holy Land. To my great and lasting regret, many of my prior notes were lost in the attack upon the Sarranid caravan I was travelling with -- Lord preserve me from the treachery of the Khergits. By the grace of God, my notes on the medicines of the East were in my robes at the time, and so remain with me.

Father Abbot was correct; my pilgrimage to the Holy Land provided me with greater clarity.  My presence at the abbey had grown contentious, and despite my unparalleled healing skills and prodigious knowledge, I was accused of an abundance of pride... which I must confess, I may be somewhat guilty of. This resulted in the vexation of my brothers in Christ, including testing the patience of Abbot Samson himself.

At first I was suspicious of the reasons behind my journey, and distrustful of the Abbot's motives, and in my pride thought that he merely meant to be rid of me, but I now see the wisdom in his orders. For not only have I returned to these lands stronger in faith, but more learned in the ways of the world and the great arts of the east, the art and science of medicine most particularly.

However, my considerable learning will come to naught if I cannot find a  patron to sustain me. True, the Vaegir are a good, Christian people, but the lords of this land are little better than any other. They are as corrupted by avarice and blinded by wrath as those of any other land, and the robes of a friar will do little . Truly, the charity of man is strained when naught but bread, thin stew, and watery wine are all that is offered freely to a man of the cloth.


August 13th, 1257
Fortune has smiled upon me, though I pray to the good Lord for the preservation of the Baranova household. The elderly merchant has but one son, a young man who fell from the balcony of their home during a revelry last eve, and cracked his head upon the flagstones below. I charged but a modest fee to treat the poor boy (certainly so when contrasted what lesser physicians would demand), yet the father argued with the cost of it. Oh, the irony that he finally settled upon 30 pieces of silver in addition to meals for the duration of treatment!

I have successfully trepanned the boy's skull to reduce the swelling that would otherwise have taken his life. However, a fever set in by morning. I have provided them with tincture of willow bark to treat it, and given them instruction on both proper dosage and the schedule for application.  Having personally administered the first dose, I now retire to my own rest.



August 14th, 1257
May the good Lord preserve me against fools and merchants. The family did not follow my instructions, and the fever took him shortly after dawn. I was brought before Boyar Vuldrat, the lord of Khudan, as the Baranova family attempted to hold me responsible for their loss. Their grief translates to rage, and in their distemper they seek blood in vengeance for an imagined mischief.

Regardless of my friar's robes and the rosary that hangs about my neck, despite the indisputable fact that I used naught but the Lord's own gifts of my intellect and nature's bounty in treating the lad, they accuse me of sorcery most foul. The Boyar is reluctant to press forward with the consequences of such charges, but my habit and my tonsure will only protect me so long -- and even if they do not succeed in having me put to death for black magic, I still must fear reprisal of a less direct kind. I would like to think that they would not stoop to murdering a man of the cloth, but good reason and wise prudence tell me otherwise.

I am not safe here. I must flee.  A mercenary company entered town earlier today, lead by some would-be Thane of the Nords who has earned a moderate measure of fame for himself, from what I understand. It is unlikely that anyone would think to look for me among the bloodthirsty northern pagans; their ignorance and savagery may be my saving grace. I will go and speak to him forthwith. God preserve and protect me.
 
August 15, 1257
From the fury and the madness of the northmen, oh Lord, deliver us! A rough hand dragged me from pastoral dreams, hauling me from my cot and pulling me, stumbling and half-aware, out into the chill of the night. For even now, as summer has barely begun to wane and the first harvest draws nearer, the Vaegir lands are cool and their nights enough to chill a man to the bone.

I thought at first that the savage northmen intended to slay me for their amusement, but instead I was dragged out into the midst of a battle! One of the Boyars had his force decimated in battles with the Khergits, and was set upon by a large force of bandits as he attempted to return home. One of the northman's company -- a Vaegir himself, I think -- spotted the battle and informed his captain. In no time at all, they had rushed out to join the fight. Despite being no more than a dozen in number, the northmen turned the tide of battle and engaged in a great slaughter, chasing down foemen as they sought to flee!

The captain is a brute of a man! I have no more time to write! They are rising with dawn's light, and they are saying he plans to 'hunt' more bandits! A man who hunts men! I fear I have fallen in with a pack of devils!

(Editor's note: In the original text, it is apparent that Brother Jerome's handwriting grew sloppier near the end of this entry. One may surmise that he was panicked and rushing.)
 
September 2nd, 1257
For over a fortnight I have been dragged here and there through the hills and snowy peaks that comprise the gulf of barren, wild lands between Khudan and Rivacheg, and watched this band of madmen indulge in their favourite pursuit: hunting other men.

I had only heard tales of the northmen before this, and now see that even these stories fell short of the truth. They are hard men, and merciless in battle; their mettle is such that they do not flinch when their captain -- whom they call their Thane -- leads them against odds that more civilized men would have the wit to avoid. I have personally witnessed them slay almost twice their number in tundra bandits, and half again their number in northern raiders. The latter confused me, as it seemed that they were battling their own kin.

Most of these men will not speak with me, and for that I am glad. The first time I spoke to one of their number was to the woman, Brunhild, whom I mistakenly thought would be of gentler disposition. This caused several of the others to laugh, and she stormed off in a rage to complain of me to the Thane.

There are two among their number, however, who do not share this aversion. The first is a knight of the Swadians, Sir Alaric. His tale is one of tragedy, and I pray he finds the redemption he seeks. The second is a red-haired Vaegir who calls himself by the dramatic name of Stefan Wolf's Head... not merely a rogue, but proud of it. At least he is a Christian man, despite his many failings. Between the two of them -- Alaric steadily and gravely, Stefan full of mirth and mischief -- the two have been serving as my guides amongst the barbarians.

From them I have learned that their small band is made of trusted, proven men; huscarls, they are called. Devils, I call them; though it would be unwise to do so to their faces.  They are lead by their Thane, and two of his most trusted men; Stefan, and a terrifying dark-haired, dark-eyed huscarl named Gunnar Grimspear... perhaps so called for the deadly spears he throws, or for the weapon he bears; almost as much a polearm as an axe.

Behind them stand a cluster of archers, wielding longbows and axes. Among them stand Brunhild, the shield maiden I now carefully avoid, and Ivarr Greyshaft; brother of Grimspear, and so called for the grey-feathered shafts he favours. The lethal deliberation of his aim is unnerving. I have seen him slay men on distant hilltops too often now for it to be mistaken for chance or luck.

Then there is a small cluster of 'manhunters' who serve as the Thane's cavalry, lead by Sir Alaric and a petite young woman named Lada; born of a Vaegir father and Khergit mother, I did not notice her at first among their number. Wearing bulky, over-sized armour, I had thought her a young man from a distance. Alaric claims that she may even be his superior on horseback. A considerable accomplishment, as he was apparently once the Master of Horse at Uxhal. She is also quite skilled with a bow, and seems to have caught Stefan's eye.

Lastly, there is the Thane himself -- Aedvord, by name. A great, broad-shouldered brute of a man with wild hair and a sullen, measuring gaze. Though not the largest man I have ever met, he still manages to stand out even among the large-boned northmen; and that considerable frame is made to loom larger still by the girth of the white-furred vest he wears. I am told it is the pelt of a great northern bear. Like a madman he eschews the use of a helmet in combat.

Though his lieutenants (for lack of a better term) seem quite friendly and informal with him, the other soldiers are more reserved and respectful. For a weapon, Aedvord uses a huge, unwieldy slab of metal like a sword, smashing through shields, men, and even horses. Sometimes all at once. One of the huscarls muttered that the Thane's blade was once the weapon of a frost giant, which Aedvord took as a trophy after slaying him. Being a man of both sound mind and good faith, I do not put value in their superstitions and tall tales -- but as a prudent man, I am not fool enough to naysay a band of axe-wielding maniacs, nor cast aspersions on the man they look up to.

Though, to be fair, I had only seen him holding back in fights, allowing his men to test their strength. It wasn't until I witnessed him cut his way through four raiders, one after another, like a scythe through wheat, that I began to wonder if I were not putting enough credence in their tales...

Now we rest at Khudan again, and I finally have time to update this journal of my travels. If I should die, it is my hope that it finds its way into Christian hands, and that prayers are said for my soul.

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Foreground: Stefan, Aedvord, and Grimspear celebrate a victory against sea raiders
 
September 7, 1257
Aedvord attends the tournament in Khudan, and his men have joined in as well. So I am left to the peace of solitude, and I may write at my leisure. I may not, however, attempt to escape the northman. He saw fit to take rooms in the very heart of the town, a mere stone's throw from Baranova's holdings. Nor would Boyar Vuldrat be inclined to leniency, as I took flight rather than depend on his judgement. So I write.

The barbarians no longer seethe at my presence. In truth, they have come to appreciate the blessing of providence that brought a highly skilled and learned physician among their number. Or, at the very least, most of them have. Brunhild does not speak to me, nor will I risk her ire by broaching that silence; and the swarthy huscarl, Gunnar Grimspear, seems to bear a black hatred for me. I shudder to think of the number of times this warband has sat around the fire at night, trying to stay warm, and I look up only to see that dark, implacable gaze staring back at me with murderous intent. I fear the day that he catches me apart from the others and alone.

Well-named is he, for rarely does he smile, and seems entirely absent of gentler sentiments. I have sometimes seen him laughing in the company of his brother or Stefan, or even with some of the other huscarls as they share some rough joke in their native tongue... but then he returns to that sullen, murderous stare if he catches me watching. Even his laugh is a rough, unsettling thing.  I suspect he hates me for what he doubtless perceives as my weakness, my softness; that I am a man of learning, instead of a violent barbarian; that I am a man of God, rather than a heathen. I must be on my guard.

They return from the tournament now, far sooner than I had anticipated. I had thought to have a full day's peace, yet it seems to have not even lasted through the morning. Sir Alaric and Stefan inform me that Aedvord won the day; Alaric seems taken with the battle prowess of his companions, and Stefan amused by the money won in wagers on the side.


01-Stefan.jpg

Stefan - a bastard, and proud of it


September 8, 1257
May God have mercy on Stefan's soul; in addition to the money won in wagers yesterday, he's also misappropriated someone's coin purse! Thank Heaven for small mercies, that he did not display this before Sir Alaric left the room.

I asked him if he was not worried that he would be caught. He replied that risk was what made it fun. In addition, it seems he grew up in this town, and so knows the denizens of Khudan quite well, including the man he robbed.

"I assure you, Brother, he is a very sinful man," Stefan said. "And is it not true that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter Heaven? So it only stands to reason that I do the Lord's work in relieving him of some of the burden upon his soul. When he stands before God on judgement day and gets into Heaven because his soul is..." he paused to bounce the coin purse in his hand, grinning while estimating it's weight, "...fifty denars lighter, he will have good cause to thank me."

"In fact, it may be rightly said that I have aided many a merchant or money-lender to see the Kingdom of God when they might otherwise have been barred from His presence. Can there be any greater mercy than that?"

Despite my vast learning and keen mind, I found the brazenness of his debauched philosophy left me without reply for several moments. At last I gave a weak rebuttal; "I do not think that is what scripture intended to teach us."

He patted me on the back and left the room laughing.
 
September 14, 1257
We have spent the last two days in the fishing village of Ruvar, on the northern coast. The people here are a decent, hard-working sort. A more quiet, humble folk than I would have presumed of the northmen. Rough, yes, and still too willing to settle a quarrel with an axe, but they are a more practical folk than I have previously presumed.

They met in what they called a "Theng" -- a town meeting, which they argued about because the Jarl was not present. They talked for some time before settling the matter, many men of the village -- and some of the women -- stating their opinions and presenting several sides to the argument. However, the village elder won over dissenting voices and appealed for Aedvord to aid them against the bandits that have plagued the village. He agreed without hesitation or hubris.

I now find myself questioning my prior assumptions regarding the people of the north. Unschooled in letters they may be, but they are not an ignorant or unintelligent folk. That they put so much weight in a man's ability to speak his mind and present his point of view in reasoned discourse requires that I examine my own ignorance. That the chief of this warband, the one they call "Thane", Aedvord, should have agreed to aid them without boasting or demanding payment, was equally a surprise.

Sir Alaric seemed somewhat taken back by my confusion. It was only as we spoke of the events of the last four weeks that I finally realized my error. I had thought this band of warriors hunted the bandits of the tundra or sea due to a barbaric, primal bloodlust; a ceaseless desire for violent action to stir the blood and dull the brain. Rather, they follow their Thane so loyally because he is a man of vision: he views all the people of the north as being kin of a sort -- that the Vaegir and Nords are cousins, who should be united under a single king rather than warring with one another.

He is as fiercely loyal to his men as they are to him. They served as a mercenary band for King Ragnar from the spring until mid-summer, when the Thane had a falling out with the King over the welfare of one of his men. The details are unknown, as he refuses to speak ill of Ragnar, but he has maintained a distance since -- depending on the plunder from bandits and rewards of tournaments for their livelihood. Perhaps it is a mad choice, but one with some measure of valour to it, and one that has earned a hearty measure of glory to his name... and, it seems, the undying loyalty of his troops.



September 15, 1257
The bandits were routed with remarkable success. They attacked at dawn, and we were not yet halfway toward midday by the time I had finished treating all who were wounded. There were no maimings, and only two people with cracked bones; not even fully broken, by my estimation. There were only seven people who required stitching, and of them only two could be said to be serious. If fever holds off, and infection does not take hold -- which it should not, after the poultices I applied -- there should be no permanent effects from what was a fierce battle. Truly, the Lord works in mysterious ways.

Then there is Grimspear.

When I had finished with the last of the villagers, I took notice that the huscarl was watching me again. I tensed, ready for what I expected would be a terrible confrontation, but he only gusted a grunt of frustration, clapped me on the shoulder, muttered, "You're all right, priest," and tossed a small purse of coins at Stefan before sauntering away.

Grimspear had bet Stefan twenty denar that I would crack and flee before a month had passed. Now it all makes sense.

Damned northern madmen.
 
September 21, 1257
The great tournament at Sargoth was the first for me on two counts. First, that I have never before seen a Nordlander tournament. It was about as brutal and simplistic as I would have expected. Second, that all of our company's men fell before the end of the fourth round. The Thane was last, being rather handily beaten into a stupor by a warrior of far less skill and might. It took four or five solid blows to finally bring Aedvord down, but land they did, and so he fell.

It was stunning. He fought as though all reason had left him, not bothering to block, and swinging wildly. If he fought like that in the field, he would be dead. While Stefan and Greyshaft have made light of it, seeking to raise their chieftains spirits, Grimspear and Sir Alaric seem somewhat troubled by this.

At least in the end Aedvord proved himself a man of generous spirit, even when defeated. He rose from the dirt, bloodied and humbled, and embraced the warrior who'd felled him. I have grown to respect these men, despite myself. If I am to live in a land beset on all sides by violent men, then I am content that I should do so among those who, at least, seek to be paragons of their sort.
 
September 25, 1257
A herald arrived at the camp in the dead of night. Surely it must have been providence that he found us, for we were still out in the wilds as the warband stalked another group of sea raiders. He bore a message from King Ragnar of Nordland -- an offer for Aedvord to be made vassal to the king! He was offered the title of Jarl, and the village of Mechin as his demense.

The men of the camp broke out in celebration, save for Aedvord himself, who grunted and regarded the herald with narrowed eyes. He asked the strangest question; "Is this a northern village?"

The herald was taken aback by the question, and the men who were listening fell silent, fearing where their Thane's question was leading. But the herald nodded, and answered that the village was near Knudarr castle, just south of the Carin River. Aedvord nodded with obvious satisfaction at that. "Good," he said. "A good place from which to guard the north lands."

Jarl Aedvord, he will now be called. Though some of his men have taken to call him Norvordr, which in the common tongue of Calradia would mean "Guard of the North".


September 26, 1257
A hard night's march to Sargoth had us arriving by mid-morning. After finding shelter at local taverns, Jarl Aedvord bathed, slept briefly, and presented himself to the king.

King Ragnar of Nordland is rougher than his peers in the realm, and closer in spirit to the Jarls and Huscarls who serve him. It is not the way of a king to apologize, but he spoke highly of Aedvord in his hall, praised his valour, deeds, and his loyalty to his men... the very thing that had caused their falling out months before. This is as close to an apology as one will ever receive from a king, I think.

Ironically, it was not Aedvord's many victories that finally convinced the King to reconcile with him, but rather it was the Thane's loss at the last tournament in Sargoth. When Aedvord accepted his defeat with the same stoic grace and generosity of spirit that he displays in victory, the King applauded with the rest of the crowd, and saw in that moment that he had driven away a warrior of great value. Now reconciled, on a beautiful day where the cool autumn sky shone bright blue, and the harvest fields were resplendant gold, Jarl Aedvord swore his lifelong fealty to King Ragnar.
 
Bruce  Almighty said:
Wow, another aar... Great.
It looks like an era of aar-s starts once more. :grin:
I'll be following this. Right now, it looks good. :wink:

I seem to remember that era...  :wink:

Northcott said:
Thanks! It's been fun writing it, though I wasn't sure If I was actually holding anybody's interest.

I think you are, perhaps, posting too quickly for folks to get on and comment. You might also be posting more of a "wall of words" than people are willing to take on but I'm sure the screenshots you have promised will break that up sufficiently.

I had a little trouble following who was who and what was happening - gameplay-wise - up through the Sept. 2nd entry, however. Afterward it kind of sorted itself out, though. Changing to a confused companion's perspective 6 months into the game and having the names and descriptions of half a dozen new people and a few unfamiliar events poured on takes a bit of slow reading to get it all straight.

Despite that, I find your story to be VERY well written in all! Names, characterizations, and all the technical stuff like vocabulary and grammar are very well done and your introduction of gameplay events is subtle enough (sometimes too subtle) that I don't feel like you are hitting me over the head with your actions as a player. Also, I am a fan of Stefan after his good deed on Sept. 8th. :grin:  I look forward to more of his cleverly-worded excuses.

 
Thank you! High praise indeed, considering the source.

Yeah, I was afraid that jumping into things from Jeremus' perspective half a year into the campaign would shake things up and perhaps make it an odd read for folks, but I wanted to do something a bit different.  I was amused by a character like him stranded among a group of illiterate pseudo-vikings, recording his ordeal while experiencing, and adaptating, to their lifestyle. It didn't seem right to have Aedvord recording his own life.

Part of the problem is that the game play is far beyond what I've recorded here. There's some catching up to do... though given how frantic much of that was, I'm thinking Jerome/Jeremus wouldn't have had much time to write in that period. Sieges, courtship, and hilltop slaughters!

Since screen caps were mentioned, I think I'll edit a couple of those right now.
 
October 29, 1257
It has been a month since last I had opportunity to sit and write. I shall try and record these events as faithfully as my memory allows.

Upon swearing fealty to King Ragnar, Jarl Aedvord became embroiled in the conflicts that beset the northmen on each side: the Khergit Horde from the east, with the Kingdoms of Swadia and Rhodoklund to the south. The Nordlanders had previously won a number of decisive victories against the Swadians, currently holding Praven and Uxkhal. The Khan of the Horde, for his part, simply seems to have decided that the Nordlanders had grown too much in power.

The end result is that the Nordlanders have been fighting a war of attrition, slowly being whittled down, their villages burning as often as not, and their armies steadily shrinking in both size and power. Hope appeared briefly when, a few days later, the Khergit agreed to peace between their people and those of the north... but within three days, the Vaegir took what they saw as their chance to avenge their prior losses to the Nordlanders, and declared war.

It was in this climate that the Jarls of Nordland held a vote, and agreed to follow Aedvord as the new marshal of Nordland's armies.  The herald had no difficulty in finding him this time, for Aedvord was quite direct about what he was doing: his very first action after being sworn in as the King's man was to ride and find Jarl Harald, his closest friend among the King's men, to ask his permission to court his daughter, Lady Kaeteli... whom, it turned out, was being pressured into an unwanted union with Jarl Haeda through threats to her family's lands.

Jarl Aedvord received word of his new title of Marshal just before he entered Chalbek castle to challenge Jarl Haeda, who had just barely escaped a thrashing by the Swadians. The fight was over in one horrendous blow, and, seeing himself disadvantaged both martially and politically, Haeda agreed to forgo his pursuit of Lady Kaeteli.

What followed is now a blur of hard marches, long days, and cold nights, as Aedvord summoned the realm to campaign, and set about wreaking a terrible vengeance. A large, raiding force of Swadians was defeated in the battle of Tahlberl, where Aedvord used the hills to confound their cavalry, with King Ragnar's forces arriving at the last minute to turn what could have been a hard battle into an utter route. The Rhodok were repelled the next morning, their gathered force shattered in a series of skirmishes near Fenada; their lords separated and hunted down, one by one. King Graveth had lead them, and fought bravely by Aedvord's estimation, but managed to escape as his men scattered.

03-Ragnar.jpg

King Ragnar and Jarl Aedvord stand over the last of the Swadian Horsemen at Tahlberl

Two days later, on the 25th day of October, we laid siege to Curaw by night. Many said it was too ambitious, even foolish, that the army had suffered enough in repelling the forces of the Rhodoks and Swadians. But Aedvord looked out upon the gathered and growing host of warriors, and saw that many more Jarls had swelled their ranks with their brave men marching behind them. Curaw fell at the dawn of October 26th, after a hard but swift fight, and a forced march brought us back to Ismirala Castle before another day had passed. Quickly ladders were prepared, and Ismirala, too, fell by the morning of the 27th. The men were flushed with victory, but many were sorely wounded, and all were weary to the bone. While I may have avoided the worst of the fighting, even I neared the end of my reserves, as long hours in surgery and tending to wounds began to take their toll.

04-Curaw.jpg

Jarl Aedvord, the Norvordr, last man standing... barely

Yet it seems that God willed the stalwart Nords be tested one more time. King Yargolek himself lead four of his boyars, and all their combined men, to take the unguarded town of Curaw. The Nordlanders marched back, and many balked at the sight of the large army of Vaegir that awaited them; filled with skilled archers, guardsmen, and horsemen. So confident was the Vaegir King that he did not bother to break from the siege to face the ragged and bloodied army that marched toward his flank. Only after a dangerous game of baiting the greater force, with light harassment on the flanks and Greyshaft picking off guards from the cover of the woods, did Yargolek's patience finally give.

The forces met in the battle of Curaw bridge before midday of the 28th, the fighting spilling out into the icy water which ran red with the blood of brave men. The horses of the Vaegir faltered, and the banks of the river provided shelter from their archers. The day was won -- though barely.  Aedvord asked that he be awarded Curaw for his efforts, and the King made it so. Brave men were praised, given gifts, and dismissed to return home and rebuild what had been burned, preparing themselves for the next marshaling of realm's might.

Grimspear and Stefan waited for the next opportunity to speak with Jarl Aedvord apart from the eyes of strangers, bluntly expressing their displeasure at the great slaughter his own troops had suffered. That much, at least, has not changed; his men still address him freely.

So it is that I now sit in Curaw, nursing a wounded arm and a host of bruises and scrapes. The sound of my quill scratching on parchment is soothing, a meditation that matches the peaceful view of snow falling on the town outside my window. Word has just reached me that the Vaegir have already sued for peace, barely a day after their crushing defeat, and not even a month after declaring war. It is my hope that my writing will be more steadily paced now, more thoughtful, and not so rushed. The town is but lightly guarded, barely a score of men standing the walls as their lord rides through the countryside, raising a new army befitting his new status.

The Jarls of the realm heard the huscarls using their name for Aedvord, and agreed that it was most fitting. They have begun to call him by it across the breadth of the realm. So it would seem that I no longer write of my time among a simple warband, but have, through accident, chronicled the rise of the Norvordr.


 
Author's note: I'm going to pause in writing for a few days. I've finally caught up with my fictitious little band of misfits, and things should slow down in pace from this point on. I'm sure they could do with a little boredom, though I doubt the Swadians and Rhodoks will let that last.
 
Terrific changes to the first post! Much more readable! The screenshots add to the feeling nicely as well.

Another good chapter!

Northcott said:
03-Ragnar.jpg

King Ragnar and Jarl Aedvord stand over the last of the Swadian Horsemen at Tahlberl

I can't help but notice how unenthused Aedvord looks next to the ecstatic Ragnar...  :razz:
Aedvord: "Yes, the battle is done. Whoopee."
Ragnar: *cartwheels*

Congratulations on taking Curaw and surviving the battle in the throne room, those are always a challenge for me.
 
People keep aiming for his head! I wouldn't be enthused, either. I'm starting to think that a side-effect of not wearing a helmet is that it makes the attacks from NPCs very predictable -- they always aim for the head. I may put a helmet on him soon. Goddamned crossbowmen.

Thanks! Curaw was his big goal all along. I was quite pleased at being able to take it. Of course, just when I thought I'd get a bit of peace and quiet, everything went nuts.  In two weeks of game time there was a tourney, invasions, new war, raids, village razing, and another siege or two. If there were an option to perma-kill nobles, Stamar's head would be on a pike.
 
Nov 1, 1257
As I write this, we rest in Sargoth. King Ragnar held a feast to try and shore the flagging morale of his nobles, for despite the vast lands now held by the Nordlanders, they have yet to achieve respite from war -- a tedious state of being, even for a race of men who pride themselves on their warriors' prowess. Wars have become a trivial thing, sometimes lasting mere days now, often no more than weeks. Like jackals held at bay by the lion, the weaker kingdoms circle the northmen, hoping for a sign of weakness as they seek to wear them down. All other lands have had some measure of peace in which to grow and foster their strength, but not these northmen; when the Vaegir take their ease, the Swadians attack. When the Swadians fall back, the Rhodoks raze the villages. When the Rhodoks are driven back to the southlands, the Khergits begin to raid.

At this moment, they are struggling to hold off the Swadians, Rhodok, and the Horde all at once. They fight bravely, but this war of attrition is beginning to take its toll.

I suspect that the bond between the King and the Norvordr -- for such is Jarl Aedvord commonly called now -- has grown almost to the point of friendship. In this past tournament, they were on the same team in every round, until at the last they dueled before all. Some say it is foolhardy that the Norvordr did not stay his hand and give the king a victory, but Aedvord said he would be ashamed to dishonour his King's fighting spirit so.

Count Stamar of Swadia is our most gracious and unwilling guest since last eve. Some time ago, he saw fit to prey upon Aedvord's holding of Mechin, looting and burning with abandon. Aedvord swore vengeance, and captured the count in a turn of good fortune. He rushed to aid Jarl Tonju's party when set upon by Counts Stamar, Rafarch, and Beranz. The latter two escaped, but Count Stamar is now receiving the Norvordr's hospitality... after he regained consciousness, that is.

We will apparently stay in town a few more days. Jarl Harald brought his daughter, Lady Kaeteli to the feast. It is no great surprise to any of the men that Aedvord has shown great interest for staying through the entire duration of this gathering, despite normally having little use for such frivolity.

Nov 3, 1257
Count Stamar escaped as we traveled back to Curaw, making his bid for freedom in the dead of night. Norvordr is most displeased.

Nov 6, 1257
There is peace between the Rhodoks and the Nords. The Norvordr is no longer the marshal of the Nordland forces.

Nov 8, 1257
We rest at Ismirala Castle. The Swadians had laid siege to the fortress, and Norvordr set out with his men to grant them relief. When the main force broke against the wall, the Swadians fractured and a series of skirmishes broke out along the river.  During the last of these, Jarl Aedvord fell.

Thank the Lord, the wound was not fatal. Blood loss left him faint, however, and a blow to the head ensured he was in no condition to fight for the rest of the day. It will be some time before he is ready to march forth again.
 
November 21, 1257
Mere days after I last wrote, Norvordr proved me wrong in my estimation of his recovery time; or rather, he displayed a profound disdain for what should have been his period of healing. Jarl Knudarr, the new marshal of the kingdom, put out the call for another campaign, and it was answered by the Jarl of Curaw.

A series of fierce skirmishes with Swadian and Khergit forces followed. Where the Rhodok left off, the Vaegir have taken up; King Yargolek declared war merely one day past, and already we hear word of Curaw being under siege. Fortunately, Jarl Knudarr agreed this would not stand, and immediately directed the northern forces that way. We should arrive on the morrow, though the men are greatly wearied and many already wounded. I pray the good Lord preserve us in the face of this trial.

10-Curaw-bridge.jpg

Severely depleted Nord forces march toward an encounter with the rested and refreshed Vaegir army.

 
Northcott said:
At this moment, they are struggling to hold off the Swadians, Rhodok, and the Horde all at once. They fight bravely, but this war of attrition is beginning to take its toll.
Northcott said:
... until at the last they dueled before all. Some say it is foolhardy that the Norvordr did not stay his hand and give the king a victory, but Aedvord said he would be ashamed to dishonour his King's fighting spirit so.

I'm not sure I can explain why but those two are my favorite passages from this newest entry! Maybe I like root for seemingly lost causes and the ultimate test between friends... I can't really say but regardless, another fine chapter.

I am curious though, why you didn't just combine the two above posts? They seem to go together as a chapter well enough or the second could be saved for an exciting start to the next chapter.

A 3-front war is a guaranteed loss of marshalship, sadly.  :sad:  Too many villages getting raided, controversy going up, lords refusing to fight with you to protect their own lands... I'm sure such a stain is unwelcome to Norvordr and he is out of bed so soon to try and clear his name - and defend his holdings, lol!
 
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