TarnishedWanderer
Recruit
It is a story of a land similar to yet different from our own, where six lands are united by their constant struggles - a tale of people and bloodshed, intrigue and romance. This may not be a story of the Calradia you know; the characters will be different, and the land itself may not be as you imagine it; but Calradia is a land shrouded in myth, that may be many different things to many different people. If you feel that the characters within or the events portrayed are not historically accurate, I encourage you to mount your own fact-finding expedition, for there are room for many different interpretations of the truth - let us sit a spell, and share these words over a warm fire.
Q: So, what's this about? What's an AAR?
A: It's about Calradia, and the story of several figures that were important to it as we are used to it now. An AAR - After-Action Report - is a way of sharing those, often accompanied with pictures, music, or other supplements. Think of it as a sort of game-inspired story.
Q: ... So, in other words, fanfiction. You hack.
A: Guilty as charged.
Q: What is Diplomacy?
A: A mod that I find I simply cannot play Warband without. It makes a lot of the parts that I -as admittedly, a rather weak gamer
- have trouble with more manageable, as well as adding some cool options and features, such as enhanced economic controls! I'll be showcasing some of them later. I wouldn't mind doing this for several mods, if this gets popular or something...
Q: Why aren't you using links to these images?
A: Ah, no external links yet. Sorry, folks with low internet speed.
I'll make'em clickable links, later. Edit: Huzzah!Q: What should I expect?
A: Everything and nothing. I like to write characters that don't get written often; people who are cruel and lie without thought, who are ordinary and with no particularly special characteristics, the vain and the dreamers, well-intentioned losers and heroes viewed through a lens darkly; all of whom are placed in situations beyond their normal lives. I am inspired by mythology and folklore, and the best and worst of our common heritage. Hopefully this creates a medley entertaining to read as it is to write! So, without further comment - I hope you enjoy A Time of Troubles.
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A Time of Troubles
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A Time of Troubles
It was not, by any means, an extraordinary life.To all those who watched for such things, there were none of the signs. No hidden tells of nobility lost or proclaimed; the fallback of pretenders and claimants the world over. No swords of destiny or ambition of conquest could be seen in his eyes, nor did his posture signal anything besides a quiet amusement with the world around him; and perhaps a confusion at the three cabbages that the merchant, Bertrand, had placed in perfect symmetry along one shelf. No - to Bertrand, who considered himself a keen judge of character, there was no sign that the young man before him was anything more than a wastrel from one of the smaller hamlets; confused and in a stupor at the grandeur of Praven. And in a manner of speaking, his judgement was correct.
"Well, lad. I've asked you for your assistance in this matter - a matter that must be taken care of with the utmost discretion. Will you and your boys be up for the task?" Bertrand grit his teeth beyond the impenetrable fortress of his beard; if the man now re-arranging the expensive fruits on his table - which had been imported from Sarranid lands at no small cost - decided to take this to the public and the town's burgermeister, then local confidence in his business would plummet: and so would sales. Had he made a mistake? Was this yokel so shocked by the city around him that he could not even be bothered to handle a small task? A peal of sweat formed upon Bertrand's brow - the stranger had, without asking, taken a large bite of a fig; and then, eyes bright with surprise, stuffed another into his maw.
"These are great! Really great. Your face looks terrible; haven't kept you waiting for a reply too long, have I? Kyahahahah!" The young man swallowed and clapped the merchant on the back; Bertrand almost fainted from a mixture of anxiousness and horrified surprise. That was at least fifty denars of trade, gone in an instant. "Relax. We've got you covered, sir! After all - we of common birth must stick together in this cruel and unpleasant world!... I'm sure I've heard that somewhere before. A wandering jongleur, perhaps..? Seriously, old man. Your brother is in good hands! Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to do my duty. Make sure you have your coin counted for my men when we return!" And so left the man, still snickering to himself, as Bertrand realized he had, perhaps, made a grave mistake.
But we are getting ahead of ourselves.
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Veidar was like any other peasant fief in Swadia; worked endlessly by the various great Counts who owned the lands that the Church did not, the villages often blended together in the eyes of visitors. Each small town might possess local festivals or brews and local tales that separated them in the eyes of those who lived there; but the truth that those lives rarely drifted past the late end of thirty years of long, back-breaking work or military conscription, was stronger still. Those who were born to the fields died in the fields, with few exceptions or room for advancement.
Still, life in Veidar was not always terrible; Count Ryis had, in the past, often left the town well enough alone, only sending by a recruiter or herald when there were men or supplies that he desired. The frequent months and years without more than those men sick or unable to be conscripted had meant that the women had grown strong and self-reliant; and only a fool or an outsider would try to challenge this fact. Though the fields could lie fallow and the game be sickly or banned from public hunt, the residents of Veidar managed to eek out a meager living for themselves and their own,
In a few years, this had all changed.
The seemingly endless cycle of war with the Rhodoks and the Nords, both of whom had territorial claims that King Harlaus refused to relinquish, and the constant raids of the Khergit had meant that the entirety of the Kingdom of Swadia that could not claim noble blood or protection from war duty had been geared towards the supply and outfit of troops. All those of age to fight, and many who were not of that age, were pressed into service for one of the various petit-lords, this form of vassalage extending beyond military service and into a desperate attempt to survive the three-front attack which so threatened to bring Swadia to its knees.
And that was what made his situation all the stranger.
Klaes Desmarais should have been conscripted some years ago, having just reached the prime age of enlistment at some twenty and one years of age. He did little besides care for the old, hunched-over mare that served as the only creature in the village that payed him any mind; amongst the elders and wise women of the town, he was considered unpleasant at best, and spirit-touched at worst; for he spent many a long day amongst the hay and the fields, simply staring into the clouds and laughing at things unpleasant and humorless - and sometimes, at things no other could hear or perceive.
Still, he was not addled of mind - for when the recruiters came, Klaes was long gone - having disappeared into the woods near the village, often for months at a time. His sister, Louve, would offer vague explanations - that he was hunting for game not formally owned by the Count, or that her brother had been asked by the local Abbot to acquire some or other herb or flower; Ryis' men had heard of the somewhat strange young man from rumor, and the only listened to his family and the priesthood - and such a man was not worth the time to mount an expedition for. There would always be the next such conscription - yet Klaes never materialized, only continuing his quiet life and remaining a fixture of gossip as townsfolk drew water.
"Really, brother. Would it not hurt you to seek at least some sort of employ? If not at the hands of Count Ryis, then perhaps you could go to Praven and seek some gainful work. You could even seek enlightenment with the Brothers, since you listen to their Words so often; better any of those, than idling in a field and tending to a swaybacked mare." Although Louve was only half-jesting, Klaes laughed as if she had said the most humorous thing in the world, laughing until tears came to his eyes - and then immediately assuming a serious expression as if his fit of cackling had never come across his face.
"Dear sister, such is the talk of one who does not understand the importance of what I do; without me, Indigo would have no friends; and without friends, neither man nor beast may grow. Besides, you seem to think that the Brothers would accept one of our birth and my temperament into their ranks. No. Far better that I wait here for a moment yet to come. The wind and the soil assure me it shall come soon - and, my sister, once it does? Then, and only then, shall I leave." Louve bit her lip in consternation, sharp teeth drawing blood and marring otherwise sweet countenance - but her expression was as vacant as her brothers, for to live in a world of dreams as he did seemed an impossible luxury - and yet something precious, to protect.
"Fine! Be that way, and sit here and grow old and rot! For all I know, you will die as Indigo's saddleboy, unloved and unmourned! See if I care!" Lifting up her skirts, Louve stormed off - the clattering of heavy boots through recently formed puddles the only sign that she had been amongst the fields that she had been present. Klaes watched her go - and as the previously sunny sky began to drizzle, laughed quietly - then began to giggle to himself, openly. A rustle from nearby caused his laughter to stop instantly and whirl around, eyes narrow as the dot of a needle - a tense expression which vanished as he saw whom was there.
Aethelric was the only young man in the village whom knew how to read - it was a rare gift, and so the bookish young man and his services were often sought out. In a large castle-town, Aethelric would likely have become a shopkeep or merchant, but in Veidar, he was merely another dead soul, awaiting the call of Count Ryis and his men. His normally jovial face was pale, and his knees were trembling. "Klaes... Bandits. I was out in the woods cutting fuel for the fire, and I smelled liquor in the air and heard their raucous song - deserters from the army. They're going to come now, when they menfolk are gone, and only the elderly and infirm remain. They will raze the village to the ground." Aethelric looked terrified; he was young, and even the hard labor of fieldwork had done little to hone his muscles - but he was brave, and Klaes could see resolve beyond his fright.
"You really think so? This sounds to me, like something else - this sounds to me like... An opportunity." Those teeth were as sharp as his sisters, and not for the first time, Aethelric wondered if perhaps the stories about Klaes weren't true. Then, the older youth clapped Aethelric on the back and motioned towards the home of Veidar's guiding force, Miriam. "Come, my brother! Without venturing, we stand to gain nothing - and simply letting these bandits burn our fair home to the ground seems as dishonorable as the vile force that raised them and unleashed them upon us. Let us warn the village! Alert the town!" And once again, that unseemly laughter lit up Klaes, as the two rushed towards the town hall - and bells ringing signified panic seeping through the village populace.
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"... So, raiders from the army again. We shall fight them. We shall drag them to the ground and bury them in the peat. No one will find the bodies." Miriam coughed, her nearly blind eyes darting around those assembled. She had survived almost seventy years, now - a legend amongst the people of Veidar. Some said she was a prophetess - but most simply knew that she was canny and pragmatic. She had lost husbands and sons to the war machine of Swadia - it was only fair that she saw no crime in dragging the looters - who were in no form aware of who mistaken their drunken revelry was - into the thick marshes that lay just outside the cultivated farms of wheat and rye.
Of course, she could not expect everything. For example, the dullard Desmarais, Klaes, had joined his family in attendance - and what's more, had began to laugh at her words. It was a plan the village had executed time and again, acting tributarial and vacillating to the would-be bandits, before setting upon them en masse; women and children and the elderly all wielding gardening tools and sticks, heavy clubs and even large rocks. No matter how many came or how well-equipped they were, they soon found themselves feeding the rich, heady rye that Veidar was so famous for. So what was he - the madman - laughing about? Still, Miriam was more humoring of Klaes and his eccentricities than others - he had at least shown his face sometime, and the Desmarais were known to her - she would not call their son out while they were present; if only for the sake of young Louve, who she found pragmatic indeed.
"Mme. Miriam! I apologize for my seeming rudeness, but if you will excuse my interruption... I wish to nominate a new plan! This day is an auspicious one - the sun is high and the wind is right. I shall ride out on loyal Indigo, with several companions by my side! We shall engage the enemy and crush them, head-on! Then, we shall recover their gear in sales and use the profits to arm the village, until we can topple Count Ryis and proclaim our independence!" He continued to laugh all throughout his speech - as those assembled slowly turned white or red, angry and confused and astounded all at once.
Miriam continued to listen, unfazed. "Oh? So you claim that a mere serf can topple Count Ryis? And after Count Ryis, somehow win freedom from King Harlaus, freedom that will be respected and honored by the other petty lords and masters of Calradia..? Good Klaes, do continue." Klaes smiled toothily even as his parents attempted to deflect the swarm of gazes now directed towards them - it looked as his sister might strangle him, but not before he got a word in edgewise.
"Of course, of course! You see, I already figured that there might be some opposition to my plans, so I've decided that I'll select only those the village has no need of for my plans! Except for Aethelric. He's a natural treasure, really - but I need a reader. You must let me take him." For a minute, the almost ridiculous manner of Klaes and his little speech hardened - and for half a minute, Miriam wondered if he truly thought his plan might succeed. "Kyahaha, sorry if I sounded too demanding! Barring him and I, I'll take Herve - yes, you. The butchers son. You're too demanding of women and too craved for attention; no one will miss you. Mortimer! Morty! Mort! You too - you irritate people, so we should stick together - Reynaud. You're good in a fight. I saw you rip into that vulgar pack of apostates last year. Oh, and one more!... Louve, you should come with me. Dress you up in heavy enough armor, and people wouldn't even tell you're a woman-"
That was enough. A crowd descended on the insane man, ready to dismember him as they had been to face the bandit scourge moments ago. Leading it was the other Desmarais, Louve - her face livid - perhaps. However... "Enough." Miriam had other plans, the sound of her walking stick stomping into the ground enough to instantly bring the crowds fervor to peace. "... You speak like a man possessed, boy. Yet here I see all the rest of the village ready to tear you limb from limb, and rightly so; you speak of madness, of impossible dreams; and you would even press your own sister into service? What makes you think you can succeed? What makes you think this effort will help you free us of our shackles, or make you any different from the Count and his men?"
Murmurs of approval drifted throughout the crowd, but Miriam was hardly finished. "... Still. I am old. Soon I will be dead, and feeding the fields here - as is our custom. My mind tells me of your foolishness, but I will not deny that my heart yearns for vengeance." Her eyes shut, and the faintest of smiles formed upon Miriam's lips. "Yes. Yes, I would very much like to see the noble families of Swadia brought to ruin and despair. You have told me something there is no hope of achieving; but if I can die knowing that there were those brave enough to try - well, I would perhaps like that, very much. I allow this wild fancy, Klaes Desmarais - but it is up to those you name to decide if they will follow you. The voice of Veidar has spoken."
Now those assembled were silent - for the madness had both spread and passed - but none would challenge Miriam, and if what Klaes said was possible... The first to walk up was Aethelric. Many winced to see him do so - for every person who could read was priceless. "... I would follow you in this quest, Klaes. It is the only chance we have. And you know, I-" But whatever Aethelric would have said was cut off, as Louve - whose eyes displayed life for the first time in many years - walked up to her brother.
"As will I. Someone must keep an eye on you, and even if your mania is demon-driven, at least it will provide a form of freedom before our deaths." At that comment, Herve stepped forward - broad-shouldered and full of swagger. He licked his lips and stared at the three, then back at his family and kin, then stepped into the small party, saying nothing. A few of the villages gossiped that it was good riddance - there were rumors about Herve, more unpleasant even than those about Klaes - and it was good to see the butchers' son leave, for many reasons. At some point, Reynaud had followed his lead - perhaps thinking that if Herve were to leave, it was only right for someone with watchful eyes and some skill with a blade to be close by.
Finally, all eyes drifted to Mortimer - whose impressive beard hid his expression. With a sigh, the older man stepped forward - in another time, when peace was here and talents were sought, he might have been a squire, or even a knight. But in this time when there were no need for any but conscripts, few grants of land and fewer tournaments, he had become simply a bitter farmer. "... Fye on you, Klaes. This entire quest is doomed to failure - so I will go with you, and refuse to die. I shall carry the story of all of your failures back to this village, and when your body is little more than a feast for the crows, I shall spit on it so that no others shall seek the same end as you. We should gather our things. Let us go."
As the sun hung heavy in the sky and the wind spoke true, a tired mare and six warriors left on a journey - of the bandits that approached Veidar, there were no survivors.
Nation Spotlight - Swadia
Swadia is a nation of peasantry, nobles, and entrenched religious interests. It's large expanse of terrain has been settled by Nords, Rhodoks, and the ancestors of the modern-day people of Swadia; who comprise of citizens of the above two countries, as well as an array of cultures and languages whom stem from all places. The oldest peoples of the country are now amongst it's tiniest minority, and although almost all citizens have worshipped the Creator for at least two centuries, there are fears - those fears themselves most likely rooted in superstition- that the old ways remain hidden and buried beneath the new practices of the Church.
Placed between many other nations and overextended, the Royal Court most constantly battle simply to remain in power - provinces are raided and left to fend for themselves, growing lean and wild like the town of Veidar. This has not curtailed the Court of King Harlaus and their expenditures, however; safe in their fortified castle towns, they care little for the suffering of the peasants and burghers and prefer to feast on rich foods and hold tournaments of skill and chivalry. Advancement in the system is rare but not unheard of; those in service to the crown may receive stipends or even duties of Vassalage - though those latter duties are awarded rarely and with much fanfare. Due to longstanding trade with the merchant-princes of the Vaegirs and the people of the Sarranid Sultanate, there are at least two fronts in which Swadia is secured - though those trade lines have suffered greatly from constant war.
Rich dyes for tapestries, iron, coal and tallow are chief exports; as well as crops of grain and rye. Though some vegetables and fruits are grown domestically, many more must be traded for, which has helped create the burghermasters - relatives of the merchants of the Vaegirs who prosper not through force of arms or religion, but the new power of commerce; though few in number, they are already a worry to the nobles, having become unavoidable and indispensable in the castle towns they remain in. Whether it is this or the many wars that shall spell a new doom for Swadia is a question that hangs heavy in the air...
In my mind, it's based off a mixture o' Celtoeuropean culture, Danelaw Angleland, Normandish France, and the early HRE. A complete anachronism, but isn't that what makes Calradia awesome?
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Well, that's the first installment. I wonder what people'll think? If ya like it, comment. If ya don't, comment! Feedback is great, and I hope I've entertained you somewhat - more to come!
