Like one big, happy family: A Subsim CK2 Dynasty AAR

[Oberon]

Sectoids! I knew it!

[Crécy]

I can hold the torch after Raptor1.

[Hottentot]

I'm pretty much swamped with the uni and the work at the moment, but in case you guys are willing to continue this, then so am I. The only problem being that I just got a new rig and as far as I know, there has been a new patch for CK 2 meanwhile. So I'll have to see if the stupid steam would somehow actually let me patch the freshly installed game to the older version we were using for this instead of forcing me to use the latest one.

[Raptor1]

It is the First of June, Anno Domini 1124. The British Isles are at war as the mighty armies of England and Scotland clash across the countryside. At the edge of the Kingdom of England, the plains of Glamorgan are shrouded in the darkness of the pre-dawn hours. A lone horseman bearing the yellow and red coat of arms of the Duchy of Deheubarth stops outside a decrepit tavern on the outskirts of the county capital of Cardiff. Bypassing a pair of guards standing at the doorway and looking away with stark disinterest, the horseman enters the building at a brisk walk.

The handful of patrons do not bother giving more than a glance to the newcomer as he shuts the door behind him and proceeds towards the corner. "Sire," he says to the man with his face on the table.

"Wuh...?" exclaims the man as he awakens with a startle, staring all around before settling his eyes on the courier now kneeling besides him. "Wwho wut wha?"

"Sire, I have grave news. Your father, Duke Eanfrith, is dead." the courier says, trying his best to ignore the man's babbling. Not comprehending a single word, the man resumes his confused glare. "You have been proclaimed as his successor."

"Wud duuyyu wwunt..." The man trails off as he collapses once more onto the table.

And thus began Eanfrith II's reign as Duke of Deheubarth.

More Tales From the Dark Depths of England, Volume III

The Reign of Eanfrith II the Relatively Sane
Chapter I

I am Eanfrith II of the House of Northumbria. Following my father's tragic demise in the year of our lord 1124, I have ascended to the glorious throne of the Duchy of Deheubarth. And a glorious throne it is indeed; reigning over three counties and who-knows-how-many people, I am possibly the fourth or fifth most powerful Duke in the whole of the Kingdom of England!

Upon my succession to the Duchy, I have immediately set about what any sane person would have done in my place; swimming in the enormous pile of gold in my treasury! There were more gold coins in this treasury than in those of any of the other English Dukes, and even more than was held by the King himself! My advisors babbled on about my predecessors' negligence in investing this money in their holdings, but they knew naught of the intrinsic value of humongous piles of gold, which clearly surpasses that of mere buildings and developed land.

After spending the requisite time in the presence of my gold, I proceeded to the second most important task of the day. The dungeon was dank and poorly lighted to my satisfaction. I went past the cells of commoner prisoners, whose begging for mercy I expertly ignored, to find an unusually well-dressed person inhabiting one of the cells. "Who is this?" I ask.

It is apparently my uncle, who was thrown here some years ago because of some manner of treason. Holding the County of Gwent, he is the only feudal lord in the Duchy besides myself. "Yes, yes." I say, not caring one bit. "But he is ruining the atmosphere with those fancy clothes. We cannot have that!" I offered the man a deal: he can clear out of my otherwise perfect dungeon, and since I am very kind, I'll even let him live, providing he gives me all his money and titles. He accepts. Well, I think he does, anyway, as I could not hear his reply over my voice instructing the guards to throw him out of the Duchy.



Over the next several days, I receive several letters from my vassals, calling my seizure of his titles and assets "unlawful", "tyrannical" and other such nonsense. But what do they know, anyway?

The following month, I happen across an invitation to attend the Summer Fair's Archery contest. I am just about to decline when the realization hits me. Summer Fair? Who arranged such a thing? Did I pay for it? I cannot allow my precious money to be wasted on such nonsense! Deciding to investigate this strange occurrence, I went to the Archery contest and witnessed a mysterious man winning the event and running off with a huge sack of gold coins. This must be some manner of conspiracy! Somebody clearly started this rigged contest in an attempt to embezzle my money. I send the guards to find the suspicious 'winner', recover my money and jail him and his cohorts.



Near the end of October, a courier from the King arrives at my castle. The arrival of such couriers is rarely a good sign; too often a completely innocent Duke such as myself can find himself on the receiving end of letters informing him that "We apologize but we need more troops", or "You will now pay us even more taxes", or "Get out, this is our castle now". Truly a troublesome occurrence. While I would not be so cruel as to needlessly do such a thing, I make preparations to nail the courier's hat to his head - a practice which, I hear, is gaining popularity across Europe - in case I do not take a liking to his words. Despite my worries, I cannot help but admire the courage of the courier approaching my throne. A job such as his must be one of the most dangerous professions in existence, often leaving the courier's fate to the whims of the receiver of the message, and yet he confidently strides forth to deliver me his master's words.

It turns out my concern is unfounded. The King merely wishes me to serve as his marshal. At last, my glorious talents as a military commander have been recognized! I feign disinterest, however. "Is the King willing to pay for my services?" I ask, inspecting my fingernails. Yes, the courier responds, he does. "But 'marshal' is such a boring title," I say, "I wonder if the King will allow me to take the title of 'supreme commander of the army', or something to that effect..." The courier looks around uncertainly. Deciding to be gracious, I tell him that very well, he can tell the King that I accept his appointment.



In December, I receive news that the Pope has called for a new Crusade against Jerusalem. The previous attempt has not exactly progressed quite as well was hoped. By which I mean it wasn't quite successful. By which I mean it was an utter disaster, so I was not terribly optimistic regarding the results of this one. Still, I would have volunteered for the chance to go and slaughter some heathens had I not been already occupied with training the King's troops.



One day, I was taking a stroll around the castle when I spotted a child leaving the dungeon. It took me some moments to remember that his was Eanfrith, my first son and alleged heir. I have a number of kids, but they are so useless, I often forget. It takes me even longer to realize what he is a holding: a red-stained knife. Realization dawns on me. Of course! He has discovered the truth as well!

Young Eanfrith attempts to hide his implement of destruction, but I tell him that he has nothing to hide. "I see you have seen what true evil looks like. Come! I shall help you in slaying it!" I say as I lead the child into the depths of the dungeon, ignoring the unusually loud screaming coming out of one of the cells.



My feet are drenched in red and the remnants of our vanquished foe. The battle was brief and vicious, with no quarter given, but of course evil cannot triumph over the forces of justice. I laugh aloud, celebrating our victory over our accursed tormentors. But my son is not participating in the celebration; perhaps he is too shocked by the slaughter? I look around to find him cowering at the corner of the room; he has not participating in the fighting at all! I give him a disdainful look, "Don't tell me you like tomatoes!"

He bursts from the room crying. Could this coward really be fit to succeed me?



...to be continued! Tune in next time for Chapter II: The Boring Years!

[Raptor1]

Well, that was a bit longer than I thought it would be...

[Hottentot]

Huzaa!

On a sidenote: "Hmm, my father was named Eanfrith. He named me Eanfrith. I now have a son who shall be known as...Eanfrith!"

[Raptor1]

The Reign of Eanfrith II the Somewhat Sane
Chapter II

The decade or so following the fateful year of 1124 was perhaps the most trying of my reign. Nothing happened at all! Well, nearly at all. Oh, sure, the occasional peasant had to be hanged and the occasional bloody civil war raged across the realm as some noble or other decided he wasn't fond of the King, but none of that quite concerned me. As I paced restlessly about my castle, I began to suspect that the conspiracy infesting my court was behind this; attempting to drive me to madness with boredom. I have not managed to prove anything, but I know they are behind it. There is no other logical explanation. Still, I will mention the few notable events that did happen during these long years.

On my thirtieth birthday in 1127, I have been informed that my mustache causes small children to cry and kills sheep at twenty paces. Knowing that my mustache was clearly the source of my power and that this nonsense was merely the conspiracy attempting to deprive me of it, I have grown it even larger than it was. Ha, take that!



In October of 1129, my Court Chaplain, Eanfrith, requests a private audience with me. This is rather unusual; he usually keeps to himself, locked in his chapel doing whatever it is Court Chaplains do. I accept his request, having nothing better to do. We meet in the dark cellar, which is where, by Ducal decree, all private meetings must take place. After my guards make sure he isn't carrying any weapons - one can never be too careful with his advisors - he enters the room with a humongous pile of strange books. It is at that point that I realize what was bothering me. I begin to wonder if everyone in this Duchy is called Eanfrith, and whether that's the work of the same vast and unseen conspiracy targeting me. It was damn confusing, in any case.

I decide not to press the issue for the moment and inquire as to what he wanted from me. The Chaplain lays down his stack of books on the table. "Sire," he says. "I have been exhaustively studying the Fraticelli, I believe I have found it to be the true path to enlightenment..."

Fraticelli...? Suddenly, I grasp what he is implying. I stand up and grab the Chaplain's by his collar. "Fool!" I shout. "You should know well that Sphagetti alone is God's true pasta!" He tries to babble something in protest, but I have none of it. I call the guards and order that he be thrown into the dungeon and all traces of his heretical noodles purged from the realm.



At the end of 1131, I receive news that the heathens occupying the Holy Land have been crushed. I cheer for the triumph of God's armies, but lament the gold coins I now owe the Duke of Gloucester for losing my bet. This event also coincidentally marks the beginning of the end of the boring years.

The following year, my supposed heir Eanfrith comes of age. He is looking mighty shady too, reinforcing my suspicion that he is not truly fit to be my successor. In order to get rid of his annoying presence, I pick the Countess of something or other at random and marry him off to her. I then promptly send him off to infest her court.



In December, a third son is born to me and my wife. Clotilde proposes that he be named Sigeweard, which is probably Saxon for 'strange looking' or something like that. Since it is not yet another Eanfrith and I do not care one bit otherwise, I have no objection to this name.

The same month I also receive an invitation from the King to attend a feast. It's clearly a ruse to frame me for some horrendous crime which will be arranged to happen at this alleged feast, or just throw me in the dungeon with some flimsy justification, or something to that effect. As if I'd fall for such cheap tricks! Yet, much as I try to consider this rationally, the lure of free food and drink becomes irresistible. I succumb to my temptations and declare that I will travel to this feast. Curse it! I shall to be extra careful not to fall into their trap.



I travel to the location of the feast, the court of King Sælræd in Cornwall, early in 1133. Much to my satisfaction, there is plenty of food and drink to be found. Much to my suspicion, not a single incident takes place during the entire proceedings. Clearly this is nothing but an attempt to lull me into a false sense of security. Of course, I shall not fall for that either. The King and his conspiracy will have to try better than that!



Some weeks later, an envoy arrives from the King. Not the usual courier, but the shady sort of messenger that is supposed to covertly deliver covert messages and utterly fails at it. As expected, he demands that I speak to him in the dark cellar. I oblige him. Logically, if the King wanted to kill me, he would have done so at the feast, though of course I make preparations just in case logic has already become a casualty of the insane schemes that I am certain are being set in motion by King Sælræd even at this very moment.

It turns out that I am safe for the moment. The King asks me to not mind him as he deprives the poor Count of Chester of his holdings. I ponder whether I should agree or fetch for my trusty hammer and nails. On one hand, this will certainly serve to advance the King's power-mad schemes. On the other hand, if I play along for now, I could foil his plans at the right time. I choose the latter course of action, and inform the envoy that I shall gladly do the King's bidding. As I watch him leave the castle, I burst into maniacal laughter at my certain victory.



Meanwhile, I have been getting some strange reports from the County of something or other. It appears that my heir's behavior has been...strange. Regardless, I try to ignore anything I hear about that idiot. In June, however, I receive information that I can no longer disregard. My Spymaster, who also happens to be my wife, has found evidence that he is planning to murder me. The bastard! At least, I hope he is...anyway, damn him!

Days later, my mother, Æthelhild dies from "depression" at the age of 62. I do not believe that for a second, of course. Clearly it was he who murdered her out of some insane blood lust.



It is clear to me now that the tomatoes have subverted Eanfrith Jr.; warped his mind at the bidding of their dark master - Satan himself! There is nothing more that can be done to save him. Unfortunately, being at the Court of something or other, he is beyond the reach of my trusty guards. He will also certainly refuse to see the logic in terminating his plot, so I do not even try. I consider assassinating him, but the cost is too high and the risk is too great.

I cannot do much about him, but at the least I can pull that idiot of the line of succession. The following year is the 10th anniversary of my glorious reign. I use the opportunity to announce the changing of the Succession Laws from Gavelkind to Elective. Sure, people will complain, but I can choose who my successor is, and Gavelkind is terrible anyway. Also, since I am the only Feudal lord in the Duchy, I shall be have the sole vote, eliminating the chances of someone ruining everything by voting for the wrong person.



I ponder the choice of my successor thoroughly. My generally odd and suspicious murderer first son, Eanfrith Jr., is out of the question. My second son, Eadweald, is an idiot, and also has an annoying name. Sigeweard is too young, so I cannot know whether he is a worthy heir yet. That leaves my daughters. Gunhilda is also an idiot, leaving Eadwyn as the sole choice until Sigeweard is older. I announce the decision to the general booing of the population, which I do not care one bit about.



It appears that my population actually does hate me! Later that year, as I lounge upon my (very comfortable) throne, I hear a commotion as my door is suddenly opened and a horde of advisors and courtiers burst into my room. "The peasants are revolting!" they shout, as if I am supposed to rise from my chair at this very moment and deliver them from the plebeian menace.

"Look, they're in Gwent, right?" I say. "That's not even anywhere near here." My assurances don't seem to help much, but what do I care? The King has already raised all of my levies for his efforts in the Who-Knowsth's War of Somebody's Independence, so it is not as if there is much I can do. I inform them that they are to clear out my throne room and have someone else deal with it.

Some months later, one of the King's armies takes a stroll through Gwent and demolishes the uprising peasants, probably by accident.





The end of the year brings the first good news I hear in ages. On Christmas Day, my Chancellor, Mayor Harmon, arrives at the castle. I marvel at the fact that one of my advisors is not only named something other than 'Eanfrith', but also doesn't even have an 'Ea' in their name at all, as seems to be the case with everybody else in the Duchy.

My Chancellor takes me down to the trusty cellar. He informs me that after decades of searching, he has found a shady merchant in Gwynedd trading in forged claims. If I just deliver him a sum of twelve metric giant piles of gold, he will give me a claim for the entire Duchy of Gwynedd. I am weary of wasting my precious money on such a suspicious deal, but my craving for more territory overrules these concerns. Hours later, I am in possession of a claim for the last remaining independent Duchy in Wales.



...to be continued in Chapter III: Oh! What a Lovely War.

[Raptor1]

The Reign of Eanfrith II the Arguably Sane

Chapter III

I waste no time dictating a polite letter informing the Duke of Gwynedd of the newly scheduled change in the leadership of his duchy. Though Cadwgan III is only four years old, I am certain that he will understand what I am talking about.



I call for the raising of every levy at my disposal, but that only amounts to some 700 men in total as the King was still using, or otherwise has killed off, almost half my troops. My vassals assemble a grand army of 18 men to join my force, which they assure me will mean the difference between defeat and victory. I am slightly skeptical of this claim, for some reason, so for further insurence I send envoys to York asking for Captain Sæxræd, world renowned barbarian leader and gardener. Paying him a sizable portion of my giant pile of gold, I recruit the services of the 1,500-men Saxon Band for the upcoming campaign. I also place him in overall command of the army.

The first two months of the campaign see little action as both armies chase each other around uselessly across the Welsh countryside. In March, however, Sæxræd's army finally catches up to the Gwyneddians outside of Cardiff and a climactic battle ensues. As I watch, gloating from the comfort of my own castle, the outnumbered Welsh troops are mercilessly slaughtered and soon collapse, leaving my army victorious. With the way clear, Sæxræd moves into Gwynedd and begins siege operations against the castle of Aberffraw and other holdings.





Things progress well for the following year as Aberffraw and most of the rest of the County of Gwynedd are in my possession. However, everything suddenly falls apart. In what could have only been orchestrated by the conspiracy, foreign troop suddenly swarm into the Duchy, seeking to steal my prize. From across the Irish Sea, Duke Fedelmid of Meath (try saying that several times very fast!) lands with a small force, which is not really large enough to pose any threat. Much more worryingly, the Kingdom of Norway and their Danish allies decide to push some woman with a hard to pronounce name's - Gudrun Thorfinnsdatter af Orkneyjar - extremely dubious claim to the Duchy of Gwynedd at the exact same time. In June, 1137, a combined Danish-Norwegian army of over 9,000 men under the command of King Bjørn of Denmark arrives in Wales.

Seeking to delay certain defeat, Sæxræd avoids contact with the Danes and Norwegians as they begin besieging castles across Gwynedd. I hire another 1,500 troops in the form of the Ramon de Pallars' Catalan Band, bringing my army to over 3,000 troops, which is decidedly not enough, and rapidly exhausting my precious gold.



In June the following the year the inevitable occurs. After occupying both the Counties of Gwynedd and Perfeddwlad, the Danish-Norwegian army reforms and attacks Sæxræd near Mathrafal in Powys. Making use of strong defensive terrain, my army holds out for a little while, but the weight of the Danish King's numbers is too great. Soon Sæxræd's line breaks and my army is in full retreat. All seems lost as the enemy's occupation of Gwynedd nears completion.



As expected, Cadwgan III surrenders to the Norwegians and they install Gudrun Whatever as the new Duchess of Gwynedd. But then, in a sudden and confusing deus ex machina that shall be known throughout history as either 'The Miracle of the House of Northumbria' or 'The What Is This I Don't Even', the Norwegians leave, not even bothering to incorporate the Duchy into their Kingdom, and the war continues. Of course the Duke of Meath is still trying to claim it as well, but they are small fry. I take the remnants of my army, raise whatever new troops I can and begin besieging holdings once more.



In November, 1139, as I travel between my castle in Cardiff and Cornwall, where, as part of my duties as supreme commander of the King's armies, I am training troops, my wagon suddenly comes a suspicious obstacle. The carriage's driver says we have to make a detour, but as he does I suddenly imagine a strange fish-person informing me that this is a trap. Clearly a sign from God!



"No," I say. "The Great Eanfrith makes detours for no one!" I hand the driver an axe and order him to remove the obstacle from my path while I sit around watching him work. After many minutes of work, he returns to the carriage and we proceed along the way, speeding past a group of confused-looking armed men.

By the time I get back to the castle, I have already worked out who was behind this shoddy assassination attempt. It was...you!



Yes, you! "Fool!" I say, as he is held by my guards. "Did you think the Great Eanfrith shall fall for such a trap? Ha, pathetic!" The Guards drag him away, but before they can take him out of the room he asks how I could have possibly known it was him. "Only a beard such as yours could be be behind such a dastardly scheme!"

Yet while Estmund of Pembroke was clearly behind this assassination attempt, the true mastermind behind the insidious plot to murder me remains unknown. Could he be an agent of my son, Eanfrith Jr.? Possibly, but there are certainly other people who wish me dead. We shall have our answers, once we get Estmund to talk...

Meanwhile, I finally realize that I am tired of this whole kindness business. I mean, everyone is trying to kill me and steal my stuff, so why I should care about them?



In June, 1141, Estmund finally breaks. It was Æthelwulf, my marshal, who was plotting to murder me! Clearly he has been subverted by Satan as well. I quickly recall him from whatever it was he was supposed to be doing and toss him into the dungeon alongside his co-conspirator. That's one murder plot down...



And back to war. The independent Duchy of Hereford has launches its own campaign against Gwynedd, replacing the Danes and Norwegians, but while their forces are significant they pose far less a danger than those Kingdoms did. As siege operations continue in September, 1141, I receive a message from Duchess Gudrun; they offer surrender! Taking the required time to gloat, I accept, putting an end to over 6 years of war. The House of Northumbria now controls all of Wales!





...to be continued in Chapter IV: I Can't Think of a Title~!

[Raptor1]

The Reign of Eanfrith II the Occasionally Sane

Chapter IV

I order victory celebrations all across the Duchy, but they are soon cut short. The three Counts that I have just conquered all arrive in my castle and put slips of paper in the box I have put there for...is that the box for succession votes? Those bastards! That's my ballot, get your bloody paper out of it! I take a look, and they're not even voting for their righteous and glorious liege's chosen successor, but rather for that idiot Cadwgan. How rude! I immediately set plans in motion to murder him and dispose of his collaborators.

Luckily, the former Duchess and current Countess of Gwynedd, Gudrun, has carelessly neglected to hide evidence that she is plotting to take back the Duchy I just stol...I mean, rightfully took. This gives me all the justification I need to throw her into jail.



Alas, my incompetent guards fail miserably, resulting in Gudrun escaping capture and raising the County in revolt. I gather my levies and smash her puny force, and within a year Gwynedd surrenders again. Entering Gudrun's castle, my troops smash a chair over her head and tie her up, preventing her escape before she can be properly thrown into my dungeon. I take the opportunity to take the traitor's title and add it to my collection. One down, two to go.





In July, a suspicious bard strolls into my court. I hate them, bards, they make too much noise and aren't useful for anything, so I cheerfully inform him that if he bothers me too much I'll break every bone in his body and feed him to hungry frogs piece by piece. Mayor Harmon, who was right around the corner, did not take kindly to this, and started whining as people in my court usually do when they do not take kindly to something. I tried to inform him that I would only torture and kill the bard if he was being too loud, and it's not that horrible a punishment, is it? As usual, he has none of it, so I order my guards to kick him out of the castle. Oh, well.



The following year, I came to a sudden realization. Why do I even need a justification to throw the people who are clearly working against me in the dungeon? I am the Duke here, people should just do whatever I wish and stop complaining. So I order the Countess of Perfeddwlad thrown into the dungeon on account of being a pest. Using newly devised chair-assisted target apprehension techniques, my guards have no difficulty throwing her into the dungeon alongside her compatriot, and I promptly take her title as well. With only Earl Cadwgan's vote left in my ballot and my vote overriding his, the current danger to the succession is eliminated.



My fellow murder plotter, Mayor Skofte informs me that he has figured out the perfect way to assassinate Earl Cadwgan. First, he says, we wait for him to go aboard a boat. Then, Skofte will have his cultists conduct a ritual to raise Cthulhu from his dark house in the mighty city of R'lyeh, following which the meddlesome Earl will surely perish! It's foolproof, he assures me. "Okay," I say. "I don't understand a thing of what you just said, but if it kills Cadwgan, then go ahead."



We wait a month before I realize the fatal flaw in Skofte's plans. Powys doesn't even have a coastline, how is Earl Cadwgan supposed to take a boat from there? Unfortunately, the Earl also seems to have discovered the oddly dressed people following him around all day and somehow linked it all back to me! I punch Skofte in the face and carry on with the business of being the Duke.



One day in September, 1146, Eadweald walks into my court with a formerly-armed man who claims to be a hedge knight. Eadweald does not believe his nonsense and neither do I. If I know a thing about hedge knights, it's that all of them are always alternatively participating in tournaments or lying around injured. This man is plainly neither of these things, so I order him thrown into the dungeon.



While watching the "hedge knight" kicked into his cell, laughing maniacally as I always do, I happen to glance Estmund of Pembroke's cell. I am reminded that he really didn't suffer nearly enough for attempting to murder me. We can't have people not getting what they deserve around here, otherwise people will think they can get away with trying to kill me with nothing worse than a simple life sentence. Now is a good time as any, I'm sure, so I order my trusty rack oiled up and prepared for an extended torture session.



Soon afterwards, I receive an envoy from the King of Sweden. This can't be as bad as an envoy from the King of England, but I still ready the hammer and nails just in case. He requests that my eldest daughter, Gunhilda, marry some Prince of his, Olaf. I accept, since I have no better thing to do and getting more people who might potentially try to murder me out of the castle is always a good thing. Well, I'm sure nothing bad can come of it.



Meanwhile, Earl Cadwgan has come of age, and he really hates me. I wonder why? Could it have been that I tried (and eventually succeeded) in conquering his Duchy? Or maybe that I threw his friends into the dungeon and tried to murder him? I really have no idea. In either case, in February, 1148, he sends me a letter informing me that we are now at war for some reason or other. Well, as you wish...



As my army mops the floor with the Powysians, my son Sigeweard also comes of age. He babbles in some kind of strange language, but he's the closest thing I have to a competent male heir, so I quickly vote for him as my new successor.



There has been a suspicious increase in shipwrecks around Glamorgan. Could it be the winds? pirates? privateers? perhaps Cthulhu himself? Whatever it was, it's wrecking a whole bunch of gold on my shore. The town people and the church people all want the money for themselves, but I have a better idea. It is all mine!



As the new year of 1150 dawns, Earl Cadwgan surrenders to my victorious armies, and is, quite predictably, thrown into the dungeon. As usual, I strip him of his title and laugh maniacally at him. With his surrender, Wales is all under my personal rule, removing any major internal threat for the moment



The next year, the nauseatingly-named Mayor Cesnar of Caernarfon arrives at my castle. "The taxes are too high!" He whines, as always. The taxes are definitely not too high for anyone. All who live in this Duchy exist solely to pay me, and lowering taxes is utterly counterproductive to the continued increasing size of my treasury. I shut him up with a large sack of gold and tell him to lock up any dissenters and never bother me again.



I also receive news that my daughter, Gunhilda, who I have recently sold...I mean, married off to the Kingdom of Sweden has died from an infected wound. Must've cut her finger on a fjord or something like that, I'm sure that things like that happen all the time over there. Oh, well, no great loss.



One day in 1155, a suspicious person walks into my castle. He is strangely dressed and talks in a weird dialect that I can barely comprehend. I struggle to make out what he is trying to say with his babbling, something about writing about my life in an, err, something report on something called the...internet? What is that, anyway? I can't stand him for how long, so I tell him to do whatever he wants and give him a bag of gold so that will he leave as soon as possible, which he does, laughing all the way...



Unfortunately, the worst has yet to come. In February, 1156, a lone man rides into my Duchy. His wife, the Countess of Something or Other has died so he came back here despite my best attempts to be rid of him. It is none other than Eanfrith, my ugly, homosexual, murderer son! Noooooooooooooooooo...



...Who will live? Who will die? I have no idea! To be continued in Chapter V: The End of Eanfrithon!

[Raptor1]

The Reign of Eanfrith II

Chapter V

...ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! *breaths*

Okay, now to get rid of him. For the time being, I appoint him as my new marshal. It is a highly dangerous occupation, as I know well from my long years as the Ducal marshal under my father and supreme commander of the King's armies. Hopefully some illiterate peasant will whack him over the head and kill him.In the meantime, he is doing is best to stalk me, saying he wants to be as successful as me. Clearly he wants that, as everyone does, but I'm sure he has much more horrible things in mind as well. Ah, get away from me!



But enough about him. It seems that we have a new King, one who goes by the name of Wihtraed. I really must try harder to keep track of who becomes the King and when, but unfortunately the mail does not often manage to reach my castle in the dark depths of Wales. It seems that they appointed somebody else to be the regent of the new child King. One Bishop Arnold, hmm. Clearly, I should be the regent, since only I know what is best for the Kingdom. God wills it.

I travel to the King's court to lodge my complaints, but, well...



...that doesn't go so well.

Ah, good news. The peasants I have sent Eanfrith Jr. to train have proven to be effective in their job, and have lopped one of his arms off. I ignore his letter of whining and his requests to be assigned somewhere else. Just as planned.



The following month, I receive even better news. Despite the clergy's prayers and my court healers' best efforts, or perhaps because of them, Eanfrith Jr. has died a maimed cripple. I order his remains to be buried somewhere far, far away from me. Justice has been served, Huzzah!



In 1160, I receive a letter from the King asking for assistance in revoking the Duchy of Meath. This is clearly not the same person that was on the throne a couple of years ago, which is rather suspicious, but he has the hat and everything, so he must be legitimate at least to some extent. I inform him that I'll help his plans; Meath has tried meddling in the Gwyneddian War and it is time that somebody made them pay for it.



In 1164, Duchess Youeanna of Lancaster, who is apparently related to me despite the fact that I've never heard of her, sends me a letter asking me to join her war to claim the crown of England. I immediately send back a reply with my refusal. If anybody is to be the King, it is me, and I'm not going to bother with - and pay for! - some Duchess' attempt to claim the throne.



Soon afterwards, I receive a letter from the court of the actual King, who is now called, erm...Sigeric. It seems that I am being appointed regent. Ha, take that, Ahnuld!



But I do not have long to enjoy my position of power in the Kingdom, for one day in 1166, I find myself dead, which is rather inconvenient. The King holds a funeral for me, and a small number of people even mourn my completely natural demise...



...Wait, what? No, you fools! It was not a natural death, I was murdered! It was Ahnuld, it must have been! I have proof! Here...oh, right, I'm dead. Oh, well, I guess that's that, then...

[Raptor1]

Okay, you can come out of hiding, my nonsense is done. Here's the save file for Crécy and anyone else who wants to have to have a look:

http://www.mediafire.com/?4yqnzd4tb19jdw0

And you thought my character had a disturbing mustache.

Oh, and are we going to continue with the patch we started with or upgrade to 1.07b? According to Paradox, save games are semi-compatible with the new patch, by which I take it they mean it will probably work fine except for the original setup not taking into account the new religions and such, and it seems to have some really nice features. Also, it would be rather difficult for people who use Steam to play with the old patch...

[Hottentot]

Hmm, heir of the king's regent. The AI tends to pass those down the line, so Mr. Devious Moustache here might have a juicy position to start with. Of course combined with being able to form the Kingdom of Wales too if I remember the requirements correctly.

Originally Posted by Raptor1

Oh, and are we going to continue with the patch we started with or upgrade to 1.07b?

If they are compatible and the patch is even half stable, then why not update. That would allow me to participate too if we run out of players. Which reminds me, can we get a short update on who is still in for the future generations?

[HunterICX]

Which reminds me, can we get a short update on who is still in for the future generations?

HunterICX standing by.

[Raptor1]

Originally Posted by Hottentot

Hmm, heir of the king's regent. The AI tends to pass those down the line, so Mr. Devious Moustache here might have a juicy position to start with. Of course combined with being able to form the Kingdom of Wales too if I remember the requirements correctly.

We have enough counties/duchies to form Wales, but unfortunately the ruler's culture has to be Celtic and this guy is...well, Italian. Still, the next ruler can be arranged to have the Celtic culture with some careful guardian-choosing. That's up to Crécy, I guess.

[Crécy]

Right, I'll s(h?)it on the throne during the next week.