View Full Version : King Snorri: Letters from Ole in Croatia
To King Snorri the Magnificent
Monarque puissant et type impressionnant:
You may wonder why I greet you in French, but if you recall, French is really the new Latin, and we should probably all get to like speaking it. I blame Charlemagne. Perhaps we make Danish the language of choice, although we’ll always make sure our bathrooms are labeled in German, since the German tourists won’t know where the jakes are, otherwise.
I write you this cold day of October from Croatia, where you have sent me to examine the great general Mislav of those impetuous Byzantines. Noting for the moment, my liege, and if you’ll curb your royal impatience if I diverge from the subject at hand, it is not for nothing that in future centuries I am sure “Byzantine” will become synonymous with “confusing.”
As you have tasked me with the important task of discovering Mislav’s weaknesses and flaws, I now report to you the success of this conceit. First, we took a good look around the court. This fellow Mislav enjoys a hard castle. Not a rush in the joint, and if he managed to pillage any carpets from Turkey, he didn’t bring them to Croatia. And why would he? This place is a pit. The Croatians are a surly lot, bitter and angry about the invasions they’ve experienced a dozen times in so many years. You’d think they’d figure out a way to profit from this - maybe Gojslav’s Used Armor Supplies and Discount Leeches and Medicine (Licensed by Galen).
And there wasn’t a young page in the place. No, this wasn’t like your son Erik’s castle, where the soft boys all wear silk bloomers and lounge about on pillows fanning themselves. Er, that is, not to imply that your son Erik isn’t the manliest man ever to roam Scandinavia! God forbid, your grace, that I should think of anything else, and know that every son and daughter his suffering wife Ingrid produces is shot from his cannon, if you’ll excuse my new-fangled terminology.
Regardless, perhaps this fellow Mislav was smart enough to send away temptation. So we dressed Ragnar, the dwarf changeling, in soft clothing and gave him a haircut with bowl #5, and boy did he look sharp. If I was a priest, I’d have to jump in the moat to keep myself from acting on my urges. Ragnar minced through the palace, and would you believe it, my liege, this Mislav didn’t bat an eyelid.
Unfortunately, Ragnar did gain the attention of a scurrilous local fellow, Ratimir the Inquisitioner, who has taken poor Ragnar in for some inquisitional instruction. I am informed that Ratimir likes to stroke Ragnar’s chin and call him “Svetislava,” and sometimes Ragnar says it hurts when he makes water. You should see the two of them coo endearments at each other in Latin! Well, they like to say in Croatia, “If strokes are good to give, they are good to receive.” Hahahaha! Croats are such kidders. Then they kill you. But no matter.
I then decided to see if he’d murdered anyone. Did any nobles disappear lately? Anyone over for dinner suddenly keel over while ingesting the “mushrooms”? It was here I felt my first gains, and suffered my biggest setback, for it turns out that thirty-five nobles had met their end at his tables. Further examination revealed that the eggplant used in the moussaka had gone a little too purple, and it was just an unfortunate incident at dinner. Apparently, the head cook, a fellow named Drzislav, manages to poison a few people every other dinner. I noted that Mislav gets his food from a different source, but we might want to look into hiring Drzislav to do some state dinners when the French come to visit in Stockholm.
Incidentally, I’ve been really enjoying the local reading material. Have you read “The Vinodol Codex?” I simply cannot put it down. These Croatians really know how to write a thriller.
I took a look at Mislav’s books, after a healthy bribe to his clerk. Apparently the man is an utter amateur, for there isn’t a single thing out of place. This reads nothing like your books, my liege, where everyone has their hand in the pot. Just kidding, my liege, just kidding.
I was able to poke around (a Ragnar joke, my liege, get it, poke? That’s inquisitional humor, your majesty) Mislav’s quarters, and there were no barnyard animals in palatial rooms with abused looks upon their faces.
I have concluded, thus, that Mislav is the worst kind of general: Competent, brave, and really dull.
I await your posting to a new place. My hopes are that you will send me back to Saxonia, for I have a fondness for beer and bratwurst, and the food here makes my gout so much worse, even if Drzislav makes a pretty tasty pork half shanks Podravina style. Ragnar, the midget dwarf, will probably remain here, as he tells me he is considering taking holy orders and becoming a choir boy for the inquisition. I’m proud of him, your grace, I always thought he would be misshapen monster with no career, but here he lands himself a Grand Inquisitioner. He says he even gets to wear Ratimir’s obnoxiously large green hat when they play their little game of confessor. Guess who is the penitent in the game?
Written this 25th day of October, in the year of Lord 1351, from Croatia.
Ole the spy
[picks self up off the floor]
Oh my dear god that was funny. It was so wrong in so many ways, but I couldn't stop laughing. I commend Ole on his excellent report! ~:cheers:
Good my liege:
I write you from sunny Sardinia, where by your most gracious hand we have been sent. Indeed, “we,” your majesty, for Ragnar and Ratimir were discovered playing a game they called “Scottish Sheepherder,” and we were forced to leave Zagreb a little more quickly than we anticipated we’d need to. Luckily, an Italian barque, the A.M.B.* Apertoculo was leaving the same time as us, and we were able to get passage. These Italian sailors are a randy lot! There are no women allowed on board ship, because they are bad luck. They are, however, inordinately fond of Ragnar, and he has made many fast friends on the ship. Since this meant I needed not share a hammock with him, I was happy that he had so many good friends; and, of course, he smells of burnt hair and flesh all the time, ever since his most holy work with the inquisition and Ratimir. Happily, I believe Ratimir was able to escape Zagreb and get work as a tutor to the French monarchy, though for some reason most of his hair had accidentally caught fire, an accident with a candle he’d said. I don’t know if these rumors are true. If they are, though, I am happy for him. As for Ragnar, they have a clever nickname for him, something like “finokeyo,” though who can tell with how these people spell. The Captain informed me that we’d have to leave the ship at Sardinia as Ragnar was so popular, the entire crew would have parties below deck for hours at a time and nothing was getting done. The final insult was when one of the huge jars of olive oil in the cargo bay somehow ended up on Ragnar and half the crew.
But enough about Ragnar. Sardinia is beautiful, although it disturbs me that the women sometimes have more facial hair than the men. Also, everyone mispronounces my name and calls me oh-lay, which is a woman’s hand cream from France, not ooh-lah which is what every good Norwegian boy knows my name is pronounced as.
My good friend and colleague Sven is doing good work here. As you recall, we spent 3215 florins to purchase the loyalty of the eight military units on this miserable island, not a few of which must have been women judging by the prodigious facial hair. Their willingness to sell themselves to any country so cheaply beggars description, but has produced thus this problem: It seems the loyalty of most of the commanders is seriously in question. Sven is exhausting himself with sham trials 12 hours a day, and has hardly a moment to see to the bedding of his lovely mustachioed Sardinian maiden. After running through a dozen commanders in each troop, we have yet to see a single one who isn’t surly and willing to sell him (her?) self to the first fish merchant who sails into the harbor. I thought French whores were greedy! At least the French prostitutes pronounce my name correctly, and for an extra half-florin they’ll wash you afterwards. You should get queen Hedda to do that sometime, but make sure she warms the water first, or we’ll be out looking for a new queen, believe you me.
So, the Sardinians are disloyal, miserable, foul-tempered, and hot-headed. They are also of this wretched religion called Islam. As far as I can make it out, more than a few have said “America is the running dog lackey of the great Satan.” No one seems to know who this America fellow is, and the state of affairs in the inquisition department here is quite shoddy. Perhaps a few inquisitors might come down for some vacation time and some training seminars? You could probably stir up this population quickly by showing them the value of turning in heretics to be burned in the most holy inquisition. As you know, my liege, the fruit of the sin of heresy is the plague. However, that is not my field, just an observation that we might pursue a religious angle on this, as Sven could use a break from his usual duties. Trial, trial, trial, how does he do it? But he must continue, for, as the saying goes, “Never trust a Dolomite with a sharp stick,” so one does what one must.
There is a great Italian fleet that sits astride the harbor here. A dozen ships, none of them ever go to sea, they congregate here instead. The boats all have graffiti: “If you can see this, yousa too close,” and “you don’t come here to hunt, do you” with the picture of a large grinning bear. I don’t understand Italians, sir, not one bit. The Italian sailors all have girlfriends-- at least, I think they’re girls, the facial hair makes determination of gender difficult sometimes-- and there are great mobs of small Sardinian bastard children, each with a miniature mustache, running about. Perhaps, my liege, we could rid ourselves of this mighty plague of small children by sending them off to fight the Turk? We could call it a “children’s crusade,” or mayhap something else that your advertising people can come up with that’s nice and catchy.
I hope all is well in the greater kingdom of the north. I miss those pleasant evenings spent huddled around a too small fire, chewing on whale fat and shivering and telling stories about how Skapti liked to torture small reindeer before he became an inquisitor. I believe God rewarded us for letting him have such a holy man as Skapti, because all those gruesome murders stopped precisely when Skapti became an inquisitioner, and this tells me that God was pleased and smote the murderer with his wrath to reward us. Give my best to Skapti, tell him I heard about his recent burning of 3000 French heretics in Flanders. I don’t think it’s because they’re really that heretical; Skapti never liked their cuisine.
Also, my liege, I enclose for your amusement a Sardinian postcard. That’s a Sardinian rider sitting on a Sardinian ass (not just his own), and there’s a quote from Bias on the back: “There is a great abundance of disasters.”
Warmly,
Your Spy,
Ole
* A.M.B. The Italian for “Atsa My Boat”
Oh, this is fantastic, almost on leve with your introduction of Snorri the Magnificent to this forum
No one seems to know who this America fellow is~:joker:
Vladimir
10-26-2005, 20:58
Amerigo Vespuchi, don't quote me on the spelling. I think he's an Italian chap. He may be the skipper on one of those boats near Sicily, the one with that madman who wants to sail off the edge of the Earth (stoopid heretic). ~:rolleyes:
Amerigo Vespuchi, don't quote me on the spelling. I think he's an Italian chap. He may be the skipper on one of those boats near Sicily, the one with that madman who wants to sail off the edge of the Earth (stoopid heretic). ~:rolleyes:
He was an Italian sailor in the 16th century and he's the one America was named after. He discovered that America was a new continent, while Columbo thought he got to India.
My Liege:
Greetings to you and all our Danish kinsmen. I am told you’re considering building a nice summer castle on Roskilde, and then charging everyone admittance to the Baltic. This is, indeed, one of your more clever plans, because having been in the Baltic I can see no reason why anyone would want to sail there. Oh, you can sail to Stockholm, but once you’re in, you can’t get out. Perhaps we could get galleys to tow the sailing ships against the westerly winds? Perhaps we can move Stockholm. In the meantime, remember that as long as we extract the fees with a land based castle, it’s a fee, but if we do it with ships, it becomes piracy.
But the Swedes are a strange lot, my liege. This I’ve learned in my many years of suppressing the natural inclination of populations to rebel against the rulers God has set for them. Sometimes you have to burn a village or two for them to remember, “oh, yes, we love King Snorri, he is our Great Leader.”
To business! Ragnar and I left Sardinia, and arrived without any papers off the coast of Valencia. It seems that there was rebellious discord due to bad management by the Spanish. They can be as finicky as women, the Spanish, but so hot tempered! It was like Sardinia without the mustaches. Bribes to the local garrisons ensured that they repainted the roof of the stable with a white background and a badly drawn red chicken, to show their everlasting allegiance to King Snorri and Denmark 4Ever. I pointed out to them that no one could see it, as it was too large to make out on the ground, that it was on the roof where no one would go, and no one has been able to fly since Icarius. They spit on me, and told me that If you put a man in a trebuchet, that he would be able to see it for a slight moment before his body came back down and he died of bleeding and broken bones. I pointed out the problem with the death part -- how did they know if no one lived-- and they said they were working on it, but that they weren’t exactly training and they had plenty of beer, and a working trebuchet, and would I like to examine the trebuchet?
Luckily, I remembered the time that long ago, Boris the Tall once wanted me to grab his “trebuchet” and I knew what they really meant, so I respectfully declined, pointing out that trebuchets gave me the gout.
While the troops here are enthusiastic, I note that they don’t spend any time of their days in contemplation of you, and that perhaps if we had a few dozen portraits done, we could really jazz this place up a lot. I’ll bet we could encourage them to be a little more compliant with the Love Your Ruler campaign if I ran a few mock trials and executed a few generals. Not that I’ve got blood lust or enjoy the killing of traitors! Oh no, I feel immense sorrow whenever it is necessary. to send someone to justice for mocking the name of “Snorri” or refusing to wear an I (heart) Snorri badge on their sleeve.
The Chivalric Men at Arms-- recruited and trained in Sweden-- are quite cocky and march about the place as if they were terribly important, even though they have yet to see a single battle, and their shiny armor seems to weigh a lot. They sweat a lot, and when they’re not looking the locals point and laugh discretely. Magnus, who heads the garrison, is stout, loyal, and quite stupid.
Ragnar has fallen in with some Spanish Jinettes, and they’ve been learning something new, Gymkhana. Have you heard of it? They do amazing things with horses, and Ragnar has completely forgotten his former life as a holy man or a sailor and has become a new man. He has never been better than when he is mounting a horse. He is now a rough dwarf, given to swearing in Spanish and spitting and even sleeping with his horse all the time. I barely see him. He drinks Orxata night and day, and has become fat from eating too much paella. Poor Ragnar.
We have a whiny Toulousian servant named Pierre. I enjoy having him immensely, as I can beat him night and day, whenever I am angry. Ragnar says I should keep my anger in check, that rage is a deadly sin, but I believe it focuses me to be a better spy for you.
And spy I have! For the first few months, I know you wanted me to make sure the population of this fine country remembered that you were their sovereign, and this was an important fact to them. Very important. All I hear from them is “El Cid” and “Compeador.” You’d think the guy had been a good ruler and Valencia was worthy of being a separate kingdom. And I have to tell them, well, it’s not. It’s a crappy kingdom, it should be sucked into the great glory of Daneland 4ever, they’ve succumbed to a bunch of wild-eyed Vikings for a lousy 1000 florins, and El Cid has been DEAD FOR 100 YEARS, so get over it or I’ll remove their eyeball with a spoon or dunk them in the River Turia, headfirst. Since the river serves as the sewage system, it seems very effective as a threat.
Do you know, I’ve never had to do the spoon thing once? I think it’s my power of elocution. These people purport to be proud, but get them into a room with some lamp cords and a battery, and they’re like putty. Maybe El Cid’s son should come and save them. Maybe he doesn’t have a 1000 florins to pay off the red chicken troops. As they say, true greatness means being called to serve the winning side. Besides, who’d want to be a rebel? It’s so unappealing, they don’t even have uniforms or decent troops.
I would like to respectfully request that we spies be permitted to change our attire from the these money green robes we’re forced to wear. It turns out that no one else wears this color, and for good reason! It gives us all ghastly looking complexions and while this is good for trial, it’s much too easy for us to be identified as we are the only ones wearing such. “Hey, espía extranjero del scumbag,” the locals greet me with. While I wouldn’t want to anger the assassin’s guild (local 43rd) -- those bosses in Syria have a lot of bargaining clout-- a nice shade of brown might blend in quite nicely.
I was thinking, my liege, in between interrogating the population about how much they love you, perhaps we could make Copenhagen more interesting if we put in a few monuments for the foreigners to gawk at. Maybe a half fish half woman statue in the harbor, or we could have a huge park we charge a quarter florin for entrance to which would have rides like “Get your kids trampled by the Oliphant,” and “Cat in the Bag,” and maybe something where we can twirl someone on a wheel till they’re sick. We could call it Tivoli Gardens, or maybe Disneyland. People seem to like these things, if they’re not the victim, when we’re doing our loyalty campaigns. We like to pick a person at random and “check” them for loyalty, as you know, and these are just a few tricks we use to “encourage” people to be honest. Just your friendly neighborhood spy, that’s me.
No more time to write, my liege, the magistrate’s wife has agreed to come testify privately on behalf of her traitorous husband, and for some strange reason these private sessions almost always turn into assignations of some kind. I would I were a stronger man to resist such temptations, but alack, I cannot. I told her that if she would play a game of “Lady Godiva” with me, I’d lower taxes, but she probably has no idea at all that I have no power to change taxes.
Enough of this, I’ve written a practical mini-polymicrochromicon and you’ve got to deal with the issues of Livornia, I’m sure. I hope you don’t need a spy for that region, as I think I’m getting some good results here in Valencia, but if I left too soon things might be all undone. Besides, Livornia probably needs a good inquisition more than a spy with my excellent talents.
Congratulations on the birth of your fourteenth daughter! Now, some people say that an unnatural birth such as happened with Ingrid might be punishment from God, but they simply haven’t learned to love and accept a girl with a hand sprouting from the middle of her forehead. I say, chin up! Remember, she’ll be helpful because she’s always got an extra helping hand. Hahahahahah! Either that, or she’ll be a “real handful!” Bwahahahahah I kill myself, my liege, I do. Or you will. A bit of unnatural birth humor there, sir, please don’t have me sent to Ireland. I’ve noticed it’s strange that you have only one son and fourteen daughters. And, my liege, don’t listen to anyone if they claim Eric is a bit too womanly for us Danes; he’ll come about soon, perhaps when his beard starts to come in. Give it time, he’s only a lad of 25.
I pray for your continued health and remain
your favorite spy,
Ole
Your posts are funny but I got a little offended by your last post
This place is a pit. The Croatians are a surly lot, bitter and angry about the invasions they’ve experienced a dozen times in so many years.
You see I'm from Croatia and its understandable for me to get offended.
Furthermore that part of Croatia you mention wasn't ruled by the Byzantines but by the Hungarians.
I know that what you're writing is fiction (and its great) I'm just trying to point out some incorrect facts in your story.
AntiochusIII
10-27-2005, 22:47
Your posts are funny but I got a little offended by your last post
You see I'm from Croatia and its understandable for me to get offended.
Furthermore that part of Croatia you mention wasn't ruled by the Byzantines but by the Hungarians.
I know that what you're writing is fiction (and its great) I'm just trying to point out some incorrect facts in your story.Calm down, friend. He's just a humorous fictional writer. If anyone' going to be offended, it's the Danes, Swedish, the Spanish, the Sardinians, French around the foot of the Pyrenees (around Toulouse) and I guess the modern Lithuanians/Latvians as well. ~:)
So...
He's ridiculing everybody, not just Croatians. Take it with a pinch of salt. Salt was important in the Medieval world; it still is. :hippie:
I said I liked his posts and that they're funny and that what he's writing is fiction. I didn't mean to be so negative. Just keep up the good the good work Grond. Ps. I posted who Snorri Sturlusson was on one of your threads (https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showthread.php?t=56157).
Your posts are funny but I got a little offended by your last post
You see I'm from Croatia and its understandable for me to get offended.
Furthermore that part of Croatia you mention wasn't ruled by the Byzantines but by the Hungarians.
I know that what you're writing is fiction (and its great) I'm just trying to point out some incorrect facts in your story.
Miho:
My apologies. I bear nothing but the greatest respect to all of the people who populate this message board, so if anyone takes particular offense to the messages, I bear the responsibility for the content and apologize for any offense, as none was intended.
My narrator tends to take a negative view about every place he visits. Croatia in the middle ages was probably no worse or no better than most any other place. It does have an appalling tendency to suffer from its primary location which inspires invasions and such, more so than, say, Finland. What sort of idiot would invade Finland???! (Apologies to any Fins or Russians out there, the first because I implied no one would want Finland, and the second because I implied they were idiots for invading in WWII. Then again, invading Finland was a disaster, which sort of leads one to the conclusion that the Russians (in this case, that mass murderer Stalin) was a huge boob. That was an unfortunate business all the way around. Also, apologies to anyone who actually like Stalin. The man's record isn't tres sterling, is it?)
As for the byzantine business, that was a fiction based on the game on which the letters are from. Ole visited Croatia to get the dirt on a Byzantine general, but the game rarely mimics reality, does it? The Hungarians, in this instance, are cowering in Hungary and thinking about meat stew and important Hungarian thoughts, whatever those might be when you're herding horses around on the steppes or what have you in Hungary.
And give me some credit for at least trying to research the topic enough to put in those touches of home that will make a native laugh, such as the eggplant jokes. Those DID make you laugh, didn't they? The saying was also accurate. After all, if it's on the WWW it must be true.
Finally, Croats make some good-looking women. My girlfriend's heritage is 50% croatian, and she's scrumptious.
So, can we avoid the watchtower? If you read the further letters, you'll see I equal opportunity bash everyone... the Italians, the French, the Sardinians, the French, the Spanish, the Valencians, the German tourists (and you can't fault me on that; have you ever met German tourists? Worse than Americans!), the Swedes, the Scots (and not the welsh or the Liverpudlians), the Danes, the Muslims, the Christians, the gays, people with birth defects, and anyone else who happens to merit mention. Read all of it through the prism of MTW, that is, that Ole, as an inhabitent of his own particular world, doesn't know or care about prejudice or false information.
If you want to discuss this further with me, please feel free to e-mail me.
Come to think of it, not a single person complained about the name of the Italian ship. Heh. Slipped one by!
I also apologize for being so rash and I understand that you ment nothing wrong. I also admitted that your stories were funny. I didn't mean it to be so offensive as it might look. Also I thank you for taking the time for writing such a long reply and researching the history of these parts. Lets just forget about the whole thing and bury the hatchet.
And I have to agree on the part about Croatian women. They sure are good-looking.
Vladimir
10-28-2005, 13:41
Your posts are funny but I got a little offended by your last post
You see I'm from Croatia and its understandable for me to get offended.
Furthermore that part of Croatia you mention wasn't ruled by the Byzantines but by the Hungarians.
I know that what you're writing is fiction (and its great) I'm just trying to point out some incorrect facts in your story.
So, the thought of killing thousands upon thousands of people in this game doesn't offend you but when a reference is made to some long (loooooong) dead relatives you're offended? Just keep it in context and consider the source; an evil, dysfunctional, fictional spy. Thanks for the historical clarification though ~;) .
Mithrandir
10-28-2005, 16:36
So, the thought of killing thousands upon thousands of people in this game doesn't offend you but when a reference is made to some long (loooooong) dead relatives you're offended? Just keep it in context and consider the source; an evil, dysfunctional, fictional spy. Thanks for the historical clarification though ~;) .
It's done, things were settled a few posts back. ~:rolleyes: .
Anyway, back on topic please...and lets keep it unoffensive.
My Liege:
After Valencia, I thought I would never want to eat an orange again. I have changed my mind. Russia makes Croatia seem a glorious garden paradise.
Our trip here was eventful enough, as Ragnar had become completely embroiled in the wretched native culture in Valencia. I thus had to lure him to my modest quarters, where I knocked him on the head and rolled him up in one of the large Turkish carpets that seem to be hung on all the walls in the nice palaces; only the truly rich seem to put them on floors. I’m sure they’ll never notice one of these priceless objects gone missing.
As they say, “leave only footprints. Take only pictures.” And you should see the great paintings we managed to grab when we were leaving. We packed everything into a good, sturdy Norwegian long boat and set off on a sea voyage that would have made Homer dizzy. (Have you read the Odyssey? I’m afraid not much of the original text survives; it’s been rewritten so many times, you can see the erasure marks in the margins. At least the Bible, in the original Latin version, is still fresh. And, honestly, my liege, everyone knows there’s no such thing as giant one-eyed monsters that spit juice. Wait, come to think of it, maybe it was allegorical? In that case, hahahaha Homer was a funny guy. I’ll have to re-read that thing, this time in a pornographical frame of mind. Still, if someone takes 10 years to travel half way across the Mediterranean, it’s time to hire a better boat captain. What is it with people taking forever to get anywhere near Palestine? Moses spent forty years mucking about in the desert, and where did it get him? Dead on the banks of a river.)
We encountered a terrible storm around Portugal, and to survive we were forced to throw Pierre over the side. It was him, or the paintings. And these are some pretty important paintings, I’m going to make some money on them… er, for you, of course. To pay expenses for the greater glory of Daneland 4Ever. Right.
Once we made it into the Baltic sea, I contemplated stopping by to see you, but I thought you’d be mourning your 15th misshapen monstrosity of a child. It was better that she didn’t live, with those flipper feet and the missing limbs. Perhaps a new, younger wife might improve the state of things? Oh, and congratulations on finally getting Eric a wife. I sent him a bolt of silk for his servant boys as a wedding gift. Is it true that his new wife looks exactly like your third daughter Inga? And where is Inga these days? The scuttlebutt around the spy water cooler was that she’d been married off to a Muslim, and we’d never see her again. It was a pure stroke of luck that Eric's new wife is named Inga, too. Well, it's only coincidence that Inga the sister and Inga the wife look the same. Frankly, who can tell? If you change a headress, one girl in a white dress looks like any other, so you could have married off Inga the sister to Eric the Brother, though that would be monstrous and the church would probably rise up and burn you if they found out you did. Of course they'd never find out, right?
Send extra florins.
All that is water under the bridge, and I hear that Eric’s first child had only a few defects in the number of fingers, toes, and heads and so on. The saying is “two heads are better than one!” I can only bow to such conventional wisdom, in awe, and remember my own insipidity and lack of learning. When Eric finally dies, which one of the heads will rule? You will, of course, live forever, my liege, so this is only a rhetorical question, a sort of fun spy’s “what -if” scenario.
I then heard you’d run off to Spain on junket of some sort with 2000 of your finest troops, so it may take a while for this missive to reach you. You seem to conquer those sunny regions only in the wintertime. Is there something you want to tell me, your liege? Winter here is fierce and the wolves drag away the weak children every day. I rather think the Livornians encourage this as a way to keep food costs down.
Livonia is quite strange and wonderful, and I’m overjoyed you sent me here. I don’t know what I was thinking, criticizing it in one of my previous letters. And I read your note to me carefully, the one about sending me where you wanted and cutting off my head if I so much as complained one iota. I don’t even know what an “iota” is, so how could I complain? Hahahaha, a little Greek humor there, your majesty.
The paintings had all become moldy, along with the priceless carpet, so we tossed the whole thing overboard somewhere near Warnemunde. Let the Pomerranians have it! Do you know, the entire time along that coast, we could see thousands of cookfires of Pomerranian peasants who had risen up against their evil masters. It’s clear that no one really wants Pommerania, if not for the fact that they seem to breed ratter dogs of loathsome nature, or just for the boring food they have.
Ragnar seems to like Livornia as well, though he drools a lot and his eyes haven’t focused since Valencia. I might have hit him a little hard, but dwarf skulls are usually so thick, I had no idea it would affect him so. Still, his personality is less abrasive and he’s far more pliable. Whew, and what a stink his diapers make. Hold on, my liege, that problem has become painfully smelly in the last few moments, I must go beat a groom to change him.
Back, my liege, and these Livornian grooms are so snotty, I had to beat him until he was bleeding, and thus there might be a few stains on this, your letter. These brutes in Livornia only know violence as the language of respect, and so I must be your fist to represent how very serious their situation is. I will beat him again after finishing for his impertinence in bleeding on a letter to the King.
The population here is in serious defiance to Daneland 4Ever. Upon arrival, I immediately began trials of the first troop of spearmen, natives of this fine region. Of the 200, 187 were traitorous scum, and the remaining 13 were impious unctuous filth that Kfister the Inquisitor removed for me. Good riddance to bad rubbish! Luckily, I was able to do the trials 50 at a time, which wasn’t entirely fair, as we couldn’t consider the guilt of each one, which would have been far more satisfying by far, don’t you think? Back when I was just a little spyling, I would have done the trials one at a time. What a waste that would have been! Now I have time to visit with the locals and see their culture.
Their buildings are mud, some stone, and some timber. They live in such squalor and filth, I thought about complaining, but realized this looks exactly like home and thus it gives me pleasure to be here, especially when it's so cold outside that things are just frozen stiff after a few seconds. Oh, it was a good joke, you sending me here. Hahah.
Perhaps I could go to Champagne? There's a new invention in drinks there, worth checking out.
There is a troop of English longbowmen here, and they’re quite cheeky. They were bragging about being the best, and how they made the French cavalry fear, etc. I had to point out that we’d repeatedly invaded their sorry country for a thousand years, owned it now, and if they were so great why were they working for Daneland 4Ever instead of Wales 4Ever? They were sullen and silent, and no one had a good rejoinder. Chalk up another win for the good guys! I think we’re winning these people, one heart and one mind at a time.
Hjalmar sends his greetings and love. His are the finest peasant garrison troops I’ve seen in ages. They’ve got the spit shining down, but I’ve never seen them train. Oh hell, he’ll never see battle, and he is a decent governor. We sometimes chew whale fat together on the cold nights when the sentries freeze solid as boards.
I hear Henri XXXVIII of France, or what’s left of it, declared a “Children’s Crusade.” Really, my liege, that WAS my idea and for you to tell him and he to take credit for it seems like such a breach of etiquette. Or, at least he could have tipped his hat to you as the originator of the idea, for my ideas belong to you, and naturally I wouldn’t want a piece of that action.
Send florins!
In dutiful service,
Your spy,
Ole
Loved your last post especially the part with prince Sven. Could you put his biography or something?
Loved your last post especially the part with prince Sven. Could you put his biography or something?
You mean, Prince Erik (Eric), who was married to Ingrid in the first letter and now apparently newly married to Inga his sister?
So Ole is a little confused, or maybe he was mistaken. What's to know? Erik will make a great king, he'll be very good for the silk trade and except for the unnatural births / birth defect part of his issue, things should be fine.
hmmm I thought Sven was an inquistor...
say, did Ole pick up an opium habit as well??? ~D
DE
Yeah I ment prince Erik whos apparently married to his sister in the last letter and married to Ingrid in the first one. Never mind the inconsistencies. I think he would be a great king when Snorri dies but only if he had advisors. Maybe Ole can use this to his advantage and become the next ruler of Daneland 4ever.(In one letter Ole says Daneland 4Ever and in the other one he says Denmark 4Ever)
Btw do you know who Snorri Sturlusson was? Snorri Sturlusson really existed but he wasn't a general. He lived in I believe 14th century and he was a scholar. He investigated old Norse religion (Vikings).
Vladimir
10-31-2005, 19:14
"Send more florins." ~:joker: ~:joker: ~:joker: ~:cheers:
King Snorri:
I write you from sunny Constantinople. Have you seen this place? What a GREAT city! It’s fantastic. Or, rather, it was, before our army sacked it, raped everyone worth raping, and then burned anything that was burnable. I thought it was a bit excessive, but I’m a spy, my liege, and find it easier to work with what’s there than to burn it to the ground and start anew.
As per your wishes, I traveled to the Black Sea with two units of chivalrous spearmen, six units of cheeky welsh longbowmen, and two units of swordsmen. “Protect these, mine own kinsmen, and keep them from certain harme,” you advised me in your letter. You misspelled harme, of course, and I had to ignore the fact that you’re not Welsh, although considering how many times Daneland 4Ever has invaded Britain, I suppose they’re probably all related in a happy inbred way of some kind. You know, after how Swein treated folks in that country, I can see why some people mispronounce his name by moving the “e” to the end of his name. Anyway, you wanted me to locate the Great Khan, and locate him I did. Ragnar, who has recovered from his bout with the khaffee pot back in Valencia, was the perfect agent to penetrate the Golden Horde lines, and after a few months of physical therapy with a Viking named Helga, he was shipshape and back to being a master horseman. He still drools a lot and his lower lip quivers, but I think it’s quite fetching in a helpless kind of way.
We took leave of the girls in Livornia--there’s a huge market for women’s razors, my liege, should our Swedish countrymen get around to inventing them (and here’s a thought: every 20 years, you add an extra razor to the line of razors, call it “new and improved,” and even call them “safety razors” though they won’t be. People eat that stuff up with a spoon, trust me). At first, I thought the women were all wearing blonde furry chaps, but no, those won’t be invented for another 700 years, and it’s really just their leg hair. The last time I saw something like this was in Scotland, where the men sit around braiding their leg hair, and the ones who are really good manage to spell things with the braids like “free Scotland,” or if short for time, “free.” This causes some very interesting situations, when someone else sees just “Free” on their legs and makes an assumption about the status of the wearer that is wrong. It’s not the same as picking up young boys in Amsterdam, let me tell you!
But I digress. So, yes, Livornia. I predict they’ll probably revolt in ten years. How can I accurately prognosticate like that, my liege? Because they have fliers up in the taverns, hand printed, as all things are, which say: “1285- peasant revolt. Vladimir and Boris are the chairmen; if you wish to participate, contact Vladimir at least one year in advance. Each peasant must bring his own farm implement. We will be protesting our ruler, whoever it is.” I spoke with Vladimir, and he says the committee is just getting geared up, but that they hadn’t hired any caterers or gone to the tent rental guys. He seems quite charming, and it might be cheaper to let him revolt and then bribe him back into fold, then send him to fight an insurrection in Cypress. Now there’s irony, my liege!
We started off our little jaunt into the east side of the Black Sea. We were lucky, and after disguising Ragnar as a Mongol maiden, he was immediately accepted by the Great Khan as his wife. I won’t go into details about that relationship, but needless to say, Ragnar was quite angry about the death of his “husband.” I pointed out that it was a sham marriage, that an angry drooling dwarf couldn’t be married to the leader of 70 thousand vicious horse archers, and he should just get over it. After all, he’d gotten over the boatload of Italian sailors, the grand inquisitioner in Croatia, and his horse in Valencia. Why not this now?
After locating the fellow, we sent in our hit squad of archers. I had to receive this account third hand, for pressing business kept me from the battlefield. You, of all people, know I would be in the front lines if I could, just to give you a better report, but it probably behooves me to preserve myself for better uses like spying and sending you these reports, haha, because you do pay me to spy, right? Unfortunately, the Great Khan packed up his tents and headed north, almost as if he were fleeing us! We gave chase, and managed to pin him (that’s archer humor, my liege, hahahahahaha) in some miserable wasteland in the Russias. It was a glorious battle, joined with twice as many Mongols as our side, but the archers were all focused on the heavy horse with the Great Khan, and if you can imagine, they died quickly, those heavy horse, until it was just the Great Khan, all by himself, Tom Cruise-like riding across the plain toward 720 pissed off Welshmen. 720 arrows plunged into his great heart and he died. Or, really, probably more like a dozen arrows hit him, and the rest mowed down our own troops. The Welsh longbowmen are enthusiastic, but they all have bad eyesite and their oral care could use some work. The rest of the Mongols ran like little girls. There’s something dishonorable about a foe that never wants to really join battle with you, but just shoots arrows until you’re dead. Where’s the chivalry?
As you know, things in his little empire should have fallen apart, but someone wasn’t doing his job and neglected to note there were heirs. The Great Khan had other, REAL wives! This was a blow to both Ragnar, mourning his lost love, and myself, mourning the lack of time to truly appreciate a day at the beach at Sebastopol. Does Sebastopol even have a beach? It helped Ragnar, though, because to know his dear little Khannie had all those other illicit couplings with real women gave him the anger enough to forget about the tragic death of the Great Khan Pincushion.
Dear King Snorri:
Forgive me, for this is no longer Ole’s hand writing, and alas, he is unable to complete this letter because I fear he is dead. This is Ragnar, his most excellent assistant, and I am assured by Ole that you know of my many heroic disguises and work for Daneland 4Ever. Not that I wish any reward but to serve you, my liege. Please excuse the drool marks, I was hit on the head in battle for the Glory of Daneland 4Ever and it causes my head to hurt and my mouth doesn’t quite work the same.
It was when we returned to the Black Sea that our armies lay siege to and captured Constantinople, and it seems that Ole went on a mission to Greece, leaving this letter unfinished. Sad reports are that Ole was crushed by a falling ruin in Athens, his hapless body pinned to the marble floor in an act of Zues’ retribution toward this scurrilous fellow. Later, in a dream, Diana came to me, and after she blew the hunting horn, she told me that Ole was dead, and I should become a sultan of Constantinople.
So my, liege, how about it? I could use a place like Constantinople. And dreams never lie. It would honor me to honor you with this exalted position.
In other news, there are terrible rumblings that the stupid pope is going to excommunicate you because of the Sicilian situation around Macedonia. Really, my liege, understand that no one likes the Sicilians, nor their conniving weasely way of sinking your shipping when they’re not expecting it. We can’t land a fleet to take their island until we defeat all their ships, so I hope and pray you will discover a good alternative to beat their proud army, one that involves some miraculous landing of the glorious troops of Daneland4Ever on southern Italy or Sicily. Maybe troops could swim, as our ship fleets seem to suck. Perhaps add some cannon to the equation, and we could really show those stupid Sicilians.
Give my best to prince Erik. I heard about the painful incident where he somehow managed to sit on a lance, and I hope he recuperates well. Did you punish the 20 silk-clad boys who were holding the lance? They really shouldn’t poke royal heirs like that. I assure you, king, that no one thinks that it was anything but a terrific-- terrible accident which comes from handling weapons carelessly.
Will Inga ever be pregnant again? We despair for a second heir, someone other than the monster child Valbotg. How is Valbotg? Does his hand talk yet? It gives new meaning to the phrase, “talk to the hand.” That’s some Ole humor there, King, I see that you like it sprinkled in these letters. Cheer up, king, you can always crush a rebellion in Scotland if you’re not feeling well and need some happiness in your royal life.
I am,
Ragnar the Fabulous
Spy Assistant
Nice story. Too bad about Ole though. At least he died in an heroic way. He will forever be remembered in all of Daneland 4Ever as a spy who never betraied his liege, bravely died for his country, and boldly went where no spy has gone before.
Nice story. Too bad about Ole though. At least he died in an heroic way. He will forever be remembered in all of Daneland 4Ever as a spy who never betraied his liege, bravely died for his country, and boldly went where no spy has gone before.
Oh, rumors about death aren't always the same thing as dying.
Oh, rumors about death aren't always the same thing as dying.
Well Ragnar was quite sure,but then again someone who falls in love with inquisitors, Italian sailors, his HORSE and the kahn can't be entirely trusted. Or maybe he just wants Ole's job. Will find out soon enough.
A ~:cheers: in memory of Ole, may he rest in peace, I guess it´s the only rest he´ll ever get.
My Liege:
Recently, a person claiming to be known to you, one Ole the Spy, came crawling to my doorway. This man appeared miserable, bloody, and in some large part distressed, and said, “Åh Gud! Jeg har en økse i hovedet.” I asked him to speak in Latin, and he instead replied with what I think was the same thing in another language: “Boje moj! sjekira mi je u glavi. Ai ridiós! Tiengo una estral en o tozuelo.” Thinking it was a Sicilian trick, I devised a way to send him off from my dwelling, then I sent men to beat him with sticks. Now, however, it seems I am informed by the Sultan of Constantinople that this Ole was, indeed, a spy for your majesty and that I may have hindered his ability to report. To wit, I say, nonsense. Any man who would permit himself to drop to so lowly a position as a beggar in the service of your majesty-- for which we are forever grateful and implore you not to forget your faithful servants ever--he is not in your service, but his own, and deserve contempt and pity.
Your servant,
Asterix
Premiere of Greece
Boje moj! sjekira mi je u glavi.
The correct would be “Bože moj! sjekira mi je u glavi."
ž is a letter unique to some Slavenic languages and I think you don't even have it on your keyboard so if you want you can copy paste it to your post.
And for those who don't speak Croatian, Spanish or Danish(?) the translated version woould be "Oh my god! An axe is in my head!"
Its nice to see Croatian language on this forum.
Vladimir
11-01-2005, 20:41
Huh, I guess Asterix isn't the most observant fellow. I would think that an axe lodged in someone's cranium would be a dead giveaway.
The correct would be “Bože moj! sjekira mi je u glavi."
ž is a letter unique to some Slavenic languages and I think you don't even have it on your keyboard so if you want you can copy paste it to your post.
Unfortunately, Asterix doesn't appear to have a croatian keyboard at hand, and he was translating by ear. I thought he did pretty good. You understood it!
Unfortunately, Asterix doesn't appear to have a croatian keyboard at hand, and he was translating by ear. I thought he did pretty good. You understood it!
Yeah. He did quite good. I thought you don't have ž on your keyboard. I bet you also don't have č,ć,š,đ. Appreciate the thought though.
SauveQuiPeut
11-01-2005, 23:24
- I bet you also don't have č,ć,š,đ. -
We can do nj and lj though...~;p
- I bet you also don't have č,ć,š,đ. -
We can do nj and lj though...~;p
You can because those are two letters(n&j,l&j) combined that we use together. We do have l and n seperate also. How come you know about lj and nj?
SauveQuiPeut
11-02-2005, 23:25
Lived in Croatia for a few years and learned some of the language...holiday there too.
Lived in Croatia for a few years and learned some of the language...holiday there too.
Nice. Hope you liked it.
SauveQuiPeut
11-02-2005, 23:58
Nice. Hope you liked it.
Loved it.
My Liege:
You may be surprised to find me in vigorous health, but it is true that I was nursed back to health by a wizened Greek oracle woman who would ply me with herbs and smoke and guantham gum. Soon, I was rehabilitated enough to blow smoke bubbles that smelled like capers and mint. All along, I was told in broken Greek: “Humus isn’t Greek.”
Soon I began to believe that humus isn’t Greek, and as my gum chewing skills improved, I was soon discoursing to all who would listen the fact that humus isn’t Greek. I blame the Turks, and maybe everyone else should, too. Couscous, on the other hand, while having a stupid name, is Greek. Or maybe it isn’t?
These things matter, my liege, as much as having the right cod in the winter. But soon, when I was strong enough, I knew it was time to leave my sweet Tabitha, my greek gazelle, my wrinkled smoking roe-buck, and rejoin the struggle for Daneland 4Ever. The enemy spies who struck me down with axe to my head couldn’t stop me, no. I fought the law, and the law won. I shot the sheriff, but I didn’t shoot the deputy. You get the idea.
I traveled north to Genoa, where our peaceful armies slumbered. I met some of our archers there, the ship fellows. They’re really small, surprisingly, almost half the size of a normal archer, and these diminutive fellows are quite willing to throw themselves in harms way. That, perhaps, is good, as it seems that King Cosimo Machiavelli, your sworn ally 4Ever-- you know him, he’s the fellow who married your daughter and to whom we sent relief troops when his citadel was under siege by the Egyptians in Antioch, for which he swore his undying gratitude-- decided that 4Ever wasn’t a very long time. In fact, it ended somewhere around late September, when his evil minions, clad in green stripey tunics and lugging catapults painted bright safety yellow, decided to invade. Our sleepy but trusty Roman era spearmen and the small midget archers sprung to the defense of the province.
That is to say, they were crushed by an army with a royal horse troop and a rusty ballista.
Genoa went from a quiet and peaceful province, ruled through the kind application of your always wise counsel, done only for the good of the people, to an uproarious place full of seedy characters, every decent place turned into a brothel or bar, and with licentiousness and drunkenness the watchwords of the day. This proved to be quite a problem when people who were drunk tried to get in through the gates but couldn’t say the word “Licentiousness.” They finally changed it to “Bruno,” which seemed to satisfy everyone as they could go on with drinking all that fermented olive oil.
So yes, drinking and whoring, instead of the quiet and upstanding community it was before.
My kind of place!
Er, that is, my liege, my kind of place to spread unhappiness and dissension and longing for the old days of Daneland 4Ever amongst the fetid, greasy citizens. It wasn’t for another five months that we were able to raise a levy of peasants to fight against the evil oppressor, and we heard there would be relief troops from Switzerland to strike at the adder.
While things went well, it seems the Italian fellows sold off the churches to build brothels, and the port is completely wrecked, as they tore up the timbers to make playhouses. It was plays about Antigone and Desdemona every single day; how much can you watch plays about frogs? At this point, opera would be welcomed, but it won’t be invented for another three hundred years, so we’ll stick to the Greek revivals.
Now the theaters are closed, and it’s back to Gregorian chants. They’re kind of catchy if you give them a chance, but these boys have got to do a wardrobe change, maybe learn from the Orthodox guys, who seem a lot more gay and happy. Just look at their footwear, all those sequins and hand-couching: someone in the new Roman Empire is FABULOUS and not telling.
I’m thinking of hiring a miniature ship archer, as it brings back the good memories of Ragnar and his many guises, but the one I’m considering only seems to be able to say “Avast,” “Matey,” and “Landlubber” in Italian, which makes it all curious sounding indeed. Well, no, not really curious sounding: More like “Avast,” “Matey,” and “Landlubber.” There’s not difference. Who knew language could be so similar?
Have you seen the new pointy-toe footwear? I’m looking at a slipper with a 2 foot long curled toe, and it’s quite the fashion down here. The ladies think that the length of your shoe relates to the size of your… purse, and I’d agree that the longer the toe, the more money you paid.
Congratulations, my liege, on your two sons Emst and Torgny coming of age and inheriting their very own cavalry troops. I’ve heard, however, that neither one of them has followed in Prince Erik’s footsteps and married, and there’s even more curious rumors that they co-habit their own little palace together, not that there’s anything wrong with two big hairy bachelor young randy men living in the same room together. They’re brothers! We all know about brotherly love, and how close those bonds can be. Yes, bonds, my lord, I’ve heard stories they’ve tested their loyalty by being chained together for hours and days, but I’ve made sure those servants didn’t have tongues to waggle about any sort of scurrilous rumors that might reflect poorly on Daneland 4Ever. And your two strapping sons are next in line for the throne, should Prince Erik not work out, especially now that he doesn’t seem to live with his wife anymore. I heard about the terrible murder of all the silk-clad boys- more like silk-clad men- recently and mourn with you this terrible act. I hope the new, much younger servant boys are working out, and you were able to get replacement silk for them, for only the best for Erik!
I might know something more about the murders than I’m telling. Send florins!
By the way, my liege, those men who came to murder me, they seemed to be Danish. I suspect there may be factions within our fine government that are tainted with the blush of traitors, and urge you to find them out and gibbet them immediately. I don’t think I’ll survive another axe in the head. I believe that my successes for Daneland 4Ever have caused jealousy amongst the enemy, which is why my assassination was attempted.
Which brings me to another point. After my last letter to you, you never sent the extra florins, my little “bonus.” Was that ill-taken? I hope not.
Write soon, Genoa is quite lovely, but I’m thinking of moving on soon. Need instructions.
Your spy 4Ever,
Ole
PS: Ragnar as Prince of Constantinople? Better to use a chimpanzee, my liege. With all due respect.
Back in his old form, Ole is, I see. Well, I guess these enormous horned helmets must be good for something. Or maybe the Norse folks are just too stubborn to be hindered by something so trivial as an axe to the head.
Vladimir
11-08-2005, 14:16
It appears that a spy CAN gain the secret blackmailer vice. Although the king was ill-advised to send a low star assassin against ol' Ole.
Glad to see Ole hasn't lost his sense of humour. How come now has Snorri has two more sons? Oh and isn't Snorri by any chance married to his sister or someone like that.
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