Cry "Havoc!" - SS6.2 Hotseat Story Thread

Emperor Charles: Seductress

With the Italian campaign concluded, Charles now sat back on his throne in New Constantinople. His new assistant Serrano stood beside him. Although he still did not trust Serrano, he had proven himself quite resourceful so far. Sitting there waiting for Ezell to show up, Charles was surprised to find that Rufus was no where to be seen; before he can ponder this further, Serrano speaks up, “It appears your new Pope is working out quite well so far.”

“It seems that way,” Charles replies, “for now he is supporting the righteous French and English conquest of the barbaric Scots and Irish. Hopefully he remains faithful to the good Catholic nations.”

Serrano smiles slightly, “I can only imagine what might happen otherwise.”

There is a soft cough, Charles looks up to find Ezell standing in front of them. “I believe you wanted to see me?”

“I feel I should start posting guards at the windows,” Charles quarries, “or would that do any good?” Ezell just stare at Charles. Charles smirks, “Well I guess it’s time for business. I have received reports of a princess of the rebel Rus sent west to spy and recruit for their cause. Her name is...what was that name again Serrano? I swear, those Rus must have a hell of a time communicating with names like this.”

“Evpraksia Novgorodskii, Sir,” Serrano provides.

“Yes,” Charles continues, “well intel indicates that she is making her way towards Italy to try and seduce my nobles. I fear with the recent peace in Italy and abroad, the promise of excitement and glory may entice my nobles. Now I don’t care how you get rid of her—kill her, scare her, sell her to some foreign lord for all I care—just make sure she is no longer a threat to the stability of my empire.”

“It shall be done,” Ezell nods, “Is there anything else you need?”

“I would like to learn more about Khimaira. I feel it is important to know more about those who I work with.”

“So be it,” Ezell replies, “I shall have Serrano provide you with some interesting reading. It isn’t exactly official, but Aleandro was a smart man. I felt really bad about having to kill him and all those monks he had copying his book, although I have no regrets at all about the fun I had with his traitorous sources. Those were some fun weeks I spent with them...” Ezell, smiling crookedly, looks up from her memories, “Ah, It seems I have gotten off subject, but there is no time for that. Khimaira only concerns itself with the future; the future is life, to deal in the past is to deal in death.”

Charles raises his eyebrow at this, but decides not to push the subject. Dismissing Ezell and Serrano, Charles lays back in his chair, lost in thought. Charles is suddenly startled by a voice behind him. Sitting up, Charles grumbles, “Rufus.”

The voice repeats, “Young Heinrich, this is no time for resting.”

“Rufus, if you wanted to know how my business with Ezell went, you should have been here,” Charles growls.

“Was I supposed to come?” Rufus asks.

“Of course not, but that doesn’t usually stop you. Plus then I wouldn’t have to fill you in.”

“There is no need to repeat what I already know,” Rufus replies,” but what is important is what’s next for the Empire. A stagnate kingdom cannot grow.”

“Obviously not,” Charles retorts, “but there are internal matters that must be taken care of first.”

Rufus smiles his big toothless grin, “Ah, Young Heinrich, you are coming along better then I could have ever imagined.”

“Great,” Charles snaps, “now leave me and let me get some peace.”

Still smiling, Rufus replies, “I could never leave you Young Heinrich, but peace on the other hand is something I can offer...for now at least”

[Charles looks at the small book he received from Serrano and starts to read]

Khimaira: History from the Shadows
By Aleandro de Pisa
(1109)

Preface
They are after me. I haven’t much longer now. For the past ten years I have dedicated myself to uncovering the truth behind the shadow organization known as Khimaira. As I got closer, I saw more and more into the sinister minds of Khimaira, but I got too close. I overturned too many stones; rustled too many leaves. What a ruckus I made! How could I have been so careless? It’s too late now; no turning back. I must finish my work, spread the word. Maybe then they’ll let me be; with the truth out, I’m no longer a threat. Maybe...

Chapter 1
As far as I can tell from the information I have gathered Khimaira predecessors started as three separate crime syndicates that each formed in the Greek city-states around 600 BC. At this period they were constantly at odds with each other; often forming and breaking alliances with the others to try and gain the upper hand. Each syndicate was structured very differently. The λιοντάρι (now the Lion) was a crime family that was based in Sparta; greatly pushed military control of smaller Greek states. The κατσίκα (the Goat) was deeply involved in Athenian mercantile and smuggling. The final syndicate, the φίδι (the serpent) was an assassin guild that offered their services to anyone with enough coin, even the other syndicates if the price was right. Whether or not they had a base of operations is unclear as their movements and actives are sporadic and spread across both Greece and Asia Minor.

Everything changed for the syndicates with the second Persian Invasion in 480 BC. As the colossal Persian army approached Greece, a ceasefire and congress was called between the three syndicates. Fearing a Persian conquest—preferring the more democratic Greek rule to that of the tyrannical Persians—they decided to band their recourses together and aid the Greek city-states. It is unclear what the fallout was after the eventual victory of the Greeks, but by 435 BC a clear struggle for control between the Lion and Goat syndicates had begun. The Serpents seemed to stay on the sidelines during much of the struggle, although there were reports of many mysterious deaths on both sides. The struggle eventually broke out into open warfare in the form of the Peloponnesian war (431 – 404 BC) with the eventual victory of Sparta, backed by the Lion, over Athens and the Goat.

Under the new leadership of the Lion, the syndicates were reorganized into Khimaira. The Lion Sect was set up as the head of Khimaira and became deeply concerned with politics. The Goat Sect flourished as its corrupt businesses spread. The Serpent Sect ran all the covert operations from spying and sabotage to assassinations. In each sect arose leaders: the Sphinx for the Lion Sect, the Satyr for the Goat Sect, and Echidna for the Serpent Sect. Through the manipulation of figures such as Alexander the Great, Khimaira’s influence spread throughout the known world.

Sometime after 200 BC Khimaira’s ambitions began to grow beyond the crime word as they sought to build a better world (at least their vision of a better world). Moving the heart of their operations to Rome, they put their full backing behind the Roman Empire. After the start of the Christian movement rifts began to form in Khimaira’s ranks as struggles between the old and new ways ensued. These struggles resulted in many great catastrophes including the Great Fire of 64 AD that resulted in the destruction of much of Rome. Around 280 AD the Christians finally overthrow the old beliefs and start a fervent campaign to turn Rome into a Christian Empire. They finally made ground in 305 AD when they turned Constantine into the first Christian Emperor, although it wasn’t till 380 AD that Theodosius I declared Christianity the sole religion of the Empire.

However, the leaders of Khimaira quickly got disheartened with the corruption of the Roman Empire. Starting in 405 AD, Khimaira began supporting barbaric groups such as the Visigoths who sacked Rome in 410 AD, which started the total decline of the Roman Empire. They also supported such groups as the Vandals who sacked Rome in 455 AD and the German Goths who defeated the Emperor Romulus Agustulus, which resulted the end of the Western Roman Empire.

After the failure of their efforts with the Roman Empire, Khimaira began to diversify their investments from helping in the start of the Catholic Church to the building up of many great Christian Empires. After Rome they decided to work more indirectly, choosing to keep their existence a secret and to disguise their involvement in most of their affairs. Only occasionally revealing their existence to those they took special interest in, like great leader such as Charlemagne.

It is hard to say what they are up to now as their current activates seem random, but continually growing by the day. It seems as if they are preparing for a major campaign, but still have not found who they want to support...

[Although the last part had been mostly inked out, Charles can still make out the words ‘tracked... spies and operations... central Germany’. ‘Waite,’ Charles thinks, ‘wasn’t this book written shortly before my escape.’ Confirming that it was, Charles decides he needs to find out what those last two paragraphs said, but he would have to be discrete. He doubted that Khimaira would be very happy about him searching around for what they had purposely kept from him.]

Letter from Princess Adelhaide Arpayad to her royal mother Queen Zsofia of the Magyar, Royal Palace, Krakow

Dearest mother,

I write, finally, with glad tidings. I have located my father King Laszlo!

The tale of my pursuit and eventual contact with my quarry is a long one so I shall spare you the intricate details...suffice it to say having received information that his Royal Highness had left Ragusa with an armed force and was heading south along the Dalmatian coast, I gained passage at Venice aboard a merchantman bound for the Greek Isles.

After several stops and gold-laced inquiries I eventually found at Dubrovnik a man who claimed to be part of the King's travelling party. It seemed that my royal father had somehow commandeered a fleet of mercenary ships which were bearing his army and siege engines towards Venetian-held Greece to join the fighting there. An invasion that he himself had sparked with his surprise attack on Ragusa and that had been carried out on his inspiration by the Magyar armies of the Balkans.

Foundering in stormy weather, the fleet had set down on the island of Mljet and this man had been sent in a small vessel to the mainland for supplies.

It did not take much to persuade him to take me to my father and on the dawn breeze I found myself at the prow of the boat leaving Dubrovnik harbour (pearl of the Adriatic indeed!) and borne on the wind towards Mljet.

I confess I was by this time thrilled with anticipation and no small measure of dread at the prospect of encountering the King in his manic state. Something about the fog on the morning waters and the stories the ancients told of this mystical isle, where Odysseus was waylaid for seven years by the nymph Calypso, made me fearful and prone to flights of fancy.

As we pulled into a small forested inlet and began to row upstream I could hear rustling in the trees on either side of the water - we were being tracked by unseen eyes. My guide grew increasingly nervous. He had said little of the King's state, averting his eyes when questioned and imploring me to 'see for myself'.

Turning a bend in the stream we opened out into a large saltwater lake in the centre of which was a small island with a monastery upon it. On the shore of the island were many men, their appearance bizarre and frightening, clothed as they were in fur, frond and leaf, for all the world like Pan's company, spirits of the forest.

The throng parted as we landed and stepped ashore. My guide disappeared and I was seized rather roughly by some sturdy fellows and more or less dragged along the beach and into the gated courtyard of the monastery.

And it was here, mother dear, that I found your husband - his clothes tattered and in ribbons, his ermine spattered and stained with all manner of mud, blood and God knows what else, bearded and filthy, sat atop a wooden stool passing judgement over a litter of mewling kittens. What nature of crime the cats had committed I was never to discover, for on seeing his daughter before him his eyes widened, he fell to his knees in front of me and embraced me around the legs, sobbing and pleading for my help.

We remained at Mljet for some time longer while I nursed him back to health. His periods of lucidity lengthened and I was able to access his reason and explain to him what had happened. I believe that he had been ready to get better and that the sight of a familiar face, someone he believed he could trust, had hurried him along.

When he was well enough to travel I commanded the fleet and army to return to the mainland. At that stage I was not certain what state our little Empire would be in, what with the absence of the King, the war on Venice and the counter-invasion by the Turks.

So it was with great relief that I learned of the peace negotiated between my brother Kalman and the Sultan of Konya and of our near-victory in Greece.

Here are the best tidings of all mother dear - I have persuaded His Majesty to return to Krakow and we are this day setting out on the long road home.

How I long to see you!

Yours with anticipation,

Adelhaide

Korkut hated the sea. He hated the stinking wood constantly swaying and creaking beneath his feet. He couldn't stand the foul taste of salty water splashing against his face. Not to mention the constant stench from ocean, man and beast. Most of all however, he hated the inactivity and sense of captivity. He felt imprisoned, and crippled.

Growing up on the endless plains of Eastern Anatolia, he had practically been born on a horse. Being of Turkic heritage, his tribe had sworn their loyalty to the powerful Sultanate of Konya, and several battles later and a few twists of fate, he, Korkut Illker of Tabriz, had found himself a trusted General of Sultan Meliksah himself.

The Sultan was famed for being a merciless man, and he demanded no less of his closest generals. Korkut had seen many of his friends die in battle, and it had hardened him. He had lost all sense of empathy, and compassion was no longer in his vocabulary.

His loyalty to the Sultan who he admired, respected and feared was near endless, but the last few years had pushed his obedience to the limit. During the Magyar-war, he had first been denied the chance to slaughter a large Hungarian force at Sofia. Just months later, the Sultan had called him back from the plains at Belgrade. All had been ready, the city would have burned within days.

And now, he found himself here. On a stupid ship, in the vast nothingness of the Mediterranean. He had left an unfinished war behind him, due to the Sultan's unexplainable will to sign a peacefire with the Magyar scum. The noble cause of this campaign did little to ease his anger, while the constant annoyances of life at sea fueled it.

Admiral Cem approached him, cautiously.

- My Lord General Illker, we are appraoching the island of Malta. It is rumoured to be controlled by the Italian nation of Sicily.

- Italians? Catholic scum, more interested in money and gold than any sense of honour, aren't they?

- Indeed sir. However, there is the question of which route to choose...

He was abruptly interrupted by a few of his sailors. One of them rushed to the men in charge.

- General, Admiral. Ships are approaching from both our front and rear. It seems they intend to block us. They are flagging a coat of arms I do not recognize, but it is definitely not the colours of peace or parley.

Swiftly pulling up his binoculars, Admiral Cem studied the Western horizon, then turned and looked over the ships rear. He slowly turned towards Korkut again.

- General, these are warships. Sicilian galleys, to be more exact. They are clearly blocking our route west, and it appears they have cut off any retreat aswell. Our dhows are more maneuverable, and more numerous, but my orders are...

- Ready the ships for battle, Admiral! I am highest in command here. Sicilian ships you say? I'll make sure they pay for this. We fight our way through, and head north. My men can shoot doves from galloping horses. Felling fat Italians from these damned vessels will be child's play. TO BATTLE MEN!

Finally. Action, conflict. Blood would be spilled on this day. Much more would flow later. The Sultan wasn't here to stop his righteous conquest this time.

Lieden: Shock

High above a grassy field a hawk silently circles. Below, what appear to be ants, form in two opposing lines on either side of the clearing. Like a lion ready to pounce, the ants stand tense and still. Despite the gathering, the hawk has eyes only for the lone marksmen standing in a tree overlooking the field. At the sight of a subtle signal the hawk lets out a piercing cry. At once the ants spring into action; formations charge, brace, and maneuver in a flurry of combat.

The sound of approaching horse hoofs pulls Lieden’s attention from the training exercise. Recognizing the heavy steps of a Royal Imperial horse, Lieden swiftly jumps out of the tree, landing beside Charles as he’s dismounting. As he greets his old friend he notices how tired and stressed Charles appears. A flutter of wings announces the return of the hawk as it swoops down to land on Lieden’s shoulder.

Noticing the bird, Charles manages to smile as he says, “I had all but forgotten of your unique call to arms in my long time locked away. Although, isn’t Anmut getting up there in years?”

“She still flies true and that’s all that matters.” Lieden replies as he strokes Anmut’s neck.

“That is good to hear. I am, however, here about a much graver business,” at this point the smile fades from Charles’s face and a heavy weight rests itself again upon his shoulders, “I have just received news that a Turkish fleet has made landfall in Southern Italy. The Sicilians fought bravely, but I’m afraid King Simon was lost in the fray. I am gathering all available troops in Italy to back the Sicilians should they require it. I need you to get there as fast as you can to organize the troops and fortify our defenses; and make sure to keep Legionnaire near, should I need him.”

“We shall move out immediately.” Noticing that Charles still has something on his mind, Lieden asks “Is there anything else you need of me?”

Grasping Lieden’s hand and pulling him into a hug, Charles whispers in his ear, “Trust no one with this. There is a certain book I am looking for and I believe a copy might reside in Italy. Should you have time I need you to look for it. When I get more information on its exact location I shall contact you.” As Charles pulls away, Lieden notices the crumpled note left in his hand. As he raises it up to read it, Charles stays his hand, saying “Not now; this place is not secure.”

Lieden is puzzled, but he slips the note into his pocket nonetheless. Before he can turn to gather his troops though, movement in the shadows a few hundred feet behind Charles makes Lieden reach for his bow, but Charles again stops him. “It is not the time for that either, she is with me...” as Charles remounts his horse he adds, “for now.”

Lieden watches as Charles rides off to meet up with the mysterious figure. Lieden watches as Charles converses with the cloaked figure, but then the figure turns sharply in his direction, pale blue eyes piercing the dark forest, like arrows aimed for Lieden’s heart. Instinctively, Lieden ducks behind a tree and a few seconds later when he ventures a look back, the figure had disappeared; melted away like a shadow into the forest depths. Over the sound of his heavy breathing and pounding heart, Lieden scrambles to gather his thoughts. Pulling the note out of his pocket and reading it, Lieden almost forgets to breath as his mind goes reeling from the shock of what is written-

Quote:

---

Khimaira: History from the Shadows / By Aleandro de Pisa / 1109

---

The first thoughts he’s able to pull together are, “This can’t be!”

Emperor Charles: On the Edge

“You what!”

Ezell, unshaken, responds, “It seems the Pope’s general is quite paranoid. He had a double sleeping in his quarters.”

“So you’re telling, me” Charles roars as he paces the room, ”that not only is our message to the Pope going to look weak, but that wretched general of his still holds the title as the ruler of Rome, a title that rightfully belongs in the hands of a Roman Noble?!”

“The Pope will get the message clear enough,” Ezell calmly replies, “And titles matter little when the city is well in your possession. No one will question that.”

Still enraged, Charles yells, “We are on the brink of war with the Turks and you dare bring me news of a failure?!”

Ezell again replies calmly, “We know how much you love the theatrics, so before making his escape my agent did leave a message for the Pope, large and red, so that even he couldn’t miss it.”

“Maybe he’ll think it’s from God,” Rufus chuckles

Charles spins around in his pacing, surprised. ‘Where had he come from?’ Charles wonders, 'Hadn’t all the doors been locked? Ah, whatever, a question for another time. He was still too angry to think about that now.' Still facing away from Ezell he orders, “What have you discovered about the Turk’s invasion?”

“Other than that it appears Sicily wasn’t their intended target, not much. They are keeping tight lipped and our spies in Konstantiniyye-” Charles shoots Ezell a glare over his shoulder, “-I mean Constantinople doubt that the Sultan even knows what’s going on. As for Naples, an enemy agent has so far blocked most of our moves but we have spotted quite a few horse archer patrols around the city.”

Charles grumbles then says “Tell your men to pull back to Rome for now; at least until it is decided what is to be done about the Turks. Now leave my presence.” Charles spins around expecting to see her slithering out, but she had vanished.

When Charles turns to Rufus, Rufus just shrugs and says, “I didn’t see anything.”

Crowley: Pickling

At the French Court

A short ways from the Roman delegation, two of Crowley’s assistants talk in hushed tones amongst themselves:

“Sure glad Crowley’s sobered up, he was kind of creeping me out,” says the first assistant.

“I don’t know, “says the second, “I kind of liked him like that. I think he was actually genuinely happy.”

“I know, that’s what was so creepy” replies the first. “How does a happy man throw food and killing into a mix and come out with one big malevolent theatric?”

“Probably because it started with food-besides I thought it was a good time,” responds the second.

“What do you mean by that!” demands the first. “Oh you didn’t. Please, please don’t tell me you slipped him some of the old German dignitary’s pickled olives soaked in grain alcohol.”

“I may have,” answers the second innocently.

“There was a reason I threw those into the probably poisonous pile when we where sorting the old storehouse!” exclaims the first.

“Ah, that’s just because you’re a pansy,” deduces the second, “me and Crowley are full blooded Germans; there’s no such thing as too alcoholic.”

“They’ve been soaking here for over six years!” cries the first.

“Pfff,” the second waves it off as if it were nothing.

The first assistant starts to panic, “We’re so going to get fired when he finds out. I can’t go back to my parent’s farm, I hate farming.” Stopping in his tracks, he narrows his eyes at his buddy and points at him accusingly, “You! You did this! You’re going to get fired. I had nothing to do with it. I am out of here!” As the first assistant storms off, the second one finds himself caught in the powerful embrace of an arm around his shoulder.

Pulling the assistant close to his side, Crowley says reassuringly, “Ah, don’t worry about him, he’ll cool down and be back. You’re the one I want to talk to.”

“Oh...uh, I’m a...a really...s-sorry sir” mutters the assistant.

“Forget about that,” Crowley responds, “I see some real lucrative trade in those special pickled olives. I’ve got a business associate I want you to talk to.”

“Anything sir,” responds the assistant, “should I head down to the Merchant’s Guild now?”

Crowley smiles, “It’s not that kind of business. I’ve written down everything you need to know.” Crowley hands him the paper. “Oh, one more thing,” Crowley pulls the assistant in closer, “if you ever try something like that again, I can promise you that you won’t be fired. Too much work. It’s so much easier to replace assistants who just go missing...” Crowley allows the last word to trail off, then starts laughing. Letting the assistant go, Crowley confesses “I’m just messing with you. I don’t do it cause it’s easier, it’s actually a lot more work; I do it cause it’s fun.” Crowley walks away, leaving his assistant with the note in his hand, shaking knees, and wet pants.

Maté á Nembol was a modern hero of the Magyar. He had spent the preceding ten years fighting mad King Laszlo’s Venetian war, edging southward through the Balkans and the Greek mountains in a bloody and attritional conflict which ended, finally, with the naval invasion of Iraklion on Crete. Those years had been wild and exciting for the young general, operating without chain of command or restriction, taking risks and making bold aggressive moves in order to utterly eradicate the foe.

They had, however, taken a toll. His graying hair and worry-lined face was but the outward sign of a disquiet that penetrated him to the very marrow of his bones.

This disquiet was only accentuated now as he was forced to flee Crete in the face of an unprecedented attack by the Fatimids, whose armada had been sighted off the coast of Rhodes some weeks before and who seemed hell-bent on breaking the Magyars’ tenuous hold on Greece.

As the lumpen cog lumbered its way through the waves towards the Attican peninsula, Maté wondered what would now become of his nation, once nomads, feared and hated by the townsfolk for their derring-do and unfettered existence, now settled themselves and peering nervously over the ramparts at a new wave of horsemen from the east.

It was said that the initial moves against the Konyite Turks had been successful – that Istvan and Prince Kálman were sure to retake Bucharest and Thessalonica, pushing the enemy back to the Hellespont itself….it was also said that Laszlo himself took to the fray, long recovered from his malady and in command of his empire and his senses once more…….but while the Magyar could feel confident of at least an even chance of eventual victory against Konya, could the same be said for the hordes from Cairo and Baghdad?

Would the long-nurtured alliances with the Romans and the Rus bear fruit? Or would the tribe from the Carpathian basin finally meet their doom, their lucky run against the odds finally ended?

His dark mood was prescient. Two weeks later Maté á Nembol, modern hero of the Magyar, would be slain as the Fatimids overran Athens and slaughtered the inhabitants, razing the city and its historic monuments to the ground in an orgy of fire, bloodshed and destruction.