UotI Diplomacy Thread

Over the preceding years of conflict the powers of Britannia and Ireland have found that they needed neutral grounds on which to negotiate. Although all of them fought for the right of their capital to host the diplomats of the area Castletown slowly became the de facto site by virute of its central location. Even though none of the powers ever actually agreed on its use, all of them eventually found themselves sending their diplomats their.

At the moment the city is ruled by the Norse, outsiders in the area (though, considering the history of many of the factions, one might argue they are only its most recent set of invaders). Diplomacy takes place in a great hall in the center of the city. Tapestries and Norse heraldry decorate the room, and the long table in its center is always well stocked with food, mead, and beer. At any given moment the hall might be all but empty as the factions of the area prefer more discrete methods of negotiation, or riotous with arguemnts and intense debate as they try to sway their fellows to their side.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

IC diplomacy thread for the Unification of the Isles hotseat game. Players only post here, please.

The Norse ambassador, a huge, bearded man dressed more like a soldier than deplomat, wanders in and promptly takes a seat and starts off on a large tankard of mead.

The English ambassador is a rather tall, lanky fellow with a clean shaven face and a piercing gaze. He has black hair and brown eyes, and his clothes are lavish - red silk with lace and golden embroidery. Three golden lions are woven on the left side of his chest.

"Ah, the Norwegian diplomat. Well met, i am Sir Thomas, here to speak on behalf of his Majesty Henry III, in God's grace king of England."

The short thin Irish ambassador enters, wearing plain work cloths.
G'day chaps, pass me some o tha mead and lets get ta bossiness why don't we?

"Good day Sir - the Englishman retorts with a polite tone. - what word of your realm and king?"

Our realm and king is bein rid o occupiers!

The diplomat smiled enigmatically. He did not seem taken aback by the news of Irish aggression. "A fine goal to be sure."
He said that in a way that could leave his words to free interpretation.
"What of your plans for the future of these isles?"

To leave happily with our sheep and keep any future intruders out.
I can assure you, that any occupying forces that seek to leave the Isle shall be granted safe passage out, but they must leave immediately, my King has little patience, and more than enough troops to slaughter every last one of them.

Ah, but not enough roads to reach them in time. Our combined forces can raid and pillage across your lands for months, and lay ambushes in the forests. But such is not our intention, as his Majesty King Henry III has informed me. He would rather value the trade with your kingdom than squabble over the ownership of Dublin and it's surrounding fortifications.

Excellent!
We look forward to seeing the last of your troops leave. When that is done, we will gladly enter into trade with you.

The Norwegian diplomat looks up from his drink long enough to nod and grunt a more or less amiable greeting to the other emmisaries. Shortly after a messenger comes in and draws him away from the table to whisper something to him. The norse diplomat's sside can easily be heard.

*loud crash* What, he lost?! I knew King Haakon shouldn't have promoted him, even if he is the Queen's nephew...oh, we did gain a settlement against the Scottish aggressor? Well, there's that at least, as little as it is.

After a few minutes an increasingly frightenedmessenger leaves the room and the Norseman returns to the table and smiles.

Sorry about that. Just keeping abreast of current events.

The English diplomat looks solemnly at the Norse man then moves his eyes toward the Scottish representative. "Such a waste of good men, when scum abounds in the South."

The Norse diplomat, slowly mulling over his current mug of beer (the empty, tipped over ones around it a testament to his activity of the last half day) receives another message. As he looks over the note his eyes widen, and he reads it several times without otherwise reacting. Then, suddenly he sweeps up the messenger in a giant hug that tips them both to the ground, before jumping up and finishing his drink in one swig. "Another round for everyone!".

After a short period of staring at the note again, during which the now scared messenger slowly sneaks out, the diplomat pulls himself together and begins to speak solemnly.

It is my duty to inform you that the Scottish Monarch has fallen this past morning during a mighty battle outside the walls of Kirkwall. With no heirs his other armies laid down their arms and surrendered themselves to the Norse. His body shall be escorted by a contingent of Norse and Scottish troops (the latter allowed to keep their arms) back to his estates outside Edinburgh for burial. Although a deadly foe he was also a valiant one, and King Haakon regrets that things turned out as they did.

By the ancient and most holy right of conquest King Haakon lays claim to the Scottish lands, and will be arriving in person shortly to oversee their continued incorporation into his territory. He also extends a hand of trade and peace to all.

Llyewyln, Prince of Wales, recognises King Haakon's claim to the Scottish throne, and trust that there will be no opposition to his ascension by other realms.

The kingdom of Ireland will gladly accept this offer of peace and trade.

The English diplomat nods and remarks: "A messenger has already been dispatched to your King."

Ireland has found itself in an awkward position. It seems we have inadvertently made agreements to aid both the English and the Welsh in their war against each other. Not wanting to betray either friend, King Brian has decided that the only honorable thing for Ireland to do is to remain neutral.

On another note, the recent breakdown of law and order in Scotland has left its people in desperate straits. While we acknowledge that Norway has conquered these lands, and is doing what it can to create peace, Ireland must aid the scotish people. We will move in and bring peaceful law and order to what former Scottish provinces we can.

To the King of Norway, we look forward to establishing trade and perhaps an alliance between us, and hope you understand that we are not taking these actions as a blow against you, but simply to aid the people of the former kingdom of Scotland.

Hmmm...and just what parts of Scotland do the Irish think to "aid"? Norse armies are already set to bring order to the region.

Those nearest to us on the Southwestern border of that former kingdom. And know that we do not wish conflict with you, as is evidenced by our declination to take your capitol which could have been easily occupied by our troops this season. We look forward to hearing your reply to our offers of trade and possibly alliance.

Then you are in luck my friend. The southwestern most province of Scotland is already in Norse hands, saving Irish armies much trouble. And I assume you mean that you would have taken our capital within the next season? Unless the Irish are producing Trebuchets already, in which case I am quite impressed.

We are quote open to discussing trade but not in response to veiled threats.

We did not mean it as a threat, but simply as evidence that we are not attempting an invasion of Norwegian lands.
We are glad to hear that those people have found order, and unlss there is another nearby province that needs liberating we shall return home. The only problem is that it is desired by Ireland to have one province on the primary landmass from which we can easily send diplomats to the various nations and remain aware of the political situation.

The Norse diplomat eyes the Irish one warily, his face revealing that he's unsure whether to be mollified or not.

Dumfries you mean, then? It is actually quote out of the way of Haakon's upcoming Scottish possessions, close only to Castletown. An arrangement for it could easily be made for it to be handed over in exchange for the promis of trade, but it should also include Ireland's wouldbe new neighbors the English. They may object to a new force on the main Isle and would be far closer than the nearest non island Norse settlement. Our understanding of things was that those two nations have been at war, but recent Irish declarations of neutrality have confused matter. Perhaps the English representative wishes to speak?

As far as other provinces in the area to our knowledge there are only small islands a season or so to the north likely unsuitable to such purposes.

Yes, Dumfries would be excellent!
I hope the English agree to this being alright by them, we wish to remain on good terms with everyone and simply wish to not be forgotten on our island home.

As to the Welsh-English conflict, I suspect it will continue whether or not Ireland were to become involved.

The English diplomat waves a hand. "There are hardly and of my King's subjects there. Let the Irish have the town, least they have sailed here in vain. However King Brian has consolidated his lands already and a question arises, where does all the gold from taxes and trade go?"

Sir Thomas leans back and fingers the golden chain that fastens the heavy cloak on his shoulders. "Ireland has no right to any land outside their own island. Desires such as this set you a dangerous path. In any event, we wish for trade with Ireland and our Western ports are ready to open up. Let us sign a ceasefire and begin healing old wounds. As for the quelling of the Welsh rebellion, my master even now rides to battle whilst the so called Welsh King runs before him and robs innocent peasants and craftsmen. His head shall grace the top of a pike within the year."

The gold goes to making our land a prosperous and modern one of course.

And by modern you of course mean you are building forges and training grounds, siege workshops and jousting rings. We shall send a diplomat to your island as soon as we can spare the boat. He shall witness your prosperity first hand.

Excellent. although at this point we are more concerned with farming and building trade.

The Welsh diplomat approaches the English representative.

My liege wishes to bring an end to this destructive war. He was enraged to hear that his brother Dafyd fell outside Caernarvon, and drove off your king and his son from their siege of Gloucester.

The young Prince Edward has fled into a castle with a few men, which my liege has promptly laid siege to. He wishes a ceasefire to be concluded so that he is not forced to end Edward's life.

He has sent terms to the King at Shrewsbury(in-game message).

The Englishman salutes his colleague and nods. "Yes sire, indeed I have heard. King Henry has sent word of thine liege's prowess on the battlefield. He has replied wtih our terms, and ye must remember that the moral law is on our side, as Wales was the initiator of this agression. Ireland offered us peace and peace they reveived, but you offered us sword and axe, and have been repaid in kind.

My King also wishes to point out that whilst we have lösot some minor provinces to thine nimble troops, Caernarvon is ours and a third of thine force faces the gallows should you continue this war. King Llywelyn might be the fiercest general since William the Bastard but he can do little without troops to command. If prince Edward is lost to us, there shall be no further diplomacy utnill either Engalnd or Wales is no more."

Admiral Niels is near Dumfries but we see it is currently under Norwegian control. Please inform us of a settlement that he may sail to to establish an Irish outpost no the mainland of Britain.

Dumfries is in the best location. Despite its small size it commands a large section of southern Scotland. No Scottish settlement on the west coast is located as centrally between factions...

We had thought a diplomat would be sent to acquire it. It can also be abandoned to local rebels for your men to take over.

I believe that would be quicker as it will take a few turns for our diplomat to arrive.

It shall be done.

The King is dead! Henry III of England has met his demise on the field of battle. Long live King John of Nottingham!

To the Welsh we say - when this war is over only one of our peoples shall have a future.

Hagar the Addled, commander of the Norse Diplomatic Corps, takes a look around the empty room. Hmmm, more for me then he thinks to himself as he gathers any not yet empty bottles of mead together and starts drinking directly from the first.Several bottles in he raises his cup and makes a toast.

"To the Norsh *hic* and English, soon to be rulers of these great isles!"

The Irish diplomat, who has retreated to a corner with the Welsh one, scowls over at the Norsemen.

"If it is to be so, it is only because your people where bought off by a tyrannical dictator who would commit genocide against both the Welsh and my own people."

The English diplomat raises his head from a map that has been laid down in front of him. "HEAR HEAR!" he bellows, and returns the toast with his goblet of French wine.

"Glad to hear that the Englishmen hates his King as much as I do." The Irishmen comments, smirking.

The Englishman raises his eyes, with sincere surprise written on his face. That, or he is unnaturally good at mocking his opponents. "Still here friend? I thought you had turned tail after the news of King Brian being tossed about by our troops like a rag doll, and Ireland being set on fire by the brave Norse!"

He took a sip from his silver goblet and continued with a calm voice: "We have bought nothing, the alliance between the crowns of Norway and England is based on warrior's honor and virtue, things your King Brain knows little of."

Hagar stands up to address the Irish diplomat but, surprised to find the world spinning around him, falls to the floor with a crash.

*story*

"Your Majesty, the army will be upon the town of Shaftsburry come morning." The captain's voice was raspy, that of an old soldier who shouts every day and drinks every night. He sounded like he had a bad tooth, and someone was directly responsible for it.

King Simon, first of that name, king of England and Wales, duke of Normandy and Defender of the Faith, sat in his crimson throneroom, the walls adorned with the three golden lions of England that seemed to move with the flickering torchlight.

The King was a medium sized fellow, lean and with a crooked nose. A severe scar ran from his right brow to his upper lip, courtesy of a Welsh axe that had nearly split his head in twine at the battle of Nottingham, back when he had been naught but John's first in command. Simon was dressed in a plain black and grey grab - breeches and padded dublet, and wore his hair short trimmed, as was his beard. The only regalia upon the King's person was the golden chain that had been recovered from Llywelyn's coffers, which the Welshman in turn had pillaged off of Henry III's dead body.

"Good. What of the Prince and Ambrose?" Henry's voice was unremarkable. Not what one would expect from a King of England. Though people's expectations of their Kings rarely had roots in the reality of their situation.

"They have been precise and will merge their armies with ours. Together we shall advance on Wales and root out the rebels from their hiding holes. With the help of these cannons we shipped from France we'll be able to tear trough their walls with terrible swiftness!" the Captain sounded excited, as much as he could possibly be, given the fact that he had burried two sons and a wife during the past decade of war. King Simon was apathetic - he felt nothing, apart from maybe the need do loosen his bowels. Perhaps he had to feel the righteous wrath of John, or the noble contempt of Henry, but there was naught but silence in his heart.

England had burried Henry III and Edward I long ago, their stone tombs now adorning the inner sanctum of St John's Chapel below the White Tower. With them, the true royal bloodline of England had ended, though there were many a Lord who claimed kinship to Willam I in one form or another. None of them had the power or influence to take the throne however, not at the present, when the King had the whole of the realm's levy raised and doing his bidding, commanded by loyal generals. Simon had England by the throat and the Welsh by the balls, yet he felt nothing.

It had never been his desire to be King, as much as his advisers seemed to think otherwise. John had been eager and hot-blooded, wanting to prove himself and to win glory, and perhaps in some fashion he had beleived himself to be King. Simon however, had no such delusions plaguing his mind. He was, and always had been, a Knight of the realm and a soldier. He had won his spurs at the age of seventeen, he had commanded his first men at the age of twenty and two. Yet he had never approached King Henry's grace and eloquence, Edward's zeal or John's skill at arms and battle lust.

Yet it had now fallen to him to finish what greater men had started, and it seemed that he, the least likely and able, would be the one to reap the fruits of victory in the end.

Henry had failed due to pride - he had thought his armies invincible, untill Llywelyn had set his camp ablaze in the dark of night, and massacred his men. Edward had fallen because of his unyuielding nature and honor. People tell the story of how he single handedly held the battlements of the inner keep of Gloucester castle and it had taken two score Welsh archers to take him down.

But the people were a supersticous lot that needed heroes as much as they needed giants and witches. Edward had died face-first in the mud, his trhoat cut by an unnamed Welsham, after being pulled down from his Destrier. "I suppose it was more valorous to defend the gate from the back of a horse." Simon thoguht as he waved off the servant and poured his own wine, something that still sparked surprise in the staff.

John... John the Bastard, as he had called himself, never claiming to be the rightfull King of England. Yet he had been the saviour of a land that had been put to the torch and sword for the better part of a decade. At a time when England's armies had suffered defeat after defeat by the alliance of Ireland and Wales, when the smallfolk scared their children with the name "Lllewelyn" instead of with goblins or ghouls, John had come, and with his band of Knights, had raised such an army and won such ferocious victories, that were unmatched by any other King of England after William of Normandy.

Yet Simon suspected that John the Bastard was now the monster with which the Welsh milkmaids and mothers scare their children. For all his mighty victories and amazing skill as a tactitian and strategist, John had none of his former liege's regard for chivalry or valour. So many heads on spikes, so much torture and death, so many wailing women and crying children had filled Simon's nightmares, that he had doubts whether it had been worth it in the end.

It had been, that much was obvious, as now England was thriving and London had never fallen to the enemy. Yet John lay no more alive then Henry or Edward, in his plain grave behind Westminster Abbey. It had been his explicit desire to be burried as a common man would be, he had spoken this whilst on his deathbed, while the Irish assassins's poison ate his guts and set his blood on fire.

King John, who had never lost a battle, had died not from sword or spear or axe, but from a flask of wine. So much for heroes and the hope of the smallfolk.

Simon had been more cautious after he had been awoken one morning in his tent to be notified that John, his old comrade at arms, had now named him King. All the servile curs and scheming Lords did naught but hastily pledge allegiance, John's iron fist still gripping their man-parts from the grave. Simon had been John's first in comand and had slaughtered his fair share of Welshmen and Irishmen. He had no more chivalry than your average soldier, which meant when he found an enemy down he would put his sword trough his throat instead of help him up. That perhaps, had the nobility frightened - one who had the loyalty of the armies despite most of them being pledged to that liege-Lord or other. And still many of the petty Lords and most of the Midlands were wtih Simon as well. He had been an undesirable target to challenge, particularly now when John's momentum had halted with his death.

Simon had been careful, taking his time, building his forces, and waiting for the Welsh to starve themselves out in the barren hillside they called home. England was rich and if there was one thing Simon took pride in, was that he had made it that much richer after his ascension to the throne. He had built shipyards and warehouses, he had sewn fields and established marketplaces. All while slowly pushing Ireland and Wales further back. The smallfolk loved the wealth he had bestowed on the realm, his enemies feared the armies he had raised, yet Simon still lived in the shadow of his predescessors.

That is why, even now, his throneroom in Nottingham castle had been decorated with enormous portraits of Henry III, Edward I and King John II "the Bastard". At least Simon had fared better then the ill-fated John I, whom the smallfolk had dubbed John the Lame, because he had been put down by Llewelyn within a year of his ascension, as if he had been a farmer's lame horse.

Llewelyn, the name still evoked a mixture of hatred and respect in Simon's gut. The King paced nervously from his throne to the window, staring at the darkness of the castle below. Llewelyn the Raider, Llewelyn the Just, Llewelyn the Brigand - it all depended on whom you asked. Simon had been glad he did not have to face the Welsh commander in battle, elsewise England would have been lacking one more kngiht and Llewelyn would have had one more coat of arms to hang in his great hall in Caernavernon.

John had beaten him, him and Brian of Ireland, in a bloody pitched battle that had not been won or lost until sundown. The only thing that Simon remembered was hacking left and right like a madman, his sword arm aching, his mail dented in several places by Welsh arrows, and a swirl of crimson blood, orange torchlinght and gleaming of armour around him. Someone had knocked his helm off, and Simon's ears had been ringing for what seemed an eterninty, which he later mused had been a boon, because it prevented him from hearing the screams of the dying men and horses.

A nightmare of a night, a massacre worthy of a thousand butcher's shops, a river of blood, entrails and faeces, and somehow John had emerged victorious and Llywelyn and Brian had ran like whipped curs. John the Bastard - Simon's brother in arms, a man whom he both had loved and hated. The Archbishop of Canterbury had approached him the other night, suggesting John as a martyr for the faith. He had even prepared a letter for the Vatican. That had provoked such a belly-aching laughter from Simon that he had snorted a mixture of wine and half chewed boiled meats onto his Eminency's fancy purple robes.

"John? A martyr? That's like suggesting a bear to be named Princess of England! Simon had bellowed, and his retinue had laughed - all men who had served under John. They knew it to be true, and if John had been alive he would have pissed himself laughing. The servile curs in the feast hall had laughed as well, albeit nervously and only after Simon. The Archbishop had not, but then again men of the cloth rarely did. Too much praying would do that to a man, and worse. Edward would have been still alive if he had been capable of deceit and threachery, but he had chosen the righteous way and paid for it. Yet the Chirch wanted to name John the Bastard as martyr, because he was popular with the small folk. He had been the saviour of England after all.

Simon stood in his throne room, his hands clasped behind his back, an old wound aching in his right thigh and his scar itching like a line of ants crawling across his face. "Do you think I will be remembered as a good King, Edgar?" he asked the captain.

"Without a doubt Sire, you will be remembered as the man who defeated Wales and unified England."

"John deafeated Llewelyn. I'm just the man who is kicking his corpse." Simon remarked in a flat tone. He supressed the urge to reach for the cup of wine on the edge of the window. Wine had killed his predescessor.

"Maybe so. Then be remembered as the man who rebuilt England from the ashes of war and devastation."

"That..." Simon turned around, a cold rage building inside him. Wales. The very nation was like a pus-ridden sore on his side. "Or be remembered as the man who removed Wales from the map of Europe. Not defeat them, nor subjugate them or make them our vassals."

"What is your meaning, sire?" Edgar sounded confused. He had been a simple soldier, and his skill with the sword did not at all match with his ability to read.

"In Oxford I read a historical account of the old Romans. Have you ever heard of Carthage?"

"No Sire, I'm afraid I'm sorely lacking in knowledge of the ancient world. Things that happened before the birth of Lord Jesus Crhist, why who can say what really transpired back then."

"The scribes can, those who can read and write Latin. Let me tell you a story, of how a nation can rise to power behind one storng leader, and then be reduced to dust upon his demise..."