Stories thread - King of the Romans PBM

[GeneralHankerchief]

Eastern Italy, 1318

Four large ships were docked off a deserted coast. Slowly, movement could be seen from the ships, movement in the form of rowboats approaching the coast. The first one to reach the shore was a lonely boat, filled mostly with Balkan Archers who had never seen the other side of the Adriatic sea. They got off their boat, looked around, started peering through the bushes and scanning the horizon for movement.

When nothing could be found, they made large, exaggerated movements with their arms and hands. Apparently it was the "all clear" signal as more movement could be seen from the ships. The rest of the men were beginning to depart for dry land, at last.

Eventually, Dietrich von Dassel, Alexander Luther, and the remnants of the Army of Light had reached the shores and waved good-bye to the navy men rowing the boats back to the small fleet. The people on the shore were the hard-core, the meat of the army. Austrians most of them, they had declined to stay behind and defend their homeland from invaders, instead opting to stick with Dietrich and Luther in hopes of furthering the Glorious Cause.

When they left Durazzo, sneaking past the massive Papal army lurking nearby, they had all assumed that the Glorious Cause would take them to Rome where they would depose Theodora, get the city working again, and establish it as a base for defense against the invading Byzantine forces. However, things had changed since they slowly sailed up the Adriatic.

At a distance, a lonely horsemen spotted the fleet and rowboats making their way back. That was his signal, and he spurred his horse on towards the coast, a large bundle of papers tucked under his arm. He made his way to the coast, where he was quickly dismounted and searched by the most fanatical Lutherans. Dietrich, even though he was expecting the man and knew this was the designated meeting place, did nothing to stop them, a sign of the massive need for security in these days.

Once he was searched to the Lutherans' consent, the man was allowed to approach Dietrich with his papers, which he gave to him without a word. Dietrich, motioning Alexander Luther over to a remote part of the beach, sat down and began to read.

"...regret to inform you that the Imperial Treasury has been emptied and the gold is unaccounted for..."

"...Kaiser's men have no knowledge of where the gold is..."

"...Empress Dowager has also disappeared..."

"...Furthermore, Bavaria will not lift a finger to defend Rome..."

"...Madness! Kaiser Elberhard is weak and a fool..."

"...several large columns marching north across the border with Naples..."

"...declare myself Prinz of the Holy Roman Empire, and will be acting as Kaiser until he reveals his spineless self..."

"...much more important things going on..."

"...trust you have a swift journey back to Swabia after you have tied up your affairs in Italy; I will see to it that Northern France is secure before Hans can advance against me..."

"...Count Becker has fallen in battle..."

"...dare use the death of Count Becker to silence political dissent..."

"...shall cast a poll for all electors - they can vote by absentee..."

"...Divine right to rule..."

"...degenerated into a farce..."

"...don't seem to realize the gravity of the situation we face..."

"...most of you traitors already are, I shall kill you..."

"......the fact I refer to her as my former Empress should be enough to tell you what I think of the matter..."

"...reports that a Byzantine army is besieging Bologna..."

"...At the next Diet, the King will urge for strong legislative sanctions to be leveled at Sir Dassel..."

After the last two snippets of Diet transcript and personal communications Dietrich threw the entire stack into the air in disgust. This was what the Reich had come to while he was sailing? Becker dead, the Byzantines turning Italy and Austria into a gauntlet, and still they were all bickering and determinedly sniping at each other? While the Byzantines were besieging Bologna? How far north had they gotten anyway? Dietrich buried his head in his hands.

"Answer me something, Luther," Dietrich mumbled. Luther, realizing Dietrich's thoughts, made a questioning noise but no more. "Are we to blame for all this?"

"This?"

"We, I mean. You. Me. Peter. Tancred. Our kind, the kind that simply stuck by our beliefs and took matters into our hands. Are we to blame for this?"

"I don't know, you still haven't explained what 'this' is."

"The entire mess. The division in the Diet. The rebellion in Swabia. The Byzantines threatening Bavaria, Austria, and what's left of Outremer. Is it our fault?"

Luther looked pensieve for a minute. He simply stared out at the coast, looking at the waves gently lap onto the shores and the fleet offshore preparing to cast off and head to destination unknown. Finally, he answered. "No. Well, not entirely. It's Siegfried's fault, Siegfried and Elberhard and Abbate and Jan and everybody else in the elite crowd who were sure they knew what was best. Re-unification would have turned us all Byzantine, you know that Dietrich. We would have gradually lost everything that was unique to us, everything that made us the Holy Roman Empire in the first place. They would have re-written history to make all those glorious conquests of Heinrich and Leopold and von Saxony and Hans, all of those would have been diminished, even warped into Byzantine intrigue. We would have died and watched from above as the world slowly turned into a sickening shade of purple, and we would be forgotten forever. The Byzantines knew it; they wanted it to happen. And they were so close to doing it the easy way, Dietrich. They had a puppet Kaiser in place and a puppeteer in the form of Theodora. But then we came along. And dammit, we made ourselves heard."

Luther pounded his fist into the fine Italian sand. Only Dietrich watched. The rest of the men were too busy doing their own thing, deep within their own philosophical conversations.

"The Byzantines wanted to wipe us off the map one way or another," Luther continued, with increasing conviction, "Is it a crime if we fight back doing so? If we make it bloody for them? They got the jump on us, sure. It's partially our fault that we're so weak; all of the internal strife. But we can get over that eventually. We can gloriously fight back and overcome this force and reclaim our heritage. It will cost many lives, sure. Becker is sure to be the first of many casualties. But when it's all over, he'll be a hero. We'll be heroes. We'll be known as the group that prevented Byzantine takeover and made it a mess for them."

Dietrich sighed and collapsed in the sand. It was all too much. War with the Byzantines, he never wanted any of that. Armies marching through Austria, deep into Italy, that was exactly what he tried to stop when he was marching for Durazzo. And then he got news about Constantinople about halfway through... and of course he couldn't turn back then, because he had Hans after him and a thousand passionate Lutherans urging him on and so he went on to Durazzo, conquering the place and massacring the inhabitants, and celebrating because it was the final hammer blow for re-unification, but in reality it was the last hurdle before all-out war.

"All I wanted to do was stop re-unification," he mumbled to himself in the sand. Now the very Reich itself was threatened by this Greek menace, a menace that had grown exponentially since 1320 because of those stupid, numerous "gifts" that Siegfried and Elberhard had given Isaac.

And what did he have? He had an army - no, a legion - of loyal followers, followers ready to do anything to advance The Cause.

Followers ready to die for a German Reich.

Dietrich left Luther in silence and crawled over to Friedrich, his aide, who was trying to start a fire.

"The men rest tonight," he said. "Tomorrow we move on Bologna. We've got to set this right."

[Northnovas]

Countryside Eastern Austria 1318

My fellow Austrians, I fear my days are numbered when I look upon the Hungarian host arrayed before me. The primary army numbers five hundred-sixty pavise spearmen, four hundred fifty dismounted feudal knights, four hundred eighty chivalric knights and two catapults with forty artillerists. There is also another army that is able to assist that consists of an assortment of archers, crossbowmen and artillery totaling eight hundred eighteen people led by a member of Hungary's royal family.

It pains to plead like this, but I beg of you to send every available man to assist me. As it stands the destruction of the 1st AHA and my own death seem very likely.

Count of Prague

Karl looked at the letter and dropped into the fire.
“Too late” he muttered to himself just staring into the campfire as the paper burned disappointed and frustrated by the current events. “If I had only been faster...”
“My lord, confirming the preliminary report from Bucharest, it’s not good” said Peter dropping his head and looking into the fire. He looked back at the Count and continued. “Count Becker is missing and the 1st AHA has been annihilated.”
“Damn! No survivors? How many Hungarians are in the area? We must fall back to Bran immediately. Just has the Count was to continue a galloping of a single horse could be heard coming over the hill. He must be one of ours to get past the sentries or a ghost rider.
The rider charged up to the men around the fire and came to an abrupt stop leaping off his horse in one motion and holding the reins with his right hand and presenting a letter with his left hand to Karl. The Count was impressed with this messenger he had not seen riding like that since the races in Damascus. Karl immediately recognized the Seal as that of Duke Arnold’s. He took the message and stepped over by the fire alone to read it.

Karl Greetings,

I have heard of the news at Bucharest and the defenders. There has been a change in plans. Bran is to be abandoned and you must head for Budapest. There is no Austrian House Army to command you must recruit who you what you can from the land. Not only are the Hungarians at our door but the damn Byzantines are waging war against us.
I have spoken with Duke Steffen and he has ordered Count Karolinger to assist with the Bavarian Household Army Otto he has coming from Thessalonica and will meet with you in Budapest.
These are dangerous times for Austria I have my sister and the children with me they are safe. I am doing my best to secure the southern borders.
God speed. I will see you soon.

Signature and Seal of Duke Arnold.

The Count turned to his men “Budapest!”There was a stunned look amongst the men all thinking no Bran is our destination.
“Saddle up, were moving out!” shouted Zirn to his aide. “Hurray things are much worse then we though and we will not miss any action this time. Where is my geographer!!!?”
Ingo the veteran spoke up “We know our way we don’t need a map to Budapest?”
Zirn gave him a stare “Do you know ever village along the way then?”
Peter quizzically asked “Why? I thought we were in a rush?”
Zirn gave an exasperated look and then thought he should inform him of the plan.
“We have no army, no money and little supplies. If I am to prevent another city from falling it will be with an army of Austrian men who are damn ready to defend their country. I will recruit able body men to answer the call of duty to defend their home from the enemies breathing down our necks. I will plead to their honour and duty for the Duke. I will have an Austrian Household Army. Let’s move.”
The two men looked at each other and mounted for the recruiting drive.

The recruiters made their way along the country hitting every hamlet. Karl was almost embarrassed by the awe the locals held for a Crusader Knight returning from foreign lands and here in their hamlet.
The strategy was simple in each community he would meet with the Elders and filled them in on the political landscape. There would be a meal and the younger men would be there. He would offer them service not in the reserve unit or auxiliary home guard but in the regular force with the promise of advancement to those that demonstrate their loyalty to the Duke. Villages that were the best in cooperating would be aided in compensation by the Duke when the Reich is stable and peace is in the land. He appealed to all ages of men and women to convince their men to join.
This continued along the road to Budapest.
The Count did not forget the lesser nobles and would stop and plead his case to them they were much more indifferent and the Count did not receive the same warmth and affection that he felt with the peasants.
However, he needed the nobles and their horses because they could ride they would be the cavalry units that he so desperately wanted to complete his army.
This scenario continued all the way to Budapest. There was some mocking the “old man” and his rag tag soldiers but it was minor many citizens were afraid and having the Count coming through their community with whatever army gave them a sense of security and a willingness to do their part for Austria. They were not the best trained or best looking but they were loyal and determined to defend their homeland, their families.

[Tamur]

Fritz paced back and forth in front of his unit commanders, lips tight and staring at the ground. Then he began speaking.

"Men, we have been together through many battles, many miserable winter campaigns against the Poles and the Danes. But Ansehelm, as you know, has asked that I be stripped of my command."

"We know this, Count," piped up one of the younger commanders. "You told us months ago. Why bring it up again? The men are growing tired of all the talk."

"Talk!" Fritz stopped and shouted, waving his long arms about wildly. "It's no longer talk! Dieter is at Ansehelm's table this very moment asking why he has no army!"

The commander shrank back a bit into the group.

Fritz went on, half to himself. "And you all knows I will not give up my command..."

[econ21]

This story was written by TinCow

Rome, 1318

His legs ached from hours of standing, but he refused to sit. The only rest Johannes Tockler would allow himself to take was a few short minutes of leaning against the stone wall of the gatehouse. In a way, he considered the soreness and fatigue to be the mark of honorable service. Several of the other guards mocked him for it. They would snicker at his unbending vigil and one man, Ladislaus, liked to kick dung on his boots when his shift was over. Johannes did not care; they were slothful cretins and knew nothing of pride.

Figures were moving in the distance. Johannes raised his hand and squinted into the mid-day sun. Purple cloaks flickered around the edges of the men, marking them as Byzantines. The second man in line raised a horn to his lips and blew a long, two-note blast; their typical method of announcing a prominent diplomat on an official visit. Johannes straightened up, his chin held high, in a posture of Roman formality. Grumbles and the scrape of metal sounded from his right, where the other guards were hastily assuming their positions.

In truth, the event was not unusual. The ambassador had taken an immediate liking to the ‘Cathedral of Sin’ in Florence. It was unusual for him not to spend a week there each month. Even the recent unrest had not diminished his taste of Bavarian pleasures. Johannes wondered momentarily whether allof the ambassador’s ‘formal entries’ were announced with a warhorn.

The processional arrived a few moments later. It was easily three times the size of the ambassador’s normal guard. The Byzantine captain, Kostas Philanthropenos, stopped by the gatehouse, while his column filed through. He turned to Johannes and saluted

“Sergeant Tockler, it makes me sad to see you standing such a post,” he said in thickly accented German. “Surely your talents would be better used elsewhere.”

Johannes smiled. Despite the arrogant attitude the Byzantine emitted, he liked Kostas. “I thank you for the compliment, but we are short on manpower these days. The recent… difficulties… with the Imperial Treasury have caused many men to desert their posts.”

Kostas frowned. “Yes, this business with Empress Theodora is most unpleasant. Shameful, really. It is an insult to the honor of Byzantium. We are not a nation of thieves.” The captain shrugged and clapped Johannes on the shoulder. “But at least they have managed to find enough gold to pay you, my friend.”

The German shook his head. “No, I have not been paid for many months. My salary is enough to keep ten more guards employed and a score of hands is worth far more than my pair, no matter what you think about my merits. Besides, food and lodging are still provided by the barracks and I need little else.”

“Ah, an altruist to the core.” Captain Philanthropenos sighed and shook his head. “As I said, you should be elsewhere today.”

“If I were, I would not have had the pleasure of your company; and that would have been a loss I would have sorely missed.” Both men laughed heartily. Johannes was genuinely grateful for the compliment. A life of duty and virtue was a reward in and of itself, there was little enough of either in the Reich in recent years, but knowing that his actions were acknowledged as such by others brought warmth to his heart. He knew his father would have been proud of him.

The Tockler family had been shepherds for generations. They owned a small farm in the northern foothills of the Odenwald and had passed it down from father to son for as long as anyone could remember. Johannes’ own father had been the ninth generation of Tocklers to work the land, and he had talked often of how proud he was to pass on a legacy to his own children. Much of the surrounding land was owned by Baron von Adelmann, who lived in Weinheim, two days ride to the east. Unlike those men, the Tockler land was a freehold, a highly unusual privilege for a peasant family.

The Tockler men had told their children for generations about how that privilege had been bestowed on them by the Kaiser himself. As a boy of 16, the progenitor Tockler had saved Conrad II’s life during the defeat at Vienna in 1030. Three Hungarian knights had cut their way through the Kaiser’s bodyguard. All that stood in their way was a single levied peasant boy with a rusty spear. Instead of fleeing, he stood his ground and held off the knights for several minutes. When the rest of the Kaiser’s guard finally broke through, they found two bloodied Hungarians dragging away a third, who was mortally wounded. The boy himself stood unharmed in front of the Kaiser, his spear broken, but still leveled at the enemy.

In gratitude, Conrad II had bought the title to the Tockler farm from their feudal Baron and bestowed it on the boy. From that day on, the Tocklers had been vassals to no man, and had survived and prospered by the sweat of their brow. Johannes himself had been named after his famous ancestor, and as the eldest son he had been destined to inherit the family land from birth. Yet, the life of a shepherd had never sat well with Johannes. When he was 14, his father had taken him to sell wool in the market in Weinheim. On the road they had been passed by a contingent of Teutonic Knights from nearby Frankfurt. They were riding south, to Venice, where they would take a ship for Outremer.

Johannes never forgot the sight of their white surcoats, shining steel armor, and powerful warhorses. For months afterwards, he could think of nothing else. Yet he was shamed by the thoughts and prayed for forgiveness each night. He knew that his duty was to his family and the farm, but he could not shake the thought that he was destined for something greater, something more important. The guilt he felt over this was unbearable and he cried himself to sleep on more than one occasion.

One night, three months later, his father took him aside after dinner. “Johan, you are a man now. It is time for you to begin your life.” With that, he had handed him a long, wrapped bundle. Inside, Johannes had found a finely crafted sword and scabbard, its polished steel shining in the candlelight. He had been so overwhelmed with emotion that he had simply stared at it, mouth agape. His father simply smiled. “I know you do not want to be a farmer and a shepherd. There is no shame in that. Our family was founded upon the virtuous actions of a soldier. Now it is your turn. Take this sword and go forth into the world. Protect the innocent, punish the wicked, and above all live with pride. God will guide your hand.”

The next morning, a squire in the service of Baron von Adelmann came to take him to Weinheim. He served the Baron for a time, and then made his way to the Frankfurt, the old Imperial capital. In 1261 Johannes joined up with a small group of Teutons who were on their way to Outremer, in response to the Pope’s call for the Third Crusade to recapture Jerusalem. They journeyed over land to Venice, and from there took ship to the citadel at Acre. He was spotted by an Imperial recruiter within moments of disembarking and joined a regiment of armored spearmen in Karl Zirn’s army. After Jerusalem was recaptured, he transferred to a unit under Jan von Hamburg’s command and followed him for many years. Even at such a young age, the future King of Outremer was a shining example of chivalry and duty. Inspired by his example, Johannes quickly gained a reputation for bravery and, above all, honor.

He held the line, unflinching, against the Mongols on the day that King Salier had fallen. His unwavering stance rallied his terrified men and allowed for an orderly withdrawal from what would otherwise have been a complete rout. For his actions that day, he was promoted to Sergeant. He served in King Jan’s armies for the next ten years; never the most skilled fighter, but always the first into battle and the last to leave it. His men loved him for it.

Then, on a trip to Antioch, he met a young girl, fresh off the boat from Venice. She was from Prague and had accompanied her parents on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Fate and dysentery had taken them from her off the coast of Cyprus, and she had been abandoned in the streets of the teeming city. Johannes saw her wandering the streets, hungry and dirty. He took her in and, for a time, they were happy. She gave birth to a daughter, the light of his life, but the plague visited the city two years later and neither was spared. Devastated by the loss of his wife and child, Johannes had left Outremer and returned to the Reich. He had gone straight to the Imperial capital of Rome and, with the aid of a letter from King Jan himself, was welcomed into the city guard, where he had been ever since. He found pride in his station and it showed in his work. Rome was the seat of the Kaiser and a Holy City in its own right. There was no better way for him to spend the remaining years of his life than serving in its defense.

Johannes looked at Kostas and his face darkened. “I have heard rumors that Byzantine armies are marching on Bologna. Is there any truth to this?” The Captain’s eyes narrowed, but before he could reply a scream came from up above. Johannes looked up, but his vision was impaired by the bright sun overhead. He raised his hand to block the light, and saw a glimpse of a large object falling through the air in front of him. It was the body of one of the guards on the gate ramparts.

He reached for his sword, the same blade his father had given him so many years before. The scabbard was heavily worn and the grip had been replaced three times, yet Johannes still polished it until the blade gleamed bright. “To arms! To arms!” He cried, and turned towards Kostas. “You must get to safety! There are men inside the…”

The cold steel of a dagger pierced his throat and severed his windpipe, cutting off his words with a bloody gurgle. Johannes grasped at his neck, but his fingers could not stop the surge of blood that spewed forth. As he sank to the ground, he stared wide-eyed into the face of Kostas. “I am sorry, my friend. You should not have been here today.”

It took several minutes for Sergeant Johannes Tockler to bleed to death by the gates of Rome. It was long enough to see the vanguard of the Byzantine armies pass through the open portcullis.

[TinCow]

The echoing sounds of fifty simultaneous conversations mixed together into a low roar. Had it not been for the tapestries hung on every wall of the massive hall, even shouting into a neighbor’s ear would have been futile.

“ORDER! ORDER!”

The Count of Toulouse was vigorously banging a steel gauntlet on the table.

“ORDER! ORDER!”

It took a good two minutes for the din to die down, but he kept pounding until every last voice was silent. The last crash echoed ominously around the room; suddenly out of place in the quiet hall.

“Are we in agreement then?” the Count asked. Several voices rose at once, but the Count raised his gauntlet and the speakers stopped in mid-sentence. “One at a time, please.” He gestured to the Polish delegation to his left. Sicily, Venice, Hungary, Poland, and Denmark had all answered the French call for a diplomatic conference in Toulouse. Only Spain had declined to send a representative. They had lost little to the Holy Roman Empire and were apparently more concerned with the Moors and Africa. Of the remaining Catholic nations of the world, only England, Scotland, and Portugal had not been invited to the meeting. The first remained stubbornly allied to Reich, while the second was essentially powerless. Portugal had simply offended the French too often to allow for reconciliation, even under the present circumstances.

The head Polish diplomat rose and cleared his throat. “Poland agrees. There is no better time to strike at the Reich than now. They are destroying themselves from within. They have murdered their own Kaiser, made enemies of their Byzantine allies, received excommunication from the Pope despite their complete control of the College of Cardinals, and there are even sparks of civil war. With the loss of Rome, they are politically divided and vulnerable in all areas.”

“The Reich’s main strength has always been its centralized government and the Electors reluctance to violate their so-called Charter. They are now burning it like so much kindling. If we strike them hard and fast from all sides, they will not be able to cope.”

A sullen looking man from the Venetian delegation rose. “Venice also agrees, but we must not forget that it is this Lutheran heresy that must be suppressed first and foremost. While the Reich’s armies endanger our lives, their protection of this blasphemous movement risks our very souls! This is an alliance of true Christian nations and it is our duty unto God to see that these heretics are completely destroyed. There is a reason that the Byzantines and Russians were not invited to this meeting, let alone the Mohammedans. We are taking up the Sword of Christ against the enemies of God! Wherever they are encountered, their cities should be burned and their peoples put to death. There is only one way to deal with Lutherans, and that is to send them to meet the Devil they worship!”

At that remark, the room once again exploded into conversation. The Count banged his gauntlet several times before silence was restored. “We are not here to debate the reasons behind the Roman collapse nor the treatment of its conquered peoples. We are here to agree to a Catholic Alliance against the Holy Roman Empire! Where have discussed this for three days, already. There is one question, and one question only, that remains to be agreed upon: Do we agree to a temporary cessation of all hostilities between our nations and focus all of our combined armies against our common enemy?” A murmur of agreement went around the room. In turn, the representatives from Sicily, Hungary, and Denmark stood and proclaimed their agreement to the plan.

“Very well then,” said the Count of Toulouse. “Today marks the formation of the Catholic Alliance. For the next twenty years, all French, Danish, Sicilian, Venetian, Polish, and Hungarian armies will be tasked with the destruction of the Holy Roman Empire and the reclamation of our lost territories. No member of the Catholic Alliance will attack another, even if a state of war exists between them. This we swear unto God.”The hall once again erupted into a chaos of sound. The Count of Toulouse sat down and sighed heavily. One of the French diplomats approached him. “My Lord, do you truly believe this Alliance will hold?”

The Count snorted and shook his head. “Never, just look at them now.” He gestured sarcastically at the room of arguing men. “No, sooner or later blood will be spilt on a field of battle and it will once again be as it always has been. Still, we will be united for a time. Perhaps that will be enough.” He stood and walked towards a window facing east: towards the Reich. “I do not envy any Roman soldier today. The best any of them can hope for is a quick death. Even now their noblemen do not understand the full consequences of their errors. They bicker amongst themselves and scramble to hold on to pieces of a shattered empire. We will teach them what it is to know fear.”

[AussieGiant]

ROME 1320

Arnold's Household Guard were fighting a brutal rear guard action down to the Docks.

The Byzantines knew they had one of the Reich's Dukes in a precarious position and we throwing everything they had at the Austrian Regiment in order to capture or kill their quarry.

Striding through the chaos Duke Arnold could be seen issuing orders and barking at the men to fill a gap here or lend his sword to assist soldiers that needed it.

"It's seems our visit to the Diet was not the best idea Priest"

The Dukes Priest was wide eyed, glancing in every direction he was trying to avoid being struck down or run over by a horse while at the same time stay as close as possible to the Duke who was a clear place of safety.

"My lord, I'm petrified!! We need to get on that ship now!!"

His plea was met with a grunt of acknowledgment from Arnold.

"BANE, where are my orders?"

The Dread Knight was engaged in a fierce dual with a very large Byzantine.

"Grom has them."

Without breaking his concentration at the Duke's question, Bane turned his wrist expertly parrying the blow and counter attacking with a vicious cut which left the Byzantine with no leg below the knee.

Turning to face his Duke now that his opponent was screaming in pain and no longer a danger, Bane scanned the melee.

"Grom!! Where are the Duke's orders?"

The huge Barbarian was on the other side of the street holding a fully armored man above his head. Realising he was being summoned, he swiftly turned and threw the man a clear ten feet down an alley which was about to be overrun. The impact and chaos that followed allowed the Duke's men to dispatch the remaining Byzantines and continue the withdrawal.

Jogging over Grom pulled out a small satchel. Handing them to the Duke he said; "Can I get back to the fight my lord?"

Checking each man's name and the Austrian seal was correct and accounted for, the Duke finally looked up and gave a nod.

With that Grom charged off with a blood curdling screaming.

Shaking his head in amazement Arnold looked at his Priest.

"I really think he enjoys it when the pressure is on and the situation is tense."

Without waiting for an answer Arnold bellowed: "Szcepanski!! Get the messenger riders ready!! I need 10 of them!!"

At that moment there was a rumble rising about the clamour of battle.

From the up the street one of the Duke's men screamed: “Heavy Cavalry!!!”

A moment later the entire company was crushed in a solid wave of horse, armour and purple banners.

“Christ almighty.” The Duke voice was clearly concerned as he drew his sword and charged into the fray.

His first thrust took a horseman clean under his helm, the second stroke cut through a horseman's leg just above the knee, his third swing decapitated an unhorsed rider as he was attempting to stand.

The last Bane saw of his Duke was his black obsidian armour disappearing in a shower of blood, horse flesh and blood soaked purple.

[Warluster]

Normandy,1316, German France.

Athalwolf von Salza was seated in a large tent, he always gave himself to rest after a long battle. Especially when his enemy was a fellow Swabian. The sound of shuffling made him turn around from cleaning his sword. It was a aide from his bodyguard.
"Sir, a man requesting your attendance." Athalwolf stoodbuckling the sword and a pistol, engraved with a tiger streching down its barrel.
Outside the tent, stood the man. He wore blue, and had a strange goatee.
"Mon Count, I am honored to be here. I bring news from afar." said the man, his voice coated in a French accent. Athalwolf cared not, he had a Civil War to deal with, and was busy writing a letter to Duke Hans. He montioned, though, for the man to continue.
"Rome has fallen Monsieour. The Greeks have come from the north, and Northern italy is certian to fall afterwards." said the man quickly, not a glance of care crossing his face.
"What is this blasphemy! Rome, fall? How could the Holy City fall? I shall have you arrested!" declared Athalwolf, some of his Imperial Knights drawing swords.
"Listen mon Count, the Kaiser has declared every man for himself!"
"Is this the only reason you come? Could not I be told by others, not a Frenchmen?" He asked.
"No mon friend, Ibring news from the von Salza family, in Spain." said the man, there was moments of stunned silence, then-
"In Spain, what are my family there for? Are they not in Dijon?" asked Athalwolf, sheathing his sword, a pouzzled look cracked over his face.
"Do you not know sire? Late Emperor Jobst's parents." said the man, he continued,"I come from them, we have heard mcuh of you, and eagerly await your visit."

1318,Toledo, Spain.

Toledo was alive that day, as was every other city in the Spanish Empire. Quite unlike the German Empire. Athawlolf and his entourage were rapidly approaching the walled city, sun scorching them in their full plate armor. Athalwolf was listening to a report read out by one of his aides,
"...and from that point on, the Diet Speaker closed the Diet, and declared every man for himself." finished the aide, looking up at his Count.
No one spoke, but awaited the call.
"Leroy contar?" yelled a man in Spanish, whilst men saluted and peasents bowed. Athalwolf was confused, he was German Nobility, not Spanish or French.
"It is Count von Salza!" roared back a Knight, and flags were raised with a strandard of the von Salza family. Athalwolf entered, with trumpets playing. People milled around the back of his escort, watching closely. But they continued through the city, until they stood before a large mansion, with beautiful gardens surrounding it.
"Wait here." He ordered the escort, entering th place. At the door waited the same French man from Normandy, now known to be a French Musketeer.
"Mon lord, please enter. Count Leroy awaits, with news from his son." Atahwlwolf entered, the room was light and cool, opening up with views of the city. There were stairs in front of him and rooms either side. A very old man hobbled up to Athalwolf, who towered over him.
"Eh? Mon son?" inquired the man, squitned at the German Count.
"No mon Lord, this is Jobst's son, Athalwolf von Salza." The odl man groaned,
"Its le roi you silly bugger, mon family name! What is this german names, von Salza? You come not from Salza! But from our lands of Rheims!" stated the man.
"Non, we come from the Swabian Lands of Dijon. I heard it from the Kaiser himself..." The old man walked away, followed by Athalwolf.
"You are not, mon friend. Do you not know? I am Jobst von Salza's father! He sadly, was adopted into those German lands..." Athalwolf stared in shock, then started to leave.
"Where are you going, mon Count Leroy?" asked the man.
"I am NOT COunt Leroy! I AM COUNT VON SALZA!" roared AThalwolf, he kicked down the door, briskly leaving. He mounted his horse, his appearance suprising his escort.
"Hurry up you buggers! We leave for Swabia!" A man galloped forth from the mansions stables, it was the Frenchman. His company though, was not protested, and the escort of Imperial Knights and Athawolf left the city, sadly watched by Duke Leroy of France. He knew it was to happen, and only hoped his planned actions worked.

[GeneralHankerchief]

1320

Kaiser Elberhard's announcement of the fall of Rome, while the first official mention of the event, was not anywhere near being the first acknowledgement - nor was it the most-talked about.

That honor fell to a voice, a voice that made itself heard throughout the known world, as soon as the Byzantines stormed the city, captured the Imperial Diet and Palace, and declared victory. A loud scream, a yell that was simultaneously in fury and frustration, anguish and agony, boomed throughout the city, the surrounding areas, and most of the world.

In Rome, the citizens being executed mistook it for the cry of their fellow people in pain and for help. The Byzantines doing the killing took the yell as an omen, as in maybe they had crossed holy ground and weren't supposed to go further, or that someone was disapproving of their executions in general. But, when no lightning struck, they continued their spree, although slightly unnerved.

In Florence, it took Dietrich von Dassel and Alexander Luther, who were arguing about the merits of the "Cathedral of Sin" by surprise. Luther, after pausing and looking around, crossed himself and began muttering. Dietrich also looked around, lost in thought, wondering how such a yell could reach the capital of Bavaria and Kaiser Heinrich's former "watchtower over Rome." He looked around some more and excused himself, heading for the Cathedral to take his mind off of the unholy scream.

The yell spread throughout the heartlands of the Reich, both those which were gone and those that still called themselves Imperial. The majority of the people, lacking proper knowledge of what triggered the noise, figured only that something terrible had happened and this was just a very bad omen.

It made its way through the east of Europe, where it similarly unnerved the thousands of Byzantine soldiers, wondering if something had gone terribly wrong in Rome. It crossed over Anatolia, causing a great wave of prayer, and eventually made its way to Outremer.

In Jerusalem, the new Pope, Lambertus, heard the scream and shuddered. It was a familiar voice to all Popes, a one that they all feared, or at least all of them since Gregory. It was a voice back from the dead, a voice that knew something had gone wrong and had expressed its emotions so loudly that it had crossed over into the mortal realm.

Similarly, Kaiser Elberhard heard the voice and recognized it at once, instantly realizing in that moment why his father, Henry, had moved the crown away from his family. After the initial shock, he calmed somewhat, maybe even hopefully thinking that it wasn't his fault, that he never should have been Kaiser in the first place, that his family was cursed.

The majority of the Electors, spread out from Caen to Antioch, from Thorn to Ajaccio, did not know exactly where the voice came from or who owned it. Not even Hans, the oldest of them, knew, for by the time he was old enough to have a memory the owner of the voice had already had a falling-out with his father. Those people that knew people that knew the owner, those that still had a second-degree connection, those that had heard firsthand accounts of the owner, knew where it came from and shuddered, for even in death the voice possessed all of the emotion and force that it did in life, and it was clear to all that the voice was displeased, to say the least.

The scream echoed throughout the world, the very past of the Holy Roman Empire screaming in pain and agony, screaming at the fate that was befalling his precious city, his precious Reich. It was to be a sign of things to come.