I. Themed AAR Competition - Nominations - compatible with the monthly competition - deadline: September 30

[Aldgarkalaughskel]

Nominate AARs in this thread for the first (official) Themed AAR Competition on TWC!

(Note: this is a different competition from the monthly (regular) AAR competitons, but you can submit an AAR to both competitions!)

The theme is: A LOST CAUSE. (The theme idea was decided collectively here. Idea owner is Confederate Jeb.)

It could mean anything from a defending your territory when all hope is lost, and your cause has been utterly destroyed, to showing your enemy they support a lost cause.
I don't know, it's up to them isn't it? I'm not very specific, I know.

So basically it's up to you how will you carry out this theme, but the storyline must somehow fit the idea of "A Lost Cause".

In your nomination post please try to stick to the formula of the following example:

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

From the Seven Hills - A Rome AAR
Mod: Roma Surrectum
Faction: Rome
Difficulty: VH/VH

Description: This is a role-playing AAR starting in 480 AUC. It is told as a series of dialogues between generals. Image-heavy, etc.

Author's comments (or submitter's commments) (optional): This is my first AAR, etc.

Teaser (optional; a short excerpt in a spoiler with max. 3 big pictures (screenshots). If you're not familiar with spoiler tags, click here for help.)

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

I am Tiberius Maxentius, ruler of Rome, Roman arms shall conquer the world!

I am Aulus Maxentius, son of Tiberius, and unfortunate enough to look a lot like him...

I heard that, I may not be pretty, but who destroyed Pyrrhus' army? Who paved the way for the eventual conquest of Epiros by Macedon? Me, that's who. Have a look at the kingdom I have carved out for us:

This is a bi-monthly competition, so nomination deadline is September 30.

Eligibility: The nominated AAR must have at least 4 updates in the bi-monthly nomination period (August+September). There are no restrictions for an update, however it should be at least a few paragraphs.

The nominated AAR can be M2TW or RTW, it doesn't matter.

Awards: after the submission period, a vote will be held. After the vote, points will be awarded as follows;
6 points for the winner
3 points for the runner-up
2 point for the third one

If you have questions, ask them here.

[molls]

"A Lost Cause"

Mod: M2TW Vanilla
Faction: England
Difficulty: H/M for roleplaying

Description: This is one of the few AARs in Comic style. It tells of an English Royal Family, who is fed up with the normal Grand Campaigns in M2TW and wants to start a mad journey around the whole world, just to create a campaign that is worth being remembered...
Full of madness - humour - and finally epicly dramatic.

Comments: This is a funny attempt on an AAR. The whole thing should go under the theme of " A Lost Cause" . For more infos read the 1. post.
And yes, it has 4 parts, and yes, it is COMPLETED.

Teaser:

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

By molls

[Theodotos I]

"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"

Mod: Europa Barbarorum
Faction: Aedui
Difficulty: M/M

Description: A young warrior's narrative of his struggles during the Aeduan migration to Ireland in 272 B.C. A text-heavy AAR which focuses on the bloody power struggles for control of the kingdom.

Author's comments: This is my first AAR, and I've really enjoyed it far more than I ever thought I would. Young Cadwalador has grown on me over time, and this story has turned out far different than I ever dreamed. A lost cause, to be sure. . .

Teaser:

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Chapter XXXVII: Return


We stripped the dead of their weapons and provisions and then moved quickly south, continuing toward Ictis on roads that were considerably the worse for the heavy rains we had received.
And with each mile traveled, I found my sleep to be more troubled. I had dreamed of Inyae in years, but with the reappearance of the Botroas I found myself thinking more of the old days. Cavarillos. I was surprised to find how much hatred still lurked inside my spirit for my old friend, for the friendship he had betrayed.
I hungered for a meeting with him.

Arriving at Ictis, we quickly encamped around the oppida, cutting it off from all outside aid. Years of war with the Casse had taken their toll upon the standing forces of the Dumnones, and according to the intelligence of Galligos moc Nammeios, they could muster less than four hundred warriors in all of Ictis.
I prayed he was right.
We besieged Ictis for a year and a half, hoping to starve the defenders into submission. Tancogeistla looked worse with each passing day, old wounds taking their toll upon his aged body. Motios, the druid, did his best to attend to his master, but there were things even beyond his power.
And Tancogeistla would not rest. Ictis was his obsession, and each day he rode out before the palisade to taunt the defenders with their impotence, to taunt those who had humiliated him so many years before. He had returned. . .

And then, one day early in the month of Equos, a rider came pounding into the camp from the north, bearing word for Tancogeistla. Though his message was for the general only, we could see by the way he carried himself, the urgency of his steps, that the news he carried was anything but good.
An hour later, I was summoned to Tancogeistla’s tent. A council of war had been called.
The general looked haggard, old even beyond his years. Aneirin moc Cunobelin stood at his side, surrounded by several of the highest-ranking nobles of the Aedui. I had a sense that all of them were waiting.
“My trusted friends,” Tancogeistla began, coughing violently. He covered his mouth with his hand and when it came away, I saw that it was flecked with blood. He cleared his throat and started again. “This will be brief. I have just received word from Yns-Mon.”
A murmur ran through the nobles.
“The garrison there has betrayed us. Three weeks ago, an emissary from the Casse approached, conferring with Captain Piso. And for a price, Piso agreed to turn over the oppida to our enemies.”
“What he had so nobly defended from Casse swords, he turned over readily enough for a sum of Casse gold,” Tancogeistla hissed, his lip curling upward in a sneer of disgust.
“The town and surrounding countryside belong to our enemies. Apparently most of the garrison went along with Piso’s betrayal. Those that did not were slain.”
I saw the shock in Aneirin’s eyes. He had spent long hours with Piso, talking with the sub-chieftain about the defense of the oppida, the heroic battle fought there. Clearly he struggled to credit the news.
“Do we march north, then?” One of the nobles asked, laying a hand upon his sword’s hilt.
“No!” Tancogeistla cried furiously, slamming his fist into the wood of the rude wooden table in front of him. “We will carry our revenge to the Dumnones first. Then we deal with the traitors. Drustan and his warbands think themselves proud that they humbled an Aeduan army seventeen years ago. They must be taught a lesson. They must die.”
He looked across the table into my eyes, his fierce, charismatic gaze seeming to hold me in its spell. “We will prepare for an assault. Cadwalador, you will ride with my son.”
“Yes, my lord.”


Months earlier, two mighty battering rams had been prepared, and now men formed around them, preparing to push them against the kran of the Dumnones.

According to the plan Tancogeistla had outlined during the council of war, he was to lead the assault, at the head of over fifty Brihentin, the flower of the Aeduan nobility. Following him through the gate would be the Ordmalica of Lugort, and the Eiras, the nobles of Emain-Macha. The rest of the army would follow.
Aneirin seemed nervous as we mounted for the battle, and I noticed his gaze constantly flickered to the other contingent of Brihentin, his father’s bodyguard.
“What is wrong?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “My father—he has. . .” his voice drifted off as though he hesitated to continue.
“He has been coughing up blood?” I asked.
He glanced over at me sharply. “How did you know?”
“I have seen it. How long?”
“Weeks. Ictis possesses him. He is not fit to lead this assault.”
I shook my head. “He will lead the assault. He can do no other. And we must succeed. I was with your father the last time we came before these walls. And we were defeated. He will not survive another defeat here.”
And so we rode slowly forward, approaching the kran and the starving men who stood behind it, ready to defend their homes to the death. And scenes from the past came flashing back through my mind.
Cavarillos and I standing side by side, waiting for the Dumnone army to crash down upon us. The frenzied melee that followed, the men I had killed. Cavarillos had saved my life that day. If it had not been for him, I would never have lived to see another sunrise. Yet, for the friendship we knew, Ictis was the beginning of the end. An end that had been as violent and bloody as battle itself. Only it wasn’t over yet.

The rams moved forward, and in the distance we could hear their steady, rhythmic pounding, battering at the palisade surrounding Ictis. A death knell.
Lugort’s men smashed open the gate and we could see Tancogeistla’s Brihentin pouring through the breach to fall upon the levies on the other side.
I could see Aneirin was restless. But our time was not yet come.
The Eiras moved forward, through the breach on the right side of the gate, following upon the Dumnones from the flank. They began to pull back from the gate and I nodded to Aneirin. It was time to move.
As one our horsemen moved forward, in column, a signal for the rest of the army to follow.
We reached the gate and poured through it. The Lugoae of the Dumnones had pulled back a short distance and were now putting up a stiff fight. But Tancogeistla was nowhere to be seen.
Of a sudden, Aneirin cried out and clutched at my arm, pointing. I glanced up at the hill in the center of Ictis, and I could dimly descry the Brihentin of Tancogeistla on the crest of the hill, engaged in vicious melee with Drustan’s chariots. I knew what had happened. In his lust for revenge, Tancogeistla had singled out the enemy chieftain, intent on killing him with his own hand.

Our column swung forward, moving up the hill at a gallop. The fight on the rise continued, chieftain against chieftain, bodyguard against bodyguard. And silhouetted against the sky I could see the form of Tancogeistla, his blood-wet sword brandished high toward.
But his companions were dying, one by one, crushed ‘neath the chariots of Drustan. The fate of Malac, come once again.
Kuroas. Champion. Neamha. Berserker. Tancogeistla was all these things, and never more so than on this bright day, slashing furiously at the enemies which surrounded him, slaying Dumnone charioteers by the dozen. None of his bodyguards could equal him, and they died because of it, killed by better warriors than themselves.

Then he was alone, yet the enemy chieftain dared not to close with his sword-arm. Instead, Drustan pulled back to the center of the town, where nigh a hundred warriors waited, the reserve of the Dumnone warbands.
And Tancogeistla followed, riding into their midst, scattering them left and right. Cernunnos reincarnate. It was as though he had a death wish. Perhaps he did.
Saddened by the perfidy of Piso and the garrison of Yns-Mon, obsessed with the killing of his old adversary, Drustan, he rode direct into the midst of the mob, his armor washed in the blood of his enemies, his sword dripping red. Calling out taunts at the cowardice of the Dumnone chieftain, he struck down his enemies like a man possessed.
Our horses blown from the gallop up the hill, we could do nothing. We were too far away. The Eiras surged up the knoll behind us, driving the enemy Lugoae before them like cattle. Yet it was all too late. Far too late.
The lone horseman emerged from the ranks of the Dumnones, cutting a path with his sword, then the mob swallowed him up again. A fierce cry rang out across the hill, over the sound of battle. And then he disappeared, overcome.

I could scarcely believe my own eyes, a lump rising in my throat that threatened to choke me. I heard the sound of sobbing from someplace beside me, and turned to find tears running the cheeks of Aneirin moc Cunobelin. Tears of grief—and rage. Word of Tancogeistla’s death spread through the army like a fire and as one man we surged forward, up the hill, heedless of danger. Avengers.
Horsemen fell around Aneirin and I as we galloped forward, slamming into the last chariots of Drustan. Two of them fell beneath the ferocity of our charge. Then we were face to face with Drustan. The screams of dying men surrounded us as the Eiras and Ordmalica charged onto the square, slamming into the warbands of the Dumnones, but it was all distant, far-off. All that mattered was Drustan. I rode beside his chariot, careful to avoid the wheels, my eyes focused on his face.
My first javelin missed the chieftain, lancing into the shoulder of his bodyguard. The wounded man let out a cry, toppling from the chariot. A moment later, the wheels rolled over him, breaking his bones with a sickening crunch.
Aneirin’s form materialized out of the whirling melee, his mount’s coat flecked with blood. “Leave him to me, Cadwalador!” he screamed, his voice full of rage as he rode straight at the Dumnone chieftain, intent only on taking his revenge.
I saw a smile cross Drustan’s face as he saw the inexperienced heir ride to the side of his chariot, a sword in his hand.
Aneirin was going to die. I could see that from the moment their swords crossed. His rage was not commensurate with his skill, and he would die because of it.
I stabbed my second javelin into the flank of one of Drustan’s horses, causing him to rear and paw at the air with his hooves, straining at the harness. The charioteer glanced at me and I saw the fear in his eyes as he struggled to restrain the horses. Fear replaced a moment later by the agony of death as the javelin pierced his throat.
Freed of restraint, the horses bounded forward, the sudden uncontrolled motion catching Drustan off balance.
With a scream, he fell backward, off the chariot, his body disappearing beneath the heaving mass of horses and men. To his death.
Our men let out a frenzied cheer at the sight of his death, hacking into the enemy warband of Botroas with renewed fury. Within the hour, every last Dumnone warrior lay dead. Ictis was ours. But at what cost. . .
We found Tancogeistla after pulling several enemy corpses away from his body. His flesh was scored with countless wounds, his long white hair stained crimson, his armor and garments soaked in blood. Yet the breath was still in him.
At the sound of Aneirin’s voice, his eyes flickered open for a brief moment. “Aneirin, my son,” he whispered, his voice a fragile shell of the eloquence we had so long known of him.
I glanced over at Aneirin, motioning him to come to the side of Tancogeistla. The young heir came and knelt down at his adoptive father’s side. “My father,” he gasped out, the tears flowing freely as he removed his battle-scarred helmet. “I—”
Tancogeistla lifted one feeble hand to stay his words, before it collapsed weakly to his side. “Tell me, my son. How goes the day?”
“Victory belongs to us, father. Ictis is in our hands.”
“And Drustan?” the dying Vergobret asked, a strange fire flickering in his eyes.
“He is dead, my father. As all those who lift their swords against thee.”
“It is enough,” Tancogeistla breathed slowly, those charismatic eyes closing for the last time. “It is enough. . .”

I turned away to hide my own tears, unable to comprehend my emotions. Tancogeistla was dead. The strange, crafty old general whose banner I had followed for all of my adult life. The man I had defended with my life and yet stood against at Attuaca.
I can write no fitting eulogy for his death. I am a man of the forge and the spear, not the pen. I know not how to take the sum of his life. Therefore, these are the words of Motios, the old druid. His lamentation over Tancogeistla.
Tell it not in Caern-Brigantae, whisper it not in the streets of Camulosadae, lest the daughters of our enemies triumph, lest they take joy in our sorrow. For the pride of the Aedui wast slain in the high places, the mighty are fallen in battle. Valiant was he in his youth, and in his age, bravery did not depart from him. Neamha was his name and as his name, so were his deeds. From the blood of the slain, from the fat of the mighty, his sword returned not empty to its scabbard. Yea, even the sword of Tancogeistla.
He scattered his enemies with his voice and they fled, as the sheep in the highlands. They came against him in a host, and he laughed. Three score of the enemy were as nothing unto him. They came and he slew them, leaving their bodies in the field.
Cursed be thou, Ictis, and the people thereof. For on thy oppida was he slain, on thy heights was his life taken. The sword of the mighty is vilely cast away, it lieth in the dust of the streets, as though it ran not red in the blood of his enemies.
Dieth Tancogeistla as a brave man dieth? Nay, not as a brave man, but as a kuroas falleth, so fellest he. Weep, ye daughters of the Aedui, yea, weep ye for the mighty art fallen. . .
Thus endeth the reign of Tancogeistla. . .