[EOD AAR] A sorta-AAR

[Personified Boredom]

I'm posting this here under advice of others, so hopefully, more people read. More importantly, I hope more will criticize and help out. This is based on a general's life from youth to death in the End of Days mod.

PREFACE: This story spun itself during one of my campaigns. In fact, the first glimpses of it came during the space from one turn to the next. It's impetus occurred during a End Turn in which an army of mine, with a respected general [Command 5+Influence 5] was struck down in an ambush by a Satanic scouting party. In a freak coincidence, his wife had a "Tragic Death" during this same End Turn. This general, Ariovistus, was my favorite General. All my other generals, aside from the aged King, were a lecherous, greedy, slothful lot, no more suited to my armies than those of the Antichristos. He was good, noble, pious, courageous. His wife was a good wife [The high standing wife trait or whatnot, to be more precise]. They had a boy of but seven years when fate took them away, who would grow to become my greatest general in just about any version of Rome I'd yet played. In that particular campaign, he died of old age just a little while ago. I've rarely found myself even semi-attached to my generals in Rome, but the particular circumstances of this one reached out to me. So befitting of a king and a hero, a series of little stories if you'll let me.

Note- I played around with most of the Germanic names to make them sound less Latin.
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I am the seed of the noblest blood, or so I was told. Told so, and constantly reminded never to forget it. The times we live in however, when it seems as if the nigh unburdened hand of evil might stay the hand of the Christ; it is so very easy to forget this, and to lose your self in the fetid debauchery that this world is so rank with. I cannot forget my hatreds, my unearthly rages, despite the gentle voice of the Christ urging me to do so.

God Knows, perhaps on my dying day I shall find some peace. He however, forgot to tell me.

My life has never been truly happy or peaceful. Not since before the days of my seventh anniversary of life. Those days, burdened not by knowledge of the quagmire my life would become, were said to be joyous. I don't remember anymore, but I can only surmise this was the last time I was happy.


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Things changed however, in the winter of 701 in the Year of our Lord. My father, a man I was told was good beyond human perception [rest his wearied soul], was taken to the horse with both my mother, known as Ethelena, and my young self. His retinue traveled with him, boyhood friends, my uncles, trusted warriors, mighty men. That was all. Our small party was headed west to Frannkawethaz [the Latins call it Francofort, or Frankfurt], where my mother and I were to stay. The king, old Gelemar, had made council there to gather a great host.

The Satanae, the whoreson hordes of dark men, whipped by the Dux of Lucifer himself, had burned their way north from old Konstantinopel. Even now, that city is a city of fire, no longer of this earth. Gehenna it is called now, for it is a very outpost of Hel itself. The Sataanahattoz were beginning to mass to the south of our borders, and word had trickled in of sightings of the dark Legions foraging and sightseeing almost ten leagues inland.

That however, did not deter my father. He believed it was still safe enough to make this last journey west before the roads would close or be lost. I was later told, that this was one of the few times his judgment erred.
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We were making our way through the southern reaches of the Swharzwald. We had to make to preform some impromptu trailblazing, leaving the ruddy dirt road at times to force our way through those thick, dark woods. I remember the crunch of the leaves underfoot, a layer perhaps a foot thick, eons of unhindered decay. the needles would prick through my boots whenever my mother allowed me to walk alongside the horses, a sharp little pinpoint of pain that never numbed your foot; it always hurt.

The sky that day was gray, and a thin veil of snow lay atop everything. I recall the companions of my father slowly growing more nervous as we trekked on, as my father wouldn't allow them to properly cover our tracks. They were so shifty, always looking around, their eyes alert, and very nervous. I remember that even a twinge of uneasiness was about my father. My mother, who knew little of such things of forestry, even she could feel the wariness of the men, imparting her sense of motherly protectiveness to let me stray no more than a few paces from. Eventually, she just picked me up and plopped me on her horse.

Despite the cold, I remember she was so very warm. In her arms, no fear could grasp my heart, no worry would touch my mind. A wall of love to shield me from the the evil that was thick in the air.

If I had known better at the time, one could say that the tension in the air was so thick you could cut it with a knife and serve it on toast. And it did little but mount as the journey ground on. We meandered through the woods, never moving in a straight line to avoid any happen chance of detection by the odd scouting party.

Twelve days out however, God, in His almighty wisdom, was distracted by something on the far side of the universe. As He was quietly studying some distant start, my quiet, loving childhood was cracked asunder.

My memory is hazy here, so please, forgive an old fool for letting his mind regress. Perhaps it's not so much a haze of forgetfulness, rather an instilled blank, put in placed by frightened child. A boy who is still frightened.

We had returned to the road, as we were only six leagues from Frannkawethaz, a massive storm had blown in from the north, with heavy snow and a bitingly cold wind. That wind chilled and burned right down to the very marrow of my bones.

The images come at random, a jumble.

Dense trees, veiled by the swirling blizzard.

A great cry, many scores of voices shouting despicable things into the howling wind.

Great black arrows, some alight, whipped through the air; they made a buzzing sound. I discovered later the peculiar buzzing came from the poor fletching on the arrows.

Screams, rearing horses. I can see a man some paces ahead of me falling limp, a small and wicked axe suddenly embedded in his skull. A great cloud of red puffed out of his head, to be lost in the swirling winds.

Hundreds of men came swarming out of the trees; shouting jumping, swing axes and holding spears high above their heads. The trees were barely forty paces off from the road on both sides, leaving no room for my father and my men to prepare, or even run.

My Father. God, above all I can see in my mind the fear. Not for himself however. He looked straight at me. Even at the front of the column, through the whirling storm, I could see him. Our eyes meet- mine, a frightened boys, confused, scared; his gaze betraying his fear for my life. A knowledge that the situation was lost for himself and my mother, a silent prayer, they begged forgiveness from a boy who did not know what to forgive.

Moments lost however, and then they were on him, like a horde of rats upon a dying bear. A mighty bear however, for he slew no less than six (if my mind serves right) in that minute alone. I remember seeing a sideswipe by that great longsword of his wholly disembowel one of the bastards, his intestines bubbling out from that wretched gash.

Then his horse was dragged down. The last I saw of my father was him tumbling from the saddle.

I have always remembered better and with far more pride, the bellow of utter defiance that he unloosed. With that mighty war cry, I think fondly today that it was that howl of anguish; anger; and oddly, love, that summoned Gods' eyes back to our family.

And then, evil faces were about us, my mother and I. Scarred, torn, so much evil in their eyes it was as if they didn't need the cruel weapons they bore to bear ill upon another man.

Hell itself was present in the eyes of those men.

My mother whirled her horse about, seeking a passage to escape through the enclosing ring of beasts, but found none. She did however, see Anasztáz.

Anasztáz was a member of my father's retinue. He came from a far off land, past the far mountains that border the great steppe of the east. He was a Magyar, of the Magyarok, whom he said his people called himself. A hawk-eyed, fierce man, with raven hair and a nose that had been broken no less than six times. The finest horseman I have ever known.

It was he who saved my life, it is through him I am still here to write my tale. My mother saw him as he guided his horse with un-earthly grace through the fluctuating paths that opened and closed in the surging mass of men to us. Weaving carefully but precisely, and at full gallop, all the way, ducking spear thrusts, axe swings, and buzzing arrows, he came to us.

I remember my mother, in our last instants together, clutching me close, kissing me on the top of my head, and whispering [even through the din], "How I love you, child, how I will always love you."

Anasztáz was close by then, close enough for my mother to save me the only way she could.

She threw me.

With all her might, even as the axes of the dark men descended upon us. She hurled me a full ten paces. Perhaps, one [un]lucky grasp, one coincidentally placed spear point or axe head, and I would no longer be alive.

Despite the horror and unholiness I have since been forced to bear in my life, I still thank God my mother had the courage to do that.

Anasztáz caught me, but only barely. He snagged me by an arm, in the process, breaking it. I was dragged along the ground for but a second, during which, I looked up to see my mother die. I want to forget, but a I cannot.

So many spears and black axes... curse my wretched soul!

Before I could be properly pulled up onto the horse, my head struck a rock, and the world went mercifully black.

That was the last of my mother I saw, and indeed, the last of my family. My mother had no brothers, and no sisters. My father's brothers were all there, serving as his companions, doomed to die, lain low with their beloved brother and sister-in-law.

I miss them more than you could ever know.

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This is the first bit. I wrote more.

Before you see that however, I would like to know what you thought of this. This is mostly free-written, with little structure to it. It's the base on which the rest of the story was written.

Criticise, please. I have little else to do [unemployed], so why not polish some rough edges on the writers block?

If you think its worthy enough, tell me an' I'll put up the rest, in serial style. If not, feel free to say so. Please.

[Aldgarkalaughskel]

Welcome here, Personified Boredom!

You made the right choice to fire up your AAR thread here.

The writing is very good... almost lyrical. A few pictures would be a nice addition, as not many readers know the EOD mod or are they aware of the fact that it is a fantasy mod.
For screenshot captruring use FRAPS, for picture upload use Photobucket.

Eagerly awaiting for the next update!

[Benz282]

EoD = love

That's basically all that needs to be said here about EoD

Good choice in posting it here, but you really should share the rest of it.