Tweet
Well, nuts, if we're doing stories here, then I'll bite. Here's one for you from a recent Ottoman game of mine.
****************************************
The Grand Ottoman Republic had not known war in hundreds of years, and yet now, the great scourge had come to bear solely upon him. Soon, the Spanish tide would reach the slopes of Mount Nabil itself, for he knew his fief across the sea could not stand. All that was left to him was to wait, and await the exile that he knew would not end in his lifetime.
The emir Rashan ibn Murad, the lord of Kirklareli and Nabil, stood atop the Sapphire Tower, the great citadel amidst the once teeming streets and boulevards of Kirklareli. The emir had made his fortune in the battles against the barbarians in the northern reaches of Urfala, the last land of the Ottoman continent to be civilized. Then, muskets had been a thing of the southlands, mere trinkets in the hands of the guards of the courtiers to showcase their great wealth. In the battles that finally wrested Urfala from the raiders of the frozen north, his men had fought with swords and maces and clashed in honorable warfare against enemies that they had never before met, but knew. In single combat, you knew men even without their names, he thought. You know them by their face, their stance, the words they speak or the silence they keep as they move swiftly back and forth, and then in to draw blood where they can. Now, he was more than a simple captain, and he longed for the days when he fought something other than a nameless horde.
Not nameless, perhaps; Spanish. In the years of the late Sultan Osman IX, the empire had taken on a great expansion over the seas and across the Urfan isthmus. The pride of that expansion was beneath him, Kirklareli, the Gem of the western jungles, across the sea from Istanbul and the home of his people. Finding only the backwards Celts in this land, the Sultan directed an expedition to settle on the western tip of the great western continent, in a harbor under the shadow of the lone mountain, Nabil. The land was wet and thick with jungle, but rich in wealth, as it provided the entire empire with the rare jewels so craved by the Sultan and his court. It was for this reason he stood atop a Citadel named for the sapphire, and wore a circlet ringed with glittering diamonds. Kirklareli was his gem, the land across the sea that had become his home. To the north, though, were the Spanish, neither backwards nor weak, who had made a name for themselves across the known world with their vicious and ambitious works of conquest in the islands west of Urfala. When the city was founded, the Spanish had merely been a rival. Now they were enemies. The Queen Isabella’s greed for the wealth of the City of Jewels had led her conquistadores here, followed by her mail-clad legions of peasant infantry and steady columns of knights.
The city in ascendance had been glorious; the city in decay was merely shameful. For a year now, the knights and heavily armored infantry had broken their teeth against the jungle strongholds outside Kirklareli, and now they rushed in hordes out of the jungles’ edge to smash against the ramparts of the city itself. Many of the people had fled when the fortress ring had begun to fall, and now only a few thousand remained who were unable to flee. The Celts to the west had closed their borders to refugees, and those that tried to make the journey through the jungles to Lindum died of disease or were cut down by Spanish cavalry that drew each day tighter about Kirklareli. The city was still large, but it was empty, whole markets and quarters deserted. The lonely neighborhoods showed the signs of the surrounding battle: crushed houses dotted the view, struck by catapult-stones, and many houses along the streets had been pulled down into rubble barricades to stop the onslaught that would come when the city was broken by the Spanish. And the emir knew it would come.
...
****************************************
The Grand Ottoman Republic had not known war in hundreds of years, and yet now, the great scourge had come to bear solely upon him. Soon, the Spanish tide would reach the slopes of Mount Nabil itself, for he knew his fief across the sea could not stand. All that was left to him was to wait, and await the exile that he knew would not end in his lifetime.
The emir Rashan ibn Murad, the lord of Kirklareli and Nabil, stood atop the Sapphire Tower, the great citadel amidst the once teeming streets and boulevards of Kirklareli. The emir had made his fortune in the battles against the barbarians in the northern reaches of Urfala, the last land of the Ottoman continent to be civilized. Then, muskets had been a thing of the southlands, mere trinkets in the hands of the guards of the courtiers to showcase their great wealth. In the battles that finally wrested Urfala from the raiders of the frozen north, his men had fought with swords and maces and clashed in honorable warfare against enemies that they had never before met, but knew. In single combat, you knew men even without their names, he thought. You know them by their face, their stance, the words they speak or the silence they keep as they move swiftly back and forth, and then in to draw blood where they can. Now, he was more than a simple captain, and he longed for the days when he fought something other than a nameless horde.
Not nameless, perhaps; Spanish. In the years of the late Sultan Osman IX, the empire had taken on a great expansion over the seas and across the Urfan isthmus. The pride of that expansion was beneath him, Kirklareli, the Gem of the western jungles, across the sea from Istanbul and the home of his people. Finding only the backwards Celts in this land, the Sultan directed an expedition to settle on the western tip of the great western continent, in a harbor under the shadow of the lone mountain, Nabil. The land was wet and thick with jungle, but rich in wealth, as it provided the entire empire with the rare jewels so craved by the Sultan and his court. It was for this reason he stood atop a Citadel named for the sapphire, and wore a circlet ringed with glittering diamonds. Kirklareli was his gem, the land across the sea that had become his home. To the north, though, were the Spanish, neither backwards nor weak, who had made a name for themselves across the known world with their vicious and ambitious works of conquest in the islands west of Urfala. When the city was founded, the Spanish had merely been a rival. Now they were enemies. The Queen Isabella’s greed for the wealth of the City of Jewels had led her conquistadores here, followed by her mail-clad legions of peasant infantry and steady columns of knights.
The city in ascendance had been glorious; the city in decay was merely shameful. For a year now, the knights and heavily armored infantry had broken their teeth against the jungle strongholds outside Kirklareli, and now they rushed in hordes out of the jungles’ edge to smash against the ramparts of the city itself. Many of the people had fled when the fortress ring had begun to fall, and now only a few thousand remained who were unable to flee. The Celts to the west had closed their borders to refugees, and those that tried to make the journey through the jungles to Lindum died of disease or were cut down by Spanish cavalry that drew each day tighter about Kirklareli. The city was still large, but it was empty, whole markets and quarters deserted. The lonely neighborhoods showed the signs of the surrounding battle: crushed houses dotted the view, struck by catapult-stones, and many houses along the streets had been pulled down into rubble barricades to stop the onslaught that would come when the city was broken by the Spanish. And the emir knew it would come.
...
Comment