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ok, this is my first ever fan fic! it's not done yet, but here are the first two parts. it's about culture in civ and is also kind of a love story since no one ever writes those. 
i'm sorry if this is a little girly for you big tough macho men! 
i'm not big on military terms, so i'm trying to write what i know. finally, i probably have some inconsistencies in here with the game. i'd be more than happy to have them pointed out so i can correct them, or any other errors. comments or criticism would REALLY be appreciated since this is my first story. thanks, and enjoy! (i really hope this doesn't suck.)
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Amy's Story, Part 1
Her horse galloping through the night, Amy's long, blonde hair streamed behind her like a banner of gold. She turned her head to look behind her and promptly caught a mouthful of hair. "Mmmmppph," she said. Impatiently, she turned back around and tied her hair in place with a leather thong. Finally she was able to look back at the small town of Seattle fading in the distance. No one was following. She sighed in relief and slowed her horse down a bit, not wanting to waste his strength. The journey would take at least another hour.
She rode across great expanses of farmland, into the hills of the west where the mines were. She shuddered as she passed them, wondering what monsters might be lurking in their cold depths. Finally she spotted the edge of the forest up ahead. She pulled on the reins, and Washington stopped obediently. She dismounted and patted his neck, feeding him a carrot pulled from her rucksack. The moonlight shone upon them, but Amy wasn't afraid of being spotted. This far away there was nothing to fear except shadows and wild animals. She checked to make sure the short broadsword was still securely wrapped in the spare saddle blanket and tied tightly to her saddle. It was. She had never actually drawn it from its sheath, as swords were forbidden to all women, but she felt safer knowing it was there.
It suddenly occurred to her how pointless it was to bother carrying a sword if she couldn't even draw it in time to defend herself in an emergency. Slowly she untied the parcel and, laying it on the grass, unwrapped it. She grasped the hilt, and stopped, waging an inner war with her conscience. A lifetime of "women aren't allowed to do that" had conditioned her thoughts quite well. As she stood there debating, a twig snapped behind her and she had no choice.
She unsheathed the sword and, trying to speak in a commanding tone but finding she had no voice, whispered "Who goes there?" She peered into the darkness of the forest, gripping the hilt of the sword in trembling hands. A dark shape appeared and an accented voice sounded. "Why, mademoiselle, eet eez only me!"
Pierre stepped out of the darkness and the moonlight washed across his handsome face. Amy flashed a brilliant smile at him as she resheathed the sword and laid it on the blanket. Then she stood and they went to each other, embracing passionately. "Ah, my sweet Eh-mee," he whispered. "How beautiful you are."
Amy didn't consider herself beautiful, but she knew that she was able to attract men. She had many suitors, any one of whom would have been more than happy to do anything to win her favor. And at 16, she was well due to marry, a fact that her mother reminded her of every day. "You're getting no younger! At your age I already had one child and was pregnant with my second! Blah blah blah..." But it was unthinkable that her father would in a thousand years give his blessing to a man of France. Or any man other than an American man. No American woman had ever been wedded to a non-American man. Amy sighed.
"Eh-mee? What is the matter?"
"Nothing, really." She smiled up at him. "Right now, everything is perfect." She reached her hand around his neck and brought his head down to her level, her warm, full lips touching his in an exquisite kiss.
The sword cast aside, they sank down onto the saddle blanket together.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Amy's Story, Part 2
Amy wiped the sweat off her brow with the sleeve of her dirty dress and looked despairingly at her hands. They were raw, blistered with the hard work of beating the tough leather into foot-like shapes. Being the daughter of a cobbler wasn't fun. And now, with King Abraham the Bearded up in arms against the Greeks, her workload was almost unbearable. All day long she helped the rest of her family to make boots for the soldiers. Hundreds and hundreds of big, clunky, sturdy boots. Ugly boots. Hateful boots.
All the people of America were doing nothing but making weapons and armor for the soldiers. The people worked like slaves throughout the long days, and sometimes into the night. King Abe had promised the people of Seattle a temple long ago, but they'd gotten a barracks instead. Now the knights and swordsmen filled the streets, the smell of their sweat clogging the air. Although they were generally well-behaved, they still crowded the taverns and ate more than their fair share of the crops the farmers slaved over each day. And the poor farmers couldn't even enjoy happy hour. Resentment had been building for a long time.
Amy had heard that the war was over land. The King had sent settlers to every available piece of land, but had apparently decided that wasn't good enough. It was always more, more, more. Abraham wasn't content to let his kingdom stay small and happy. No, he just had to have a big sprawling empire spread to all corners of the earth to satisfy his own sick thirst for power, at the expense of his people.
He had discovered Greek settlements to the north and gleefully sent his troops in. King Alexander had sent a messenger to Abraham, requesting that the troops be withdrawn, but King Abe had simply laughed and let the arrows fly. After conquering the settlements in his name, he had immediately ordered the soldiers deeper into Greek territory to lay siege to some of their larger towns. These towns were poorly defended, and the armies of America were strong. After more American victories, a full-fledged extermination process had begun. But as they had advanced closer to Athens, the Greeks had given America a very nasty surprise. A huge army led by a legendary Greek hero had ambushed the American troops, killing them all. As the story went, King Abraham had received a messenger a few days later, delivering a package for the King. Upon finding that the package contained the head of King Abe's most trusted captain, he flew into a rage and ordered the messenger decapitated. The package HE sent back to King Alex contained the head of the messenger, with tongue cut out. The two furious kings had exchanged various mutilated body parts over the past few months, while the citizens of America toiled to produce enough weapons and uniforms for the legions of soldiers that were being trained.
Amy began to beat the leather into shape again, this time more savagely. Her little brother had been drafted into the military one month ago at the tender age of 15. She had only caught glimpses of him since then, drinking with the other soldiers or playing cards on the front porch of the barracks. He looked like he had aged at least five years, his muscles bulging and his eyes cold as steel. Definitely not the same little brother who used to give her noogies and make disgusting faces at her at the dinner table, behind their mother's back. Amy felt a tear slip down her cheek and wiped it away. Why did America have to be at war? Why couldn't they live in France with Pierre?
More tears came as she remembered Pierre's descriptions of glorious France, its many temples and cathedrals and the beautiful hanging gardens of Paris. The coliseums with their games. Fascinated, she had listened as he described the colorful, bustling marketplaces with their many wares, the smell of seasoned meat turning on spits, the sounds of peddler women calling (in French) "Fine Persian silks here! Chinese spices for sale!"
And most painful of all, the vast libraries containing walls of scrolls and books. "Libraries? We have one in the Capitol, and I believe one is being constructed in Philadelphia," Amy had said. Pierre had laughed gently. "Ah, but Eh-mee, we have a library een every city of Fronce." Amy stared at him. "Do you... do you... know how to... read?" Pierre had stared back at her. "But of course! Most certainly I can read! Every French child eez taught to read and write at an early age. I have known how to read and write seence I was a leettle boy."
Amy had dearly wished to be able to read since SHE was a leettle GIRL. She understood that only the priests of the temples and the noblemen were taught, but the idea of recognizing words on a page excited her and made her thirsty for knowledge. She'd had no idea that literacy was commonplace in other parts of the world, and the thought almost broke her heart. That day in the forest with Pierre, she had asked him to write her name. He had done so in the soft dirt beneath a pine tree with a stick. AMY. She had traced the meaningless letters with her finger, whispering her own name. AMY.
Now, in the heat of the day and surrounded with the pungent smell of leather, sweating like a pig, with her hands throbbing, her mother noticed her tears. "Amy, what on Earth is the matter?"
"My... my hands hurt," responded Amy, wiping her tears away, embarrassed at being caught crying. "Oh, Amy," her mother sighed, "I know. But we all have to do our share. And you won't have to do this forever. Why, once you're married to a nice young man, you'll be having babies and you won't have to work then! Young David, the miller's son, now he would make a good husband. And I saw him looking at you the other day..."
Amy let her mother's gossip fade and bent back to her work, daydreaming about sitting in the Hanging Gardens of Paris, wearing a fine gown and reading a thick volume, while Pierre sat next to her tenderly playing with her hair.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
i'm sorry if this is a little girly for you big tough macho men! i'm not big on military terms, so i'm trying to write what i know. finally, i probably have some inconsistencies in here with the game. i'd be more than happy to have them pointed out so i can correct them, or any other errors. comments or criticism would REALLY be appreciated since this is my first story. thanks, and enjoy! (i really hope this doesn't suck.)* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Amy's Story, Part 1
Her horse galloping through the night, Amy's long, blonde hair streamed behind her like a banner of gold. She turned her head to look behind her and promptly caught a mouthful of hair. "Mmmmppph," she said. Impatiently, she turned back around and tied her hair in place with a leather thong. Finally she was able to look back at the small town of Seattle fading in the distance. No one was following. She sighed in relief and slowed her horse down a bit, not wanting to waste his strength. The journey would take at least another hour.
She rode across great expanses of farmland, into the hills of the west where the mines were. She shuddered as she passed them, wondering what monsters might be lurking in their cold depths. Finally she spotted the edge of the forest up ahead. She pulled on the reins, and Washington stopped obediently. She dismounted and patted his neck, feeding him a carrot pulled from her rucksack. The moonlight shone upon them, but Amy wasn't afraid of being spotted. This far away there was nothing to fear except shadows and wild animals. She checked to make sure the short broadsword was still securely wrapped in the spare saddle blanket and tied tightly to her saddle. It was. She had never actually drawn it from its sheath, as swords were forbidden to all women, but she felt safer knowing it was there.
It suddenly occurred to her how pointless it was to bother carrying a sword if she couldn't even draw it in time to defend herself in an emergency. Slowly she untied the parcel and, laying it on the grass, unwrapped it. She grasped the hilt, and stopped, waging an inner war with her conscience. A lifetime of "women aren't allowed to do that" had conditioned her thoughts quite well. As she stood there debating, a twig snapped behind her and she had no choice.
She unsheathed the sword and, trying to speak in a commanding tone but finding she had no voice, whispered "Who goes there?" She peered into the darkness of the forest, gripping the hilt of the sword in trembling hands. A dark shape appeared and an accented voice sounded. "Why, mademoiselle, eet eez only me!"
Pierre stepped out of the darkness and the moonlight washed across his handsome face. Amy flashed a brilliant smile at him as she resheathed the sword and laid it on the blanket. Then she stood and they went to each other, embracing passionately. "Ah, my sweet Eh-mee," he whispered. "How beautiful you are."
Amy didn't consider herself beautiful, but she knew that she was able to attract men. She had many suitors, any one of whom would have been more than happy to do anything to win her favor. And at 16, she was well due to marry, a fact that her mother reminded her of every day. "You're getting no younger! At your age I already had one child and was pregnant with my second! Blah blah blah..." But it was unthinkable that her father would in a thousand years give his blessing to a man of France. Or any man other than an American man. No American woman had ever been wedded to a non-American man. Amy sighed.
"Eh-mee? What is the matter?"
"Nothing, really." She smiled up at him. "Right now, everything is perfect." She reached her hand around his neck and brought his head down to her level, her warm, full lips touching his in an exquisite kiss.
The sword cast aside, they sank down onto the saddle blanket together.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Amy's Story, Part 2
Amy wiped the sweat off her brow with the sleeve of her dirty dress and looked despairingly at her hands. They were raw, blistered with the hard work of beating the tough leather into foot-like shapes. Being the daughter of a cobbler wasn't fun. And now, with King Abraham the Bearded up in arms against the Greeks, her workload was almost unbearable. All day long she helped the rest of her family to make boots for the soldiers. Hundreds and hundreds of big, clunky, sturdy boots. Ugly boots. Hateful boots.
All the people of America were doing nothing but making weapons and armor for the soldiers. The people worked like slaves throughout the long days, and sometimes into the night. King Abe had promised the people of Seattle a temple long ago, but they'd gotten a barracks instead. Now the knights and swordsmen filled the streets, the smell of their sweat clogging the air. Although they were generally well-behaved, they still crowded the taverns and ate more than their fair share of the crops the farmers slaved over each day. And the poor farmers couldn't even enjoy happy hour. Resentment had been building for a long time.
Amy had heard that the war was over land. The King had sent settlers to every available piece of land, but had apparently decided that wasn't good enough. It was always more, more, more. Abraham wasn't content to let his kingdom stay small and happy. No, he just had to have a big sprawling empire spread to all corners of the earth to satisfy his own sick thirst for power, at the expense of his people.
He had discovered Greek settlements to the north and gleefully sent his troops in. King Alexander had sent a messenger to Abraham, requesting that the troops be withdrawn, but King Abe had simply laughed and let the arrows fly. After conquering the settlements in his name, he had immediately ordered the soldiers deeper into Greek territory to lay siege to some of their larger towns. These towns were poorly defended, and the armies of America were strong. After more American victories, a full-fledged extermination process had begun. But as they had advanced closer to Athens, the Greeks had given America a very nasty surprise. A huge army led by a legendary Greek hero had ambushed the American troops, killing them all. As the story went, King Abraham had received a messenger a few days later, delivering a package for the King. Upon finding that the package contained the head of King Abe's most trusted captain, he flew into a rage and ordered the messenger decapitated. The package HE sent back to King Alex contained the head of the messenger, with tongue cut out. The two furious kings had exchanged various mutilated body parts over the past few months, while the citizens of America toiled to produce enough weapons and uniforms for the legions of soldiers that were being trained.
Amy began to beat the leather into shape again, this time more savagely. Her little brother had been drafted into the military one month ago at the tender age of 15. She had only caught glimpses of him since then, drinking with the other soldiers or playing cards on the front porch of the barracks. He looked like he had aged at least five years, his muscles bulging and his eyes cold as steel. Definitely not the same little brother who used to give her noogies and make disgusting faces at her at the dinner table, behind their mother's back. Amy felt a tear slip down her cheek and wiped it away. Why did America have to be at war? Why couldn't they live in France with Pierre?
More tears came as she remembered Pierre's descriptions of glorious France, its many temples and cathedrals and the beautiful hanging gardens of Paris. The coliseums with their games. Fascinated, she had listened as he described the colorful, bustling marketplaces with their many wares, the smell of seasoned meat turning on spits, the sounds of peddler women calling (in French) "Fine Persian silks here! Chinese spices for sale!"
And most painful of all, the vast libraries containing walls of scrolls and books. "Libraries? We have one in the Capitol, and I believe one is being constructed in Philadelphia," Amy had said. Pierre had laughed gently. "Ah, but Eh-mee, we have a library een every city of Fronce." Amy stared at him. "Do you... do you... know how to... read?" Pierre had stared back at her. "But of course! Most certainly I can read! Every French child eez taught to read and write at an early age. I have known how to read and write seence I was a leettle boy."
Amy had dearly wished to be able to read since SHE was a leettle GIRL. She understood that only the priests of the temples and the noblemen were taught, but the idea of recognizing words on a page excited her and made her thirsty for knowledge. She'd had no idea that literacy was commonplace in other parts of the world, and the thought almost broke her heart. That day in the forest with Pierre, she had asked him to write her name. He had done so in the soft dirt beneath a pine tree with a stick. AMY. She had traced the meaningless letters with her finger, whispering her own name. AMY.
Now, in the heat of the day and surrounded with the pungent smell of leather, sweating like a pig, with her hands throbbing, her mother noticed her tears. "Amy, what on Earth is the matter?"
"My... my hands hurt," responded Amy, wiping her tears away, embarrassed at being caught crying. "Oh, Amy," her mother sighed, "I know. But we all have to do our share. And you won't have to do this forever. Why, once you're married to a nice young man, you'll be having babies and you won't have to work then! Young David, the miller's son, now he would make a good husband. And I saw him looking at you the other day..."
Amy let her mother's gossip fade and bent back to her work, daydreaming about sitting in the Hanging Gardens of Paris, wearing a fine gown and reading a thick volume, while Pierre sat next to her tenderly playing with her hair.
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)
they're obviously a monarchy. france is to the west and greece is to the northwest.
).
ok, i'm gonna omit the word "poor" from the description.
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