The Altera Centauri collection has been brought up to date by Darsnan. It comprises every decent scenario he's been able to find anywhere on the web, going back over 20 years.
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Call To Power 2 Cradle 3+ mod in progress: https://apolyton.net/forum/other-games/call-to-power-2/ctp2-creation/9437883-making-cradle-3-fully-compatible-with-the-apolyton-edition
After a very long period of time, I have finally completed the next installment. I really really hope you like it because it took like a month to get around to writing it.
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That night, ship after ship filled to the brim with German troops landed on the French shores from across the sea. The fleets of powerful German frigates quickly defeated the paltry few French vessels at sea that day. The rest of the French navy was at port in the coastal cities. No patrolling ships made it back to port to sound the alarm. And thus the invasion was a complete surprise.
Although a few scattered regiments of French pikemen and Musketeers were stationed at or near the coast, they could only delay the inexorable German advance. Scores of musketmen, supported by cannon, pikemen, and the occasional cavalry regiment, rolled over the unprepared and feeble resistance.
The wave of German troops washed over the countryside and burned everything in its path. Four villages were razed to the ground, and countless mines, farms, and fortifications fell victim to the raging flames. Refugees fleeing for their lives looked back toward the sea and saw great billowing clouds of smoke rising from the glowing inferno. And to this day, the French remember that terrible night as La Nuit Fumeuse – “the Smoky Night.”
The feeble rays of dawn sunlight that pierced the thick haze hovering over the French coast lit only three remaining cities on the occupied coast, surrounded by charred desolation. As the dawn crept over the land, it encountered Jacques and Jean, huddled inside the haystack in a field somewhere near the Reine. That river flowed into the Lake on whose shores lay Paris, as yet untouched by German annihilation.
Jacques stirred as bright sunlight invaded his sleep. At first he was baffled by the itchy hay in which he was encased – he wondered why he was not in his bed at home. Then the memories of the previous night rushed back to him in a wave of despair. Biting back his sorrow, Jacques nudged Jean, raised his head out of the disturbingly wet hay and glanced around.
The first thing he noticed was the unnerving silence. No birdsong or cattle lowing was audible – in fact, the faint rustling of the wind in the trees surrounding the field was the only sound that reached his ears. Jean, looking around as well, whispered cautiously, “Too quiet.”
Jacques agreed. “All the animals – they’re all gone.”
“But why?”
“Didn’t you see the blaze last night? They ran from it. And our people did as well.”
The boys rolled out of the haystack and tried in vain to remove the hay from their garments, although quite a number of maverick strands remained in their hair, giving them a wild appearance. They set off down the road in the direction they hoped led to the farmhouse, hoping for some breakfast from the residents.
They made their way down the dirt road, watchful, but the terrible silence continued for minute after minute. They passed a cornfield and a small orchard, but saw nothing.
Finally, Jean said, “Ah! Up ahead, past the barn – a farmhouse.”
It was a large cottage, gabled in the classic style, and with a quaint chimney rising from the rear. There was no smoke spewing from it, and no dogs meandered around the walk. The dirt road passed by the structure as though it were not there.
The apparent lack of life deterred them. Jacques turned to Jean and shrugged, and was about to suggest that they pass it by when suddenly a harsh German bark pierced the air.
“Stoppen Sie, Französische!”
Jacques’ head whipped around and spotted four Germans rushing at him, muskets leveled, shouted wildly in their grating language. Just our luck, he thought, to run into a patrol.
Jean nudged him and, in a heartbeat, the young men were steps from the farmhouse door. As Jacques reached for the handle, the porch column beside him exploded into splinters. A minor explosion reached his ears from the muskets behind him.
Jean tackled him and they tumbled through the door onto the hard planks inside. Jacques disentangled himself from Jean, turned around toward the house’s darkened interior –
And saw a razor-sharp blade inches from his nose.
His eyes traveled along the edge of the thin sabre, past the handle, to the wielder, and took in his features in a fraction of a second. A young man with thick, wild black hair like Jacques’ own held the sword in a fencer’s en garde stance, the muscles in his sword arm taut. The most remarkable thing about the unlikely assailant was his piercing pale blue eyes.
He questioned the assailants in French with a cold but subtly shaking voice. “Do you favor the Germans?”
Jacques reacted first. “Never! They killed my parents in cold blood, and forced my brother into hiding.”
Jean added, “We could ask the same of you. Your features indicate as much.”
The teenage swordsman lowered his weapon and responded, “My father married a German, but neither he nor I harbor sentiments for such as they. I am alone here, and you must understand I can take no chances. I heard German being shouted outside.”
Jacques’ mind jolted back to the threat as pounding footsteps approached outside. “The Germans! We were coming to your house for food, but we encountered a patrol. They are coming – four men with muskets. Have you arms?”
The blue-eye spun and retrieved two epees (thicker fencing blades) from a shelf behind him. They took them gratefully and just in time.
A ferocious crash resounded from the door as the Germans forced their way in. The first two burst in and leveled their weapons. All three boys dove and rolled in different directions as the muskets went off with a thunderous BOOM!, magnified many times in the confines of the dark farmhouse.
The blue-eye came up at the side of one of their attackers. His sabre flashed faster than the eye could see, and the German screamed in pain and dropped his weapon, blood leaking from his slashed hand. In a fraction of a second, the blue-eye had landed four blows on the German’s head and torso.
Finally the German ducked and lunged at the blue-eye. He nimbly sidestepped, pivoting on his left foot, switched his grip, brought the sword arm around –
the German’s comrade yelled a sharp warning, made a desperate lunge –
The blue-eye drove his deadly blade between the German’s shoulders. His back arched in agony and he collapsed to the floor. The time elapsed from the beginning of blue-eye’s attack to the killing blow was scarcely more than four seconds.
The German’s comrade straightened, pulled his musket into line with the blue-eye’s head; Jacques saw his finger tightening on the trigger, the blue-eye realizing his danger, pulling his blade from the German’s back agonizingly slowly –
too far away to move –
BOOM!
An unintelligible blur of motion engulfed the remaining German – blue-eye stumbled, caught himself, looked down and clutched his chest –
Jacques gasped as the blur resolved into Jean, standing with his foot on top of the German’s musket, and the German lying on the ground fingering the dark bruise on his temple –
Blue-eye’s hand came away clean.
Jean had disarmed the German and struck him to the floor in one fluid motion lasting a fraction of a second. He finished the job with a swift kick to the head, and the German’s body went limp with unconsciousness.
Jacques was standing up when yet another explosion reached his ears. The wall beside Jacques combusted, showering him with smoke and splinters. They had forgotten about the two Germans left outside!
Jacques moved toward the door the blue-eye stepped smoothly around the doorframe. Jacques watched as the blue-eye saw the bayonet on the end of the fourth German’s musket, not yet fired. He brought up his sabre and forced the barrel down and to the side with two stroked of his blade. He caught the German’s desperate punch with his free arm and used the leverage to pull his opponent’s body toward him. At the same time, he punched the German’s firing hand with the hilt of his sword.
The German’s blade-tipped gun clattered to the porch floor, ending the two-second assault.
Jacques marveled at the blue-eye’s lightning speed and efficiency. But his admiration was cut short as the third German, who had fired at Jacques, tackled the blue-eye from behind.
Jean and Jacques each grabbed a leg and pulled the German off the blue-eye’s back. He rose and pulled a combat knife from his bandolier. Jacques was immediately relieved, having assumed that his opponent was removing a pistol.
The Romans had encountered the French a few hundred years previously. In hand-to-hand combat, when their legionary long swords were too cumbersome to use effectively, the Romans relied on short, razor-sharp daggers. Jacques’ swordsmanship tutor had spent a couple of the few lessons Jacques had on sword-dagger combat.
The German attempted a feint at Jacques’ face but switched his grip and brought the dagger back around to Jacques’ side. The boy instantly reacted with a quick parade de foudre, (“lightning parry”), a fast parry near the hilt that kept his sword hand safe from the dagger’s small cutting arc.
Realizing his opponent’s skill, the German switched tactics and charged at Jacques, deflecting his thin blade and aiming a quick left at Jacques’ jaw. Jean, who had been standing ready, caught his arm and stepped over the German’s leg, locking his elbow under the German’s and pulling him off balance. The German fell to the floor but rolled and leapt up again.
Jacques was becoming frustrated and began a furious attack sequence that kept the German’s dagger moving. Finally a blow got through and grazed the German’s side. Jacques took advantage of his opponent’s distracted weapon and spun on his right heel, bringing the epee around to the other side (while keeping his balance perfect; Instructeur Maximilien would have been proud) and running the German through near the shoulder.
Meanwhile, the blue-eye had spun to engage the last German. Like his comrade, he drew a dagger and aimed a lunge at the blue-eye’s chest. Blue-eye easily parried it to the side and whipped the sabre back, extended further, and grazed the German’s sword arm.
With a bellow of pain, the German switched his weapon to the other hand and began a clumsier attack. Blue-eye kept the dagger from his body with the large hand guard on his sabre and aimed counterattacks at the German, keeping him moving. Finally, the German tried a thrust at blue-eye’s midsection, but he met it with his sabre’s hilt and, in a textbook riposte, lunged for the German’s face. He ducked instinctively and blue-eye was expecting it. He brought his knee sharply up into his opponent’s face. Stunned, the German stumbled backward and squinted in bewilderment.
Blue-eye stripped the dagger from his opponent’s hand and stepped up to the German, drawing his blade horizontal, and punched him solidly in the temple with his sword’s thick hilt. He dropped like a stone.
Wiping the sweat from their brows, the three Frenchmen met on the porch, surrounded by their opponent’s prostrate forms. Blue-eye met Jacques’ gaze. “You fight well with the epee. And you,” he said, turning to Jean, “are death on two legs. Seldom have I heard of a Frenchman so comfortable with aikido.”
“There are a few Japanese in Toulouse willing to share their skills,” Jean said with a mirthless smile.
His face growing somber, blue-eye said, “You were in Toulouse?” Turning to Jacques, “And you?”
They nodded.
“My father was in Toulouse. His regiment of Musketeers was stationed on the only frigate in the harbor. The smoke-covered refugees that passed this house told me they saw it burn.”
Jacques replied, his French blurred by a lump in his throat, “Although we escaped from Toulouse, my parents did not. We are trying to reach Paris – the Musketeers need all the help they can. And I hope to avenge their deaths.”
It occurred to Jacques that he did not know the blue-eye’s name. “By the way, I am Jacques and this is my friend Jean – my brother remains with his parents, although I know not where they are. Who are you?”
The blue-eye responded, “I am Christophe, son of Raimond the Musketeer. I too wish to reach Paris to fulfill my father’s wish for my future. Perhaps we could travel together?”
Jacques and Jean replied at once, “Of course! Such a warrior as you would be invaluable for the journey.”
Smiling, Christophe said, “A fencer, an aikido fighter, and a swordsman. On our way to Paris, we three shall make a formidable trio indeed.”
With a chuckle, Jean pronounced, “Oui, les trois pas tout à fait Mousquetaires.”
Cracking idea to bring a third character into the frame, much anticipation of your next installment, cant wait.
A proud member of the "Apolyton Story Writers Guild".There are many great stories at the Civ 3 stories forum, do yourself a favour and visit the forum. Lose yourself in one of many epic tales and be inspired to write yourself, as I was.
Dont get disallusioned mate, its been a while since you updated this and probably means people will have to start again to refresh their memories. Also its been very quite the last couple of days.
Rest assured this an excellent tale and Im sure others will soon say so.
A proud member of the "Apolyton Story Writers Guild".There are many great stories at the Civ 3 stories forum, do yourself a favour and visit the forum. Lose yourself in one of many epic tales and be inspired to write yourself, as I was.
I know it's imtimidatingly long, but I'd really appreciate additional feedback from other people even if you have to go back and read the whole freakin' thing.
Hey just because youve changed your flag doesnt mean you dont have to write
Just remember theres more people reading this than bothering to comment. Its the same for all the stories, dont let this one die.
A proud member of the "Apolyton Story Writers Guild".There are many great stories at the Civ 3 stories forum, do yourself a favour and visit the forum. Lose yourself in one of many epic tales and be inspired to write yourself, as I was.
Yes, please continue the story of les trois pas tout à fait Mousquetaires. It is quite interesting, and I hope you are enjoying writing it as much as we do reading it. Keep it coming
They spent the night holed up in the basement of Christophe’s farmhouse. Their supper was a meager meal of cheese and coarse bread, with what little ale was left in the scullery.
At sundown, Christophe extinguished all the candles in the house’s aboveground floors. He and Jacques barred the door with a large chest of drawers they found in a bedroom. Christophe brought some straw pallets and blankets down to the cellar, and the trio huddled under them against the chill of the approaching night.
Their talk was not as heavy as one would expect. The full weight of their predicament had barely registered as of yet; they did not worry about their future. Their conversation was full of planning for the day to follow, but they mentioned a serious subject only once.
It was long after the last light had faded from the cellar door. Jacques asked a question that had been anchored in the back of his mind. “Christophe… where is your family? Why is the house empty?”
Christophe’s blue eyes dropped to the floor and he said quietly, “They were forced to flee when word of the German attack reached us. You see… my father was a German soldier. He arrived here on a diplomatic mission, but when he met my mother, he decided to resign and settle down in France.”
Christophe looked up and continued slowly. “My father’s commander disagreed. In fact, Raimond was given direct orders to return to Germany immediately – and so my father was forced to desert. He changed his name and hid in my mother’s house until his unit finally left. If my father were to encounter any Germans, he would face grave charges in a military court. The German government tolerates no cowardice within the military – if he were caught, Raimond’s life would be in danger.”
“But you are still here.” Jean’s tone was puzzled.
“My father told me to stay here and hide until he returned. Then we could fight together – then I could be a Musketeer like him before me.
“I cannot hide in this house while my father runs for his life! You have been taken completely off guard; it may be days before any resistance can be mounted. And meanwhile, the Germans advance tirelessly. We must get to Paris. We MUST help the Musketeers, for… for only then will my father be safe.”
Christophe looked at Jacques, and Jacques felt as though his piercing blue eyes saw right through him and focused in on his soul. “And… and only then will your brother be saved, and your parents’ deaths avenged!”
His gaze turned to Jean. “And only then will your parents be safe! Only then can every man, woman, and child in France sleep content in their beds! Only then will we be able to stand together as one nation, all of us with our differences standing in unity, free from tyranny and violence and oppression!
“You know I speak the truth! It is our duty – nay, our obligation – to realize this dream. You know the adage – il qui vit, combat. Yes, indeed, he who lives MUST fight!”
At this, the room fell silent, and the air remained still for a long while. Jacques felt an immense pride within himself; he was full of a warmth and a spirit that one can only feel for one’s own country. He knew it was good.
And yet…
And yet, as he dropped off to sleep, Jacques was not quite sure what it was he felt at the deepest part of his being. It was… it was a confusing thought.
He could only say that… it was as though he had just heard a dog meow.
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To be continued...
Last edited by TheGuitarist; November 24, 2002, 14:47.
I'll give your story a perusal when I have a minute...uh... a few hours. Today I'm gonna cook up a new Christmas special story and when I'm done I'll check out these goods. I hope you will read my new story too.
This is frogface warming up to write a new story.
Here is an interesting scenario to check out. The Vietnam war is cool.
Well, TheGuitarist, I must say that it was well worth the wait. (Which is not to say you will get away with another such break. ) Although this part is a little lacking on action, unlike the previous one, it sets the 'scene' nicely for the next installment, which after such a great introduction by Christophe, absolutely has to include some nasty germans getting their behind beat. (by the way, was Christophe meant to be a fictional counterpart of one Chrisius here? )
The only thing I found a little 'over the board' if you will, was the final couple of sentences about Christophe's speech. Especially the "At this, the room fell silent <...>" one. To my ear, this one would have been appropriate in the scene, where Christophe, having won a battle, becomes the leader of the musketeers, and encourages them all. You know, it seems like there should be great masses of people listening. Well, maybe it's just me any way. The rest is very well-written.
Other than that, you know the drill: Thumbs up, good job, keep the goods coming, etc.
Originally posted by unscratchedfoot
I'm gonna cook up a new Christmas special story
Aha, Scratchy pulls out his trusty pen again (well, maybe he is just cracking his fingers in preparation for a long day's typing exercise). Goody goody, I'm looking forward to another creation of yours. Up to now, all of your stories featured a very original plot, so I can't wait to see what frogface comes up with next.
AT LAST!!! for a minute there I thought it would never happen, Oh ye of little faith did you not know the guitar man would rise up from the darkness that is the block of the writers. Did ye lose sight of that which is the glory of this mans written word. Fear not for he is back and he hath defeated the darkness of that dark place on a very dark day, very dark indeed darker than a very dark thing in a dark place etc etc blah blah blah!
Thanks for returning to this friend, I hope you can now deliver the rest of the story. Very much looking forward to more and glad your block has gone.
A proud member of the "Apolyton Story Writers Guild".There are many great stories at the Civ 3 stories forum, do yourself a favour and visit the forum. Lose yourself in one of many epic tales and be inspired to write yourself, as I was.
And behold!! *with fervorous religious zeal* The knowledge and wisdom so yearned for by the forefathers has come down upon you like the hammer of Thor itself! The sacred dove of heavenly lore beckons you yonder to the Guitarist's story! Ye that desist shall lack the great one's abundance and foresight!
Are these rantings a pile of nonsense or what? Chrisius you had to get me going like this didn't you? We should make a rule against this drivel.
Oh ya, I finally read your story Guitardude. Very epic indeed. I checked myself for sword wounds after reading the duel scene. Now I can see why your story drives us into divine utterances.
Now frogface hopes you will read my Christmas special.
Here is an interesting scenario to check out. The Vietnam war is cool.
It is quite interesting, and I hope you are enjoying writing it as much as we do reading it. Keep it coming 
This is frogface warming up to write a new story.
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