The Second Rome: A Quest of Ancient Byzantium
- Thread starter Telamon
- Start date
- Original Historic
- Location
- Minnesota
[X] Mikrodrakon
[X] Blessing of Saint Constantine
[X] Blessing of Saint Constantine
- Location
- Cibao Wilayet, Caliphate of Quisqueya
Additionally, the Zengids in Mosul might make for an excellent buffer state against the resurgent Abbasids. Dunno if a local Nestorian warlord could be installed there, despite Northern Iraq at this time being majority Christian (as it would be until Timur came).
floppy_seal99
D-O-G-A-R-S DOGARS!
- Location
- snooping as usual
Oh? They're perfect then. Especially if we can't get a firm grip on Mosul as a border territory in the first place.
floppy_seal99
D-O-G-A-R-S DOGARS!
- Location
- snooping as usual
If we don't have a local Nestorian warlord, I'm certain somebody from the aristocracy might be tempted to convert in exchange for what is effectively a dynatoi estate on steroids. Especially in Mesopotamia. Now, of course we won't stick the fucking Doukids there, but maybe somebody else? Laskarids?
Revan Skirata
I am Revan Reborn, and before me you are nothing.
- Location
- Why do you want to know?
@Telamon Will you also be doing the character sheets for historical figures? I don't remember you doing that in any of your quests besides the Roman Republic one. Those were pretty interesting to read, and I was wondering if they were limited only to the Classic and Medieval world or if Renaissance and Modern ones could also be done.
- Location
- France Nîmes
[x] Mikrodrakon
[x] Blessing of Saint Gabriel
i like the st michel blessing but if we play a MC with low carisma/diplo we will never have the control of an army
it not competence that earn you a job a the time, it :
political tie and how much the imperator don't fear you.
the only way a MC with military background and michel blessing got pick to lead an army ............................ well let say that in this situation we would not want the post.
[x] Blessing of Saint Gabriel
i like the st michel blessing but if we play a MC with low carisma/diplo we will never have the control of an army
it not competence that earn you a job a the time, it :
political tie and how much the imperator don't fear you.
the only way a MC with military background and michel blessing got pick to lead an army ............................ well let say that in this situation we would not want the post.
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I: Mikrodrakon
Telamon
A corvid.
- Location
- Texas
[x]Mikrodrakon
[x] Blessing of Saint Michael
[x] Blessing of Saint Michael
As you and your servants enter Constantinople, the sun splits the sky over the City of the Caesars, shining through the dim mist that hangs in the morning air. The sunlight gleams off of golden fountains and silver colonnades, off of pillars of bronze and bridges set with finest steel, and for a moment, Constantinople burns, gleaming in the morning sun. You grew up in this City, and still it seems to stop your breath.
This is the City of a thousand years, the city of your fathers and their father's fathers, the city of Constantine, and it has begun to stir from it's sleep. Great bells sound in the distance, accompanied by the sound of horns, as the Queen of Cities shakes off her slumber. You can already make out the raised pitch of haggling voices echoing from the markets, the inexorable engines of trade that keep Rome alive. The sounds of a half-dozen different languages ring in the streets as traders begin to call out their wares, lilting accents and guttural dialects that blend together into an ever-persistent din. Spices from distant Arabia waft in the air, mixed with the sea-salt of the Bosporus and the unmistakable scent of incense drifting down from the churches.
You and your small procession wind your way through the growing throng. Your noble attire -- as dingy and travel-worn as it may be -- clears enough of a path for you that your horses can make it through the streets with little trouble. It draws the eyes of the traders, however, and before long, a small crowd of merchants is clustered around you, calling out to you.
"Effendi," cries a dark-bearded Saracen,"the finest jewels from Baghdad, to adorn the breast of your lady wife, no?"
A slim-faced Greek elbows him out of the way. "No, my most esteemed prince, consider instead these lily-salts from Outremer, picked fresh from the mouths of tiger cubs!"
"...new riding saddle, woven from lion's hide...."
"A fine gift, and certain to increase her pleasure as well..."
"Half the price for such a great lord as thee, of course..."
"Half the price!? This is an insult to such a personage, you lackwit cur. Now, one-thirds..."
"...your hair will never feel as fine without this Moroccan..."
Amused, you merely lean back in your saddle and let the merchant's voices wash over you. The City would not be the City without a half-dozen people trying to sell you something that is almost certainly not worth the asked price, while swearing twice over on their mother's graves that it is. It is as much a part of Constantinople as the towering churches or the gleaming edifice of the Imperial Palace that rises above you in the distance.
One of your servants sidles up to your side, a barrel-chested man with a face more scar than face and a mat of tangled, greying black hair. He is Isaac Bazates, one of the many veterans in your service who followed your father in his wars and campaigns. You have known him since you were a boy -- indeed, he dandled you on his knee when you were a child with your father's army.
"Little Dragon," he growls.
You grin at the nickname your father's former soldiers all use for you. As a child in the army camps, you would trail behind your father, the Dragon, as he stalked between the tents, affecting his mannerisms and style of walk. This so amused his soldiers that they came to call you Mikrodrakon -- literally, the little-dragon. It is a nickname that has stuck all your life, though now they say it with a firm respect beneath.
"Isaac." You already know what he's here to talk about. "More reservations?"
The mass of scar tissue that is Isaac's face twitches, and then he speaks. "You know I don't like it. Your father hated the court. Bunch of arrogant fools in silk bickering all day long. They'll kill you, as surely as they killed him."
"And what would you have me do, Isaac? Sell myself to the Latins?" You refer, of course, to the many Greek soldiers who go on to become mercenaries in the service of the Venetians and the Capuans, the Latin city-states of Italy. Many of your father's former compatriots have taken up this life, and Isaac has more than once expressed his desire to join them.
"No." You say, more to yourself than him. "No, I must do this. My father gave his all for this City, and..."
"...and you must follow in his footsteps. Ever the Little Dragon, eh?" Isaac lets out a deep sigh then turns his horse away to rejoin the rest of your men.
As your small band makes it's way through the streets, the haggling merchants begin to fall away as you enter the Imperial quarter, replaced by men in robes of fine silk, attended by quiet, white-garbed servants. A lady of some standing travels down the hill in the opposite direction, carried on a stretcher by a half-dozen servant boys. She casts you a long, lazy look as the stretcher passes by, and you are suddenly very conscious of your dingy, dusty clothing. Clearly noble though it may be, it is stained with the tatter of two weeks' hard ride. Even the sash of red silk around your waist, a clear sign of wealth and influence, has been dyed a dark mauve color by wind and rain. You have slept under the stars for most of your life -- these people have never slept on anything but goosefeathers. You are a soldier's son, but this is not a soldier's place.
And then it looms before you, and all thoughts of inadequacy or status are stripped from your mind. It is a vast complex that towers above the city, a shining edifice of power and imperial might. It gleams, a thing of marble and gold and silver, of soaring buttresses and pillars of impossible height, a testament to the glory that was and is Rome. It is the heart of the City, the heart of the Empire, the heart of all that is Roman. It is the Great Palace of Constantinople, home of the Caesars since time immemorial. And it makes you feel...small.
Your raggedy band of old soldiers and baseborn mercenaries stands in awe for a long moment before the gate of the Palace of the Emperors. Then you notice the guards in shining armor approaching you, and decide to produce your letter of summons before they decide to produce the very nice swords at their hips.
Who is it who has summoned you to the Imperial Court, by-the-by? You have been writing letters asking for their favor for some time, and they finally responded with a summons which would give you credible reason to enter into the beating heart of Rome and not be turned away by the guards. They are not a patron, not yet, not exactly, but they could be, in time. However, every personage of note in the City has enemies, and simply by presenting yourself as their guest, you will have drawn the notice of some powerful figures.
This is the City of a thousand years, the city of your fathers and their father's fathers, the city of Constantine, and it has begun to stir from it's sleep. Great bells sound in the distance, accompanied by the sound of horns, as the Queen of Cities shakes off her slumber. You can already make out the raised pitch of haggling voices echoing from the markets, the inexorable engines of trade that keep Rome alive. The sounds of a half-dozen different languages ring in the streets as traders begin to call out their wares, lilting accents and guttural dialects that blend together into an ever-persistent din. Spices from distant Arabia waft in the air, mixed with the sea-salt of the Bosporus and the unmistakable scent of incense drifting down from the churches.
You and your small procession wind your way through the growing throng. Your noble attire -- as dingy and travel-worn as it may be -- clears enough of a path for you that your horses can make it through the streets with little trouble. It draws the eyes of the traders, however, and before long, a small crowd of merchants is clustered around you, calling out to you.
"Effendi," cries a dark-bearded Saracen,"the finest jewels from Baghdad, to adorn the breast of your lady wife, no?"
A slim-faced Greek elbows him out of the way. "No, my most esteemed prince, consider instead these lily-salts from Outremer, picked fresh from the mouths of tiger cubs!"
"...new riding saddle, woven from lion's hide...."
"A fine gift, and certain to increase her pleasure as well..."
"Half the price for such a great lord as thee, of course..."
"Half the price!? This is an insult to such a personage, you lackwit cur. Now, one-thirds..."
"...your hair will never feel as fine without this Moroccan..."
Amused, you merely lean back in your saddle and let the merchant's voices wash over you. The City would not be the City without a half-dozen people trying to sell you something that is almost certainly not worth the asked price, while swearing twice over on their mother's graves that it is. It is as much a part of Constantinople as the towering churches or the gleaming edifice of the Imperial Palace that rises above you in the distance.
One of your servants sidles up to your side, a barrel-chested man with a face more scar than face and a mat of tangled, greying black hair. He is Isaac Bazates, one of the many veterans in your service who followed your father in his wars and campaigns. You have known him since you were a boy -- indeed, he dandled you on his knee when you were a child with your father's army.
"Little Dragon," he growls.
You grin at the nickname your father's former soldiers all use for you. As a child in the army camps, you would trail behind your father, the Dragon, as he stalked between the tents, affecting his mannerisms and style of walk. This so amused his soldiers that they came to call you Mikrodrakon -- literally, the little-dragon. It is a nickname that has stuck all your life, though now they say it with a firm respect beneath.
"Isaac." You already know what he's here to talk about. "More reservations?"
The mass of scar tissue that is Isaac's face twitches, and then he speaks. "You know I don't like it. Your father hated the court. Bunch of arrogant fools in silk bickering all day long. They'll kill you, as surely as they killed him."
"And what would you have me do, Isaac? Sell myself to the Latins?" You refer, of course, to the many Greek soldiers who go on to become mercenaries in the service of the Venetians and the Capuans, the Latin city-states of Italy. Many of your father's former compatriots have taken up this life, and Isaac has more than once expressed his desire to join them.
"No." You say, more to yourself than him. "No, I must do this. My father gave his all for this City, and..."
"...and you must follow in his footsteps. Ever the Little Dragon, eh?" Isaac lets out a deep sigh then turns his horse away to rejoin the rest of your men.
As your small band makes it's way through the streets, the haggling merchants begin to fall away as you enter the Imperial quarter, replaced by men in robes of fine silk, attended by quiet, white-garbed servants. A lady of some standing travels down the hill in the opposite direction, carried on a stretcher by a half-dozen servant boys. She casts you a long, lazy look as the stretcher passes by, and you are suddenly very conscious of your dingy, dusty clothing. Clearly noble though it may be, it is stained with the tatter of two weeks' hard ride. Even the sash of red silk around your waist, a clear sign of wealth and influence, has been dyed a dark mauve color by wind and rain. You have slept under the stars for most of your life -- these people have never slept on anything but goosefeathers. You are a soldier's son, but this is not a soldier's place.
And then it looms before you, and all thoughts of inadequacy or status are stripped from your mind. It is a vast complex that towers above the city, a shining edifice of power and imperial might. It gleams, a thing of marble and gold and silver, of soaring buttresses and pillars of impossible height, a testament to the glory that was and is Rome. It is the heart of the City, the heart of the Empire, the heart of all that is Roman. It is the Great Palace of Constantinople, home of the Caesars since time immemorial. And it makes you feel...small.
Your raggedy band of old soldiers and baseborn mercenaries stands in awe for a long moment before the gate of the Palace of the Emperors. Then you notice the guards in shining armor approaching you, and decide to produce your letter of summons before they decide to produce the very nice swords at their hips.
Who is it who has summoned you to the Imperial Court, by-the-by? You have been writing letters asking for their favor for some time, and they finally responded with a summons which would give you credible reason to enter into the beating heart of Rome and not be turned away by the guards. They are not a patron, not yet, not exactly, but they could be, in time. However, every personage of note in the City has enemies, and simply by presenting yourself as their guest, you will have drawn the notice of some powerful figures.
Pick One:
A/N: This is an important choice, which has the potential determine much of the early game, and shape your political and social alliances for much of the game. You can change sides or flip alliances, but favors in Byzantium, once owed, will never be forgotten.
The Patriarch [] The Patriarch of Constantinople and the father of the Church in the East, Luke Chrysoberges, one of the most powerful men in the Empire. Noted for his firm sense of godliness and devotion to the Church, Chrysoberges has in recent times butted heads with the Emperor Manuel. Manuel is a strong believer in caesaropapism -- the power of the Emperor over the Church. This is an affront to the Patriarch, who has declared the independence of the Church from 'worldy' matters. More importantly, the Patriarchate and the Church are harassed, as they were in your father's time, by the growth of heresies across the empire -- heresies your father once persecuted in their name. The Patriarch may yet have need of another Dragon to fight in the name of Christ.
The Basileus [] The Emperor, Manuel Komnenos. Bold, brash, handsome, brilliant, and charming. He is the hero of heroes, the star of Empire, the finest of princes and the first among equals. They sing songs of him as they sing songs of Charlemagne or Alexander. They say he slew forty Turks in a single night, that he rides a horse descended from the stables of Alexander, that he himself is Alexander reborn. He is ho Megas, the Greatest of the Great, the Emperor of the Romans and the finest of the Caesars. But his star is dimming -- his invasion of Italy has been repulsed, and seems doomed to fail. The upstart Crusader Prince, Reynauld of Antioch, has attacked the island of Cyprus and humiliated the Emperor by imprisoning one of his nephews. And even as he prepares an army to put the Crusaders in their place, he is haunted by his lack of male heir, and by an ancient prophecy which says that his successor's name shall begin with the letter A. Enemies circle the Emperor on all sides, and those he can trust now will almost certainly be greatly rewarded.
The Protostrator [] Alexios Axouchos, one of the Empire's more capable generals, held high in the Emperor's favor as the Protostrator, or master of the horses. After the defeat of the Empire's forces in southern Italy last year, Axouchos has been placed in command of a relief force meant to salvage the Italian situation, and, if at all possible, recover the lost Imperial lands in Italy. It is almost certainly a doomed proposition, as the Norman fleets far outnumber the Empire's Italian fleets, but Axouchos hopes he can at least withdraw the armies currently committed to Italy with dignity. Should his Italian mission somehow meet with success, Axouchos will undoubtedly become one of the most popular men in the Empire, the hero of Italia and the restorer of the empire. Of course, that is a very big 'if'.
The Panhypersebastos [] The newly appointed Commander of the Varangian Guard, Andronikos Kontostephanos, the Emperor's nephew, is one of the most powerful young men in the empire, holding the largely honorary title of Panhypersebastos -- literally, 'venerable above all'. Though he inherited most of his titles from his father -- once the supreme commander of the imperial armies -- or by dint of his status as the Emperor's nephew, he has proven himself to be a man of intelligence, skill, and strength, a capable commander on land and sea, and a fine aristocrat. As commander of the Varangian Guard, he is responsible for protecting the Emperor's life on and off the battlefield, and this esteemed position will surely lead him to greater titles, in time. One could do worse than to make a friend of him.
The Basilissa [] The Empress, Irene. Born Bertha of Germany, she was the sister-in-law of the Holy Roman Emperor Conrad. An austere woman famed for her zealousness and modesty, she holds little real power in the Imperial Court. Relations between her and her husband are tense, as she has failed time and again to bear him the heir he and the empire so desperately need. However, she was a friend to your late father, and when she was just a young, scared German princess, he helped teach her the tongue of her new people, that she might speak to them as a Roman would. As a repayment of this ancient favor, she has used her authority as Augusta to invite you to the Imperial court. Tongues wag, however, and a handsome young soldier -- the son of one of the emperor's old foes -- being invited to the court by the empress will certainly spark rumors, but it is a good way to avoid indebting yourself to any major player in the court.
As always, discussion is rewarded. (As are Omakes and Reaction posts.)
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- Location
- United States
[X] The Patriarch
Last edited:
- Location
- Canada
[X] The Basileus
A Note On Constantinople in 1157: The Prophecy of the Blood
Telamon
A corvid.
- Location
- Texas
Constantinople in 1157 is a volatile place to be, full of war and news of war. The Emperor Manuel is preparing an invasion of Antioch to humble the arrogant Crusader States to the east, while his invasion of Italy has been beaten back by the Norman lords. Though he still has hope the Italian situation can be redeemed, it seems the empire's aspirations in the West, and Manuel's hope to restore the Western and Eastern halves of the Christian church, may be over before they truly started.
Perhaps the greatest spectre hanging over Manuel's reign at the moment, however, is the Prophecy of the Blood, known also as the AIMA prophecy, which will haunt the House of Komnenos for the next two centuries. It is a prophecy of mysterious (possibly heretical) origin, which states that the names of the first four emperors of the House of Komnenos will spell out the word aima -- Greek for blood. It has held true, whether by chance or by the emperors themselves forcing it to be so: Alexios I named his son Ioannes (John) as his heir, and Ioannes skipped over his elder son Isaac in order to place Manuel on the throne and fulfill the prophecy. A,I, and M have proven true, but what of A? Manuel's paranoia and belief in the prophecy have turned him against his nephews and cousins, and he has even imprisoned his first cousin, Andronikos Komnenos, out of fear.
As long as the Emperor holds no male heir, no man with the name of 'A' can rise high in the imperial court. Some hold the Emperor's fears, while others see it as baseless superstition -- and others still see it as opportunity. While the Prophecy of the Blood hangs over the City, the Emperor's reign will be shadowed.
Meanwhile, Manuel, his invasion of Italy failing and the Crusaders spitting in his face, needs a dramatic military victory to prove his glory once more, lest his fears come true and an heir with the name of A usurp him.
Perhaps the greatest spectre hanging over Manuel's reign at the moment, however, is the Prophecy of the Blood, known also as the AIMA prophecy, which will haunt the House of Komnenos for the next two centuries. It is a prophecy of mysterious (possibly heretical) origin, which states that the names of the first four emperors of the House of Komnenos will spell out the word aima -- Greek for blood. It has held true, whether by chance or by the emperors themselves forcing it to be so: Alexios I named his son Ioannes (John) as his heir, and Ioannes skipped over his elder son Isaac in order to place Manuel on the throne and fulfill the prophecy. A,I, and M have proven true, but what of A? Manuel's paranoia and belief in the prophecy have turned him against his nephews and cousins, and he has even imprisoned his first cousin, Andronikos Komnenos, out of fear.
As long as the Emperor holds no male heir, no man with the name of 'A' can rise high in the imperial court. Some hold the Emperor's fears, while others see it as baseless superstition -- and others still see it as opportunity. While the Prophecy of the Blood hangs over the City, the Emperor's reign will be shadowed.
Meanwhile, Manuel, his invasion of Italy failing and the Crusaders spitting in his face, needs a dramatic military victory to prove his glory once more, lest his fears come true and an heir with the name of A usurp him.
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- Location
- France
Hummmmm, what to do....every choice seems interesting, except The Panhypersebastos.
[X] The Basileus
Seems like the best for the long term, hopefully he send us to fight in some far away place so that we don't get too involved in courtly BS.
I'd also like to play a loyal general.
Btw, what is our actual name?
[X] The Basileus
Seems like the best for the long term, hopefully he send us to fight in some far away place so that we don't get too involved in courtly BS.
I'd also like to play a loyal general.
Btw, what is our actual name?
Telamon
A corvid.
- Location
- Texas
You are Michael Drakonopoulos, called Michael Mikrodrakon by your men.
- Location
- France
Pfew, no A, that's nice
- Location
- United States
Telamon
A corvid.
- Location
- Texas
You're currently coasting entirely off your father's reputation and hearsay that you yourself are exceptionally skilled in battle.
- Location
- France
On that matter, how skilled are we exactly?