Shattered Empire: A Noble Warlord Quest (CKII)

Current Head: Tsarina Anastasia V
Current Heir: Lady Ekaterina "the Younger"
Fief: Moskva; Kyiv
Home System: Mir
Main Home: Castle Rurikovich, Posadka, Moskva

The origins of the Rurikovich dynasty are lost to the mists of time during the chaotic founding of the Shahzad Empire. What little is known indicates that the Rurikovich dynasty did not start with that name, and that its predecessor was a far-flung cadet branch of the ancient (and possibly mythological) Mihailovichi, petty rulers of the equatorial Samara continent of Moskva. At the time, Moskva was a Periphery world, and was only beginning to see widespread colonization as of 200 Shahzad after the discovery of its slipstream.

Rurik himself is difficult to divorce from the legends that surround him and his immediate family. According to House legend, he was born around 370 Shahzad to this small cadet branch, and while legends tell that he did not cry and was instead already trying to escape from his mother's arms, this is one thing that can clearly be noted as a legend. Another is the oft-quoted line from the family histories - "His violet eyes beheld all as it truly was, and from them naught could hide." It is unlikely that Rurik himself carried the characteristic blue-violet eyes that mark the Rurikovich bloodline - the unusual iris color is, itself, a genetic aberration resulting from centuries of inbreeding, in which the eyes do not produce enough pigment and as such the blood vessels in the iris shine through and result in a "violet" hue under light. (It is also more of a curse than a blessing, as this defect also impairs vision and light adjustment among the Rurikovich family.)

In his adolescence, Rurik proved himself to be a brilliant student of the military arts, excelling far beyond the expectations of his tutors and his family. In 390 Shahzad, he was sent to join the Imperial Guard on Terra, a great honor for a Periphery family and an opportunity for him. The Guard is the oldest continuous military unit in the Empire, and traditionally served as the garrison of Terra, the Sovereign's personal army, and the elite that all look up to. This is less the case in the modern day with the decline of the Sovereign's power and the rise of the Regency, but in Rurik's day, it was the highest honor a petty nobleman could attain.

He would serve for ten years in the Guard, before treachery set him on a different path - during a power struggle in Samara, one of the other branches of the Mikhailovichi moved in with the support of an offworld corporation in the employ of the Massarde in an attempt to secure control over the whole planet of Moskva. In the ensuing battle, almost all of Rurik's close family were massacred, with the survivors driven underground.

Rurik, enraged, deserted the Imperial Guard (an offense punishable by death) and fled into the Periphery. He returned about ten years later at the head of an army consisted of the destitute, the dregs of society, and the mercenaries that roamed the stars at the time, and bit by bit he re-conquered Mikhailovichi territory. He is described as an unstoppable force in battle, driving all who dared opposed him from the field. In a matter of hours, he defeated Mikhailovichi forces in space, and defeated their ground forces in months.

Unsatisfied with his gains thus far, he engaged on a spree of conquest across the planet's surface, overwhelming the forces of the other continents with a combination of strategic mastery and his practice of integrating and accepting defeated enemies into his forces whenever he defeated them. The Campaigns of Unification, lasting until approximately 440 Shahzad, gave him and his legions (now called the Children of Rurik) undisputed control of the entire Mir system, and to cement his rule he took the daughter of his primary rival, a shrewd and calculating woman named Ekaterina of Izhevsk (now better known as Ekaterina Mater), as his wife. It is from this union of two clans that the Rurikovich line sprang forth, with each succeeding generation of his sons and daughters conquering worlds in the Periphery.

While Rurik merely held the title of gertsog - Duke - even as he conquered well beyond the reach of his original duchy, his successors began to style themselves as something greater as they conquered other systems and other worlds. The title of Caesar - an ancient title from pre-spaceflight Terra that held the connotation of "something greater than a king" - was appropriated and shifted through languages into the modern tsar.

It was only 700 years ago that the forces of Tsarina Maria V successfully defeated a fleet of Al-Mufti warships at the Battle of Vidin, humbling a Great House and gaining the attention of the Cardenas Regent of the time, Felipe V. Looking for a way to balance the growing power of the Al-Mufti family in the spinward regions of the Empire, Felipe elevated the Tsars of the Rurikovich dynasty to Great House status, giving the rulers of the Lands of Rurik a seat on the Council of Fourteen - now Fifteen - and the sovereignty over a larger domain. This has led to a longstanding rivalry between the Rurikovich and their Great House neighbors, the Massarde and the Al-Mufti. On occasion, when one is ascendant, the other two will briefly work together to check the power of the offender. The last time this occurred was during the reigns of your great-grandfather and grandfather, the latter of whom married a Massarde daughter to cement a temporary political alliance. Still, to this day, none of the three houses have cemented a lasting alliance with any of the others, as they invariably return to squabbling within a generation.
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Not the update quite yet, but I am certainly working on it.

[X] Plan: Live Bait
-[X] Divide the fleet after the opening volley. This will be a more effective tactic for its intended distractive purpose, and it also prevents you from losing all of your ships at once to an ill-placed jump into the middle of an enemy formation.
-[X] Are you insane, man? Keep the failsafes on, ships are too valuable to risk like that. (Ships will be more likely to come out of the battle intact, although it will give your ground forces less time.)
-[X] The only battleship, the Gromoverzhets,which is simultaneously the best-protected and the biggest target. As Lord Kiril's flag, it also puts you close to the command center of the battle - and the center of the battle itself.

"We will divide the fleet," you say with conviction that you don't fully feel. "Our job is to be a distraction, and to survive as long as possible, not to actually destroy our enemy. For that purpose, three or four separate groups will suffice. The largest will be led by the Gromoverzhets, and will consist of most of our heavy cruisers and a few escorts. Their task will be to cripple orbital infrastructure and larger vessels from range and flee to a new position, and as they have the highest survivability, we will be placing them as close to minimum effective range as is possible." Your lips twist into a bitter grin. "That, and they'll be the best… distraction."

You're aware that what you're suggesting, according to millennia of experience and battle tactics, is anathema - battlewagons that close to an enemy force means that their accuracy would be severely hampered, and the spinal guns that make them terrifying killers on the battlefield would be near useless. You're doing the starship equivalent of handing a sharpshooter a knife and telling him to take on a swordsman. Still, again, you're not trying to win, exactly - you're trying to make the biggest possible ruckus.

"Another group, primarily consisting of our cruisers and some destroyer escorts, will make hit-and-run attacks on the other planets' defenses, stir up as much trouble across the system as they can. If they don't destroy those outposts, thus leaving survivors to shout for reinforcements and add to the chaos, all the better." You pause, thinking. "The third, which'll consist of the remainder, will conduct harassing attacks on any smaller groups of vessels that might get separated from the enemy." Pointing at the holographic display. "Inform individual captains to plan for four jumps with a fifth in reserve. And no, we will not be disabling the failsafes - we'll be risking enough as it is."

Kiril nods grimly. "We will… do what we can."

You sigh through your nose, giving him a tired look. "That's all we can do, Lord Kiril." Glancing at the holographic image of Dame Egonova, you fold your arms. "Our success or failure here hinges heavily on you and your Senate friends. We will keep your channel open for as long as we can, but if the fleet takes casualties that we cannot sustain, then… well…" You trail off, the implications nonetheless clear to the room.

"Where will Your Ladyship be during the battle?" Vladimir pipes up, folding his hairy arms across his chest and giving you a meaningful look. You're not sure if it's concern for you or concern for all of the thousands of people you might be sending to their deaths. "Surely, you would be more safe here on Norilsk. We can -"

"No." It comes out more forceful than you'd like, and your uncle starts in his chair. You breathe, before elaborating. "I will be aboard the Gromoverzhets, Uncle. I need to know what's happening as it happens." You draw yourself up to your full possible height, clenching a fist and allowing some of the steel to return to your voice. "And I will not simply sit by while I send a fleet's worth of loyal men and women into battle against their own countrymen. They are doing this for their rightful Tsarina, and by the Primus, their rightful Tsarina will be in the thick of it with them."

There's a murmur of approval from around the table. Some of it even sounds genuine.

You stand. "If there are no further questions, I will retire to my quarters before I relocate to the Gromoverzhets. I shall expect a report on our state of readiness within the hour." You fold your hands behind your back - mostly so that no one in the room can see them tremble.

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Your quarters aboard the Varyag are almost alien to you. You think back about a week and a half, before the mess at Volchansk and the announcement that had turned your life on its head - and you realize that you've been moving so constantly and expending so much energy that the full gravity of all that has happened hasn't hit you until now - when you have some quiet alone time to yourself.

You dim the lights and plod into the head and lean on the sink, getting another good look at yourself. The dark circles under your eyes have notably deepened, and your insomnia has done no favors for your bloodshot eyes. It's to the point where makeup and eyedrops are only a temporary solution at best.

You splash cool water on your face, closing your eyes and letting the thrums of the Varyag's reactors reverberate through your arms and into your chest. It's in this blissful silence - no talking nobles, no arguing soldiers, no horrifying reports from the Throneworld - that you realize just how much you've been acting on autopilot these past few days, almost as if you're a spectator and an entirely different Anastasia Rurikovich is inhabiting your body - one who can ignore the despair and horror hovering just out of focus like a shadow. Now your original inhabitant is back, and she's had the full burden of every event of the past few weeks dumped on her shoulders.

Dissociation born of stress is a hell of a thing.

A chime from your door makes you start. You leave the washroom, shuffling over to the bulkhead door and pressing the intercom button for the guard outside. "Anastasia here," you say, composing yourself and trying to keep the exhaustion out of your voice. "I am a bit busy right now. Who is it?"

"My apologies, Your Ladyship. Major Chernova to see you."

You raise your eyebrows. You thought Tatiana was aboard the Gromoverzhets, coordinating with her remaining allies on Moskva. Perhaps she had a report. You don't feel like reading more of them right now, and were it any other official you would have likely sent them away, but you have a need to see a friendly face for once before you're forced back into the fray.

"Thank you, Pyotr. Send her in." You move away from the door and sit down at the small round table as it slides open, allowing Tatiana in. Sure enough, she carries a datapad whose bright screen throws long shadows on her aristocratic face in the dim light, probably with reports from the capital on the state of the Okhrana.

However, when she looks up to greet you, her words seem to catch in her throat. She powers the 'pad down, before wordlessly taking a seat opposite you at the tiny table and reaching across to grasp you by the hand.

"Nastya?" she says calmly, giving it a squeeze. "Can I be frank?"

You nod, and she sighs.

"You look like hell."

You chuckle bitterly, and wonder how to respond.

[ ] Say you should be fine with some rest. You don't have time for grief.
[ ] Admit your despondency. If you can't tell Tatiana, who else could you tell?
[ ] Just break down. This is your best friend; you should have no shame falling to pieces in front of her.