NationStates Jolt Archive

European War IC Thread

Welcome to the European War IC Thread. Here is where Diplomacy and War are dealt with, in Character. If you have any questions or comments, please refer to our recruitment thread. http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=11407630#post11407630

King Dietrich, second King of Prussia; super power of Europe; sits contemplating the current political climate; sits atop his golden, fairly uncomfortable, throne; sits eating a delicious cream-filled pastry.

There are many things that can be said of King Dietrich, nephew of Friedrich Wilhelm who happened to be the childless first king of Prussia, though few of them bad. Primarily there was the fact he is a strong and noble ruler, fair to his people but militartistic as so many of German heritage; the fact that King Dietrich loves his country, his wife Wilhemina and his dachshund, Hans. Another good word for the new King is that he is well educated, fluent in English and German, whilst also being capable of using some Polish phrases. It is nevertheless a fact, however, that King Dietrich has a love of a pastries. A love of pastries that he seems unable to eat without causing an incredible mess of flakey, albeit delicious, pastry.

So it is we find the noble King, covered in flakes of fallen pastry, troubled. On his left sits his wife Wilhemina and at his feet sits a rather bored Hans. Before the trio, Otto von Kurnig; advisor to the King; suggests bolstering the military.

"Your Majesty, as you have heard, there are ample reasons to increase our military. It is the suggestion of the Court that your Highness provide a small measure of funds for further infantry, cavalry and artillery; the better to protect the father land." Otto von Kurnig is a balding man in his early fifties, once a court fopp, now an advisor with some obscure title in some obscure land filled with some obscure, but rent paying, people.

"Leave me your proposal as you leave, I shall review it and give you my decision on the morrow. Now, is there any other business before I end this session of court and seek my chamber?" Dietrich could no longer feel his buttocks, despite much clenching. This thought worried him immensely.

"A small matter regarding Austro-Hungary, your Majesty. In times of such turbulence, it is advised that we have allies. Whilst our history with the Austro-Hungarians began somewhat on the wrong foot, relations in recent years improved under your uncle. Mayhap it is now time to speak with their leader to improve relations?" Otto smiled falsely at the new King, ignoring the spatters of cream now down his formal court attire.

"Again, leave the proposal on your way out and I shall have your answers in the session tomorrow. You are dismissed." This was met with a curt bow and a number of functionaries, mostly carrying papers on behalf of von Kurnig, exiting the Royal Hall. Rubbing his brow with a mildly sticky set of fingers, King Dietrich prepares for his nightly dose of reading.

The halls of the Palace of Serenity we're empty, except for one modernly dreesed dark skinned aide walking with great booming echoes of his high heeled and verly well polished boots. Actually the hallway was quite full if you looked at the marble pillars jutting up to support a high vaulted ceiling glazed heavily with flowers and the frozen images of 10,000 screaming Persian horsemen. Also if the mind wandered far enough you could see the odd collection of knic knacs along the wall, mostly European but some holding the obvious and shiny quality of Arabic workmanship.

The Aide had walked this hall hundreds of times before this day and never really noticed trouble until it had arrived. So much money had been expended on these trinkets, when the citizens were threating rebellion in the streets. The double doors of polished hard wood opened to a view of what Europe thought of Persia. Harem dancers, swayed around the elaborate fountins in the throne room as peacocks walked all to aimlessly around a private building.

The aide stopped bowed gently and waded his way through scantly clad dancers. The current Shah opened his eyes through a haze of Opium and fine wines. "What do you bring me today Kellaz, more proclomations that you would have me sign? More money for your precious reforms?"

Kellaz Furi looked with cold eyes at the near hemeshperical king, "Some would say that reform is the greatest tool at our desposal." Kellaz pushed away another dancer who tried to rub up to him and looked down at the king. "The peasentry are disconteded and we must take steps to stop any uprising before Persian blood is spilled."

The Shah glanced up for the first time, "Yes, yes just summarize it please and leave I have...things to do."

"Majesty, in order to gain support from European nations I suggest we enact all religious tolerance, but with of course money from the state only be to the state religion. Secondly we shall put another army in the field, and position here in Samarkand. Lastly we shall form alliances and trading routes with all islamic nations to create a power block in the South, we shall be well defended."

The Shah sighed as he was again dragged back into reality by his aide's words, "Good, yes that all sounds excellent." He took a very long role of paper and signed radomly near the end, if he had been paying attention his seal was already on it.

"Thank you Majesty," Kellaz Furi bowed again and walked out. He walked passed the collection of hand painted porcelin frogs the Shah had collected recently and spat, this was government, it would change and it would change quickly.

The Tuareg Amenokal Amud walked through the shipyards of Algiers, where the last ships of his new navy where receiving their finishing touches. The ports of his kingdom had been bringing in massive amounts of wealth since he united the tribes, and with this new wealth and a united people, he modernized the armies and authorized the construction of a grand new fleet, the completion of he was witnessing.

With this improved military, Amenokel Amud hoped to gain the respect of the power house Europeans. For too long the have viewed his people has barbaric desert dwellers, whose only ships pursued piracy. No longer! He was determined to gain for his people the status as a powerful power, not just in Africa, not just in the Mediterranean, but in Europe as well!

OOC:
Purchases made:
2 Armies
4 Navies

Troop positions (red "X"s= armies, blue "X"s=navies):
http://i26.photobucket.com/albums/c109/ejkaso/trooppositions.png

A Messenger to England

Joachim trotted along the road, his escort of eight cuirassier's was much appreciated, though highly unnecessary and serving no more purpose than a symbol of strength and power. Around his neck was the leather bag, wherein lay his duty, a letter to the King of England.

They had docked in Dover some three days ago after a two week journey from Hamburg that was positively hellish due to the chill of winter that had yet to dissipate. Each day they had camped upon hard ground, often during snow, and each of the men was freezing with dignity.

So it was, after three days in the bitter cold, the messenger arrived at London and began his journey toward Buckingham Palace. The cobbled streets were filled with slush. Unfortunately the group were not yet at a cobbled street and instead their mounts waded through partially frozen mud. Several hours would yet pass before they moved through the foulburg surrounding London proper, into the city and to the gates of Buckingham Palace, by which time they would be cold, hungry and immensely tired; atleast the message was delivered that evening.

Raising an Army

He had never seen the Emperor before. Of course, not many had. It was said that his grace and mercy would be shattered if any but those he deemed worthy laid eyes upon him. This, he knew, was a popular ruse used to keep his population in line, and it kept a certain...aura about his grace and majesty. However, his lordship had asked for a simple man's presence, Ariel Svensk, at a meeting today; obviously it was important due to the urgency in which he had recieved notice.

Walking with haste through the endless corridors of the extravagant Imperial Palace, Ariel struggled to keep up with the two Imperial Guardsmen of whom walked on either side of him. Their blue standards were quite beautiful, he thought to himself, their masterfully woven cotton uniforms were trimmed with golden thread that glistened brightly as the party walked by window after window. Fusil in hand, both the guards were stone faced; they appeared grizzled and hardy, as if they were not born of nobility and had lived harshly either on the battlefield or in the daily scrounge of peasant life.

The two guards stopped suddenly and took up guard positions outside of a large wooden door to their left. They didn't say a word to him but assumed he knew what to do. Ariel glaced at the men's faces for any hint of emotion before he opened the door. He received none, and in turn gave none.

He stepped in after pressing the door open and closing it behind him. He noted the room was rather extravagant, blue and gold French Coats of Arms lavishly decorated the marble sculpted walls, giving him a sudden sense of pride for his country. The first chamber he stepped in was empty, only the spectacular wood and marble work greeted his presence. There were numerous paintings hanging on the walls, almost all were landscapes. There were no portraits of the Emperor or anyone for that matter. Ariel wondered why. Almost every palace he stepped into had wonderful paintings on canvas of the corresponding Monarchs, except of course the French palace.

On the left side of the room another door opened. A man dressed formally walked from it and walked toward Ariel.

"Are you Ariel Svensk?" The man asked gentely, his face seemed somewhat effeminate. For a second, Ariel wondered what all of this was about. An urgent meeting with the Emperor was not an order one received everyday.

"Yes, sir." Ariel spoke for the first time since he entered the Imperial Palace. His voice almost echoed in the small but lavish room.

"Please...the Emperor awaits your arrival." He said as he opened the door a little wider. Ariel could hear faint sounds of Bach playing from another room, this was also the first real background noise he had heard while in the palace. He was convinced that this place was odd in more ways than one. Usually, palaces were bustling with activity and ruckus...not the French Palace. Cold walls, cold floors, cold guards. Ariel complied with the Emperor's aide and walked into the room, almost tiptoeing.

The Emperor's study...a place many had wished to see. Sitting in front of a fireplace with a book in his hand, a man flipped through the pages without ever hearing his guest enter the room. Ariel could not see his whole being, it was hidded behind the chair.

"Come." The aide whispered to Ariel, who couldn't rightly believe he was going to see the Emperor, the most revered one. They walked closer and closer to the man, who had finally heard the noise of their shoes hitting the polished wooden floor. He turned his head to look at his guest, Ariel saw the Emperors' face...it wasn't what Ariel had expected. The Emperor Benedicte had normal features for a man of his age, his black hair was of medium length, his eyes were dark, he wasn't obese...he wasn't even as tall as Ariel.

"Ah, you must be the famed Ariel Svensk...no?" The Emperor asked as he stood from his chair and extended his right hand's signet ring out for Ariel to kiss. He complied, he bowed to kiss the ring and stood back up, his legs were shaking from his timidity.

"Yes your highness." He spoke with anxiousness in his voice.

"Excellant. We must talk." Benedicte said as he pointed his hand toward a chair across from his, signalling Ariel to sit. "Please." After the two men sat and were comfy, the Emperor again spoke. "Would you like anything? Wine? Bread?"

"No thank you sire." Ariel said calmly, eyeing some of the reading materiel Benedicte got his hands on. He was dazzled by how many volumes of "Western Conquerors" his lordship posessed.

"Well...I'll get straight to the point, Svensk." The man started as put his hands on the sides of his chair. "You served in the Hungarian Army as a General, did you not?" Almost confused, Ariel nodded his head in agreement with Benedicte. "Explain to me where that career went...you went from a Hungarian General to a...peddler in Aquitaine?" Benedicte looked confused and interested at the same time. The fire crackled loudly as the aide used a poker to move the logs.

"Well, your highness, I'm sure that you are familiar with the Austrian mergance with Hungary not too many years past." The Emperor nodded. "...Well, I'm sure your highness would not find my tales of battle to his taste." Ariel paused, looking at the fire as if mezmerized by its orange glow.

"I have my share of Demons also, Svensk. I am not a clean man either. Please, continue." He gave Ariel a pressing glance, almost demanding to be told the information he sought. Ariel grudgingly accepted that the Emperor wanted to hear his tale.

"I was against the mergance. Many others were against it also. But many were for it, claiming that two thrones would still make the power equal. I knew it was complete bullocks from the start. The Austrians had a stronger infrastructure and would eventually absorb our people into their kingdom...so we started the war." Ariel looked away from the Emperor and back at the cracking fire. A few moments passed where no words were exchanged.

"Go on." Ariel looked back slowly and continued.

"Well, we lost obviously. There wasn't much hope for victory from the start. The defiance only made the people's will stronger, and Austria-Hungary is the result of that mergance." Ariel looked at the Emperor's face. There was still curiosity in his eyes.

"Tell me about...Szeged." The Emperor said calmly.

"Why Szeged? Usually people want to know about the Austria-Hungarian 'glorious' victory over us at Budapest." Ariel looked somewhat confused.

"Your men won at Szeged, did they not?" Benedicte asked, interest piqued at the end of his sentece.

"Well...yes we did." Ariel shook his head. "...But..."

"Then tell me about it." He interupted.

"Well, we were on the offensive that day against a force of equal size, mostly our own people." Ariel started. "Anyway, we had recieved reports that there was a flaw in the enemy's flank, a unit had withdrawn when they weren't supposed to. So I quickly ordered my available Hussars to storm that breach..."

"But it was a trap." Benedicte interupted.

"Yes. It was. They lured our men in and promptly surrounded them. Lucky for us, we had another trick up our sleeve. The night before, I dispatched 10,000 Fusiliers, in secret, around the proposed army location and waited until they exposed their rear. They did when they attacked the Hussars...we utterly slaughtered them and offered no quarter. That was Szeged. 17,000 dead." Ariel finished. The fire again crackled. The Emperor looked content.

"It seems I made the correct choice about hiring you." Benedicte said as he looked at Ariel smugly. Ariel furrowed his brows.

"Excuse me sire?"

"I want you to raise and train my 10th Army. Then I want you to lead them." The Emperor said as he stretched a bit.

"But sire...I'm not fit to be in command anymore, I'm retired, exiled from my homelands." Ariel reasoned with Benedicte, but he would hear nothing of it.

"Would it entice you more if I told you that you will rule Hungary when it becomes ours?" The Emperor seemed quite confident that this would catch Ariel's attention. It did. Ariel stood up and looked the Emperor in the eyes. The Emperor did the same. "So what will it be, General? or Peasant?"

"Sir...General sounds a whole lot nicer." Ariel said, tears almost filled his eyes.

"Excellant." Emperor Benedicte smiled as he retrieved his ceremonial sword.


OOC: Purchased 1 Army, placed in the Alpine.

Army Placement: 3 Armies in Alpine, 2 Armies in Aquitaine, 2 Armies in Normandie, 2 Armies in Belgium, 1 Army in Orleans.

A King Undecided

In the Royal Palace of Madrid, King Juan VII Fernando sat behind his mahogany desk, musing quietly on the state of Europe.

He was a tall, handsome man of some forty years, with a commanding presence and educated manners. Acceding to the throne ten or so years ago, he had felt it his duty to carve out a new niche for Spain in Europe.

The colonies were failing. Corruption and in-fighting meant that ground was being lost every week to the tribes and revolutionaries. Spain still held most of Latin America, Mexico, Texas and California, as well as Cuba and Dominica in the Caribbean. But Spain was too spread out, and the colonies were fighting back.

The king strolled to the stained glass window, and looked out into the plaza beneath. Market day was in full flow, the chatter of voices and laughter and shouts of stall-holders drifted up into the cloudless sky.

Maybe a new foothold was to be made in Europe. The Tuareg empire in North Africa seemed peaceable for the moment at least, and an alliance was being suggested in Spanish Morocco. Juan VII Fernando was afraid however, that Spain's richness would perhaps be it's downfall. How many other rich empires had been shown by history, to be wiped out by more mercenary invaders?

Yes, Spain was on the edge. War would break out before long, perhaps not in Spain, but in Europe, somewhere either close or far away. The king sighed, as he realised that Spain would undoubtedly suffer. But if he chose the right path, perhaps it would suffer less.

Now what failed to be mentioned earlier is that, whilst King Dietrich is not what one might call obese per se, he is what diplomatic people refer to as 'portly'. Allow me a brief description, if you would, of the current King of Prussia.

King Dietrich is around 5'7", by no means small, but certainly not an imposing man. Weighing in at a good 15 stone and 2lbs, what impressive is lost to his standard height is regained by his impressive paunch. In regards to his face, King Dietrich was once a very handsome man, before the jowel began to develop in earnest. Being pale of skin with raven black hair, the King has always seemed somewhat bleached; however the midnight hair helps to accentuate his eyes. Blue eyes have long run in Dietrich's line, though his are decidedly more intense than any who have come before him. Once upon a time, the eyes of King Dietrich, then Prince, could freeze a woman in her paces from fifty yards. Alas, times change and even his eyes cannot capture women- the crown on the other hand is an entirely different matter.

Returning to matters at hand, we find King Dietrich seated atop his throne early in the morning. Ever since his time in the army King Dietrich has been a morning person. Back straight, crown gleaming and robes of state draped about him, the King is still quite a sight. It should be noted that the Queen has yet to arise from the marital bed as she never spent any time in the army.


Otto von Kurnig, advisor to the King and a powerful force in the courts is, as was mentioned before, a balding man who can only be considered the opposite to the King in that he is verging on annorexia. Many are the times people have noticed von Kurnig jogging down the corridors of the Palace on some urgent errand, appearance dishevelled, only to belief that a skeleton has undergone the shock of realising it has no flesh and has entered a state of panic.

The advisor frowned as he made his way to the court. Similarly to Queen Wilhemina, Otto had never been in the army and such an early morning was an affront to a man with his good sense. Today's garb was a pair of fine black boots, crisp and flamboyent white pantaloons, a crimson jacket with cravat and a large golden necklace revealing his position.


Dietrich sighs audibly; waiting is not one of the King's strong points. Karsten, Master of Ceremonies, enters through the double doors at the end of the Royal Hall.

"Your Majesty, King of Prussia and her Empires, Otto von Kurnig has arrived at your pleasure." Withdrawing quickly, the Master of Ceremonies brushes past Otto with a whispered Good luck.

Walking to the foot of the dais, Otto bows low and looks up at the King expectantly. As ever, distaste fills his stomach for this false monarch.

"Good morning, von Kurnig." Court formality often went out of the window without a reason to be present.

"Good morning, your Majesty. Have you had a chance to read over the proposals?"

King Dietrich offers a brief nod, holding out his hand for a servant to deliver the appropriate papers into his hand. Swiftly the pudgy hand is filled with two sets of documentation.

"Having given them both a great deal of consideration, I have decided that your suggestions regarding Austro-Hungary are well advised. I wish for there to be a letter drafted inviting the head of state (I shall change this when I know the name of the Austro-Hungarian monarch) to a formal dinner. After which there shall be drawn up a letter to the current Tzar, suggesting that we keep in touch more often."

Otto has caused a set of papers and a quill to materialize, though the source of the ink remains a mystery, one perhaps better left unanswered. Urgently he jots down the two instructions quite unnecessarily, as the King's scribe is already doing likewise.

"As for the creation of the Grand Imperial Army, I am afraid I must reject such a notion. We do need to begin a recruitment drive to bring our numbers closer to those of France, however this Grand Army would, I fear, draw too much attention.

"Instead you will organize the creation of two hundred and fifty new battalions of Black Coats, ten new battalions of Iron Guard and arrange further conscription in Poland of sixty thousand men. Further more, there shall be another two regiments of cuirassiers, eight regiments of dragoons, two regiments of hussars and I want you to begin the reconstruction of the Polish Lancers, begin with one thousand men. Deployment for these forces will be forwarded to you at a later date.

"Regarding this Grand Imperial Army; I do not consider the matter closed. In the future there may come a time when there is a place for such a force, however that is not this day.

"If that is all?"

Otto finishes his frantic scribbling and looks up at the King, or more precisely, the King's royal paunch. He had held high hopes for the Grand Imperial Army.

Seething inside, otto replies with a neutral voice and a smile filled with artifice, "Yes, your Majesty, that is all."

Offering a curt bow, he strides from the Royal Hall, cursing under his breathe that such an oaf is King.


(OOC: Purchasing 4 armies at a total of 14, including 2 credits for support costs.)

The Camels picked through the desert slowly, sliding on the ever changing sand dunes. It was obvious that the riders held no appreciation for their mounts and would swat and them whenever possible. These men, these Eunuchs on the camels were more suited for Palace life, but the Shah insisted they go along with a body gaurd of 50 and the ambassador to the Tauregs. It had been 2 months travel between Samarkand and whever they were now on the dunes. Hopefully, with the small bags of gold hidden on different men in the camel squadron they would start a permanant embassy in Algiers.

The Ambassador was by far in more agony then the others, he would have to converse with the barbarians of the Sahara. The Caravan crested another dune and saw shimmering ahead the outskirts of Algiers, perhaps not all that barbarian afer all. The ambassador smiled faintly and gripped the treaty a little closer to his skinny and very narrow cheast. It was everything any nation could want for an ally, trade rights, right of passage Alliance. If the Tauregs agreed it would be a very bright day for Persia.

Within an the treaty was handed into the hand of the King of Africa as he was called in Samarkand, hopefully to bring about another Golden age for the nations of the South.

OOC: Hey Waldenburg 2, I like role playing and all, but I'm going to kinda fast forward us a bit so that we can get to negotiations.

IC:

The Grand Amenokal Amud awaited the Persian emissary in the captain's cabin of the new flag ship of The People's navy, The Atlas. Ever since the construction of the fleet began Amud found himself ever more fascinated by the sea and the ships that sail them. For a man who grew up in the Western Sahara, the sea was a thing of beauty.

He sat behind a large oak desk that was imported from Britain. Almost everything in the modern Tuareg world was being based of a European way of doing things. Right down to the Algiers Naval College being a replica of the British college in Dartmouth. Besides Amud, there where two marines in the cabin.

After some time of day dreaming, a knock came at the door, and one of Amud's aides entered.

"My lord, the Persian should be arriving at any moment."

"Excellent. I am eager to meet him."

The small band of Ottoman Janissaries, maybe 30 strong, were sent to the Tuareg Empire to propose a peace of some sort.

"I think I see the Tuareg countryside," yelled ADEM DIRENÇ, the weary leader of the travelers.

As the night was crawling in the Janissaries began to slow down.

"We can set up camp here for the night. I believe we are in the Tunis."

OOC:Where is your capital? Purchased one army, placed in Greece

OOC: Algiers. You should probably head to Tunis though, much closer to the Ottoman border.

OOC:Algiers is in which region?

ooc: Algeria

OOC Ah well you see we don't need really need to negociate as i think it's either trade rights no trade, alliane, or not. So I was hoping you'd just say yes to the treaty as it's either yes or no.

IC With no response yet from the Sahara another envoy was sent to Constantinople with exact copies of the treaties sent to the tauregs but with Ottomans scribbled in. After Persia receivied the signitures of the both countries they would be bound all togeather. In the Constantinople treaty was also the right of passage for all persian troops in the Ottoman empire, and vice versa. hopefully within a month the three major Islamic nations would be in an alliance.

The Sultan was pleased at how things were going. A group to make peace with the Tuaregs. And now the Islamic Kingdoms might even be united. wow things can't get better. He thought. Now all I need is an overwhemling fleet to take my enemies.

OOC:BOught one fleet placed in Turkey

OOC: Alright we'll just presume the negotiations for both of you happened and went well.

IC:

Now that the alliances between the great Islamic nations had been cemented, Amenokal Amud turned his thoughts to the future. Now that he had powerful allies along with a new modern army, the possibilities for military expansion had increased immensely. Spanish Morocco was an obvious choice, but he was currently leading his people on the peace path concerning Spain.

"Oh well", Thought Amud,"I'll think of this later. For now, I think I'll go get some pastries..."

OOC: since it's cheaper to declare war, I'm puchaseing another fleet and positioning it off the coast of North Africa.

It had been ten days since the messengers to Wessex and Austria had left; 3 days since the recruitment drive had ended.

King Dietrich sat atop a less formal chair than his throne, the masticated remains of an eclair lying off to one side. Several tables had been brought into the Royal Hall after word arrived of stirrings in the south. Spread across the tables were several maps depicting Europe, North Africa and the Middle East, each one pinned down.

Duke Dieter of Ravensburg, one of the foremost military minds in the Prussian Empire, stood over the map in full military garb.

"Our latest reports indicate that the Tuaregs navy consists of atleast thirty ships of the line with as many as seventy, though intelligence reports are sketchy. What we have determined is that they lie throughout North Africa, here and here." To emphasize his point, the Duke penetrates map and table alike with pins.

"As yet our spies are unable to assertain precisely why such a large navy is being developed, however it can be presumed that they intend to launch an assault against Spain. Judging from the size of the fleet, it is likely they intend to launch an assault against Corudoba with approximately twenty ships, whilst sailing the remainder to the north to blockade the Spanish fleets at Galacia and Castile.

"Without their navy, the Spaniards will be forced to march across the country to relieve Corudoba. This is, however, likely a tad too advanced for the African barbarians, your Majesty."

Dietrich nodded his acknowledgement, studying the maps. "I presume their reasons for a war against Spain would be to retrieve Spanish Morocco?"

This earnt a brief smile from the Duke, "Such is our hypothesis, your Highness. It is far more likely, however, that the purpose for the navy is to either attack Spanish Morocco from two sides or to blockade the area to prevent any relief."

"If they even intend to attack Spain." The King grinned toothily. "I think it far more likely they are attempting to make themselves seen, rather like a petulant child who has been ignored."

"Well, with your Majesties permission we wish to attempt to infiltrate their navy and learn more of what their plans are." The Duke of Ravensburg was unfamiliar with naval warfare, though in honesty, few in Prussia were overly familiar with the concept.

"Granted. I want constant updates on these matters. While I doubt their is anything serious happening in the south, it is always better to remain abreast of these things. You are dismissed."

As the Duke left, King Dietrich looked down at the maps and frowned. What on Earth did they need a fleet of such size for?

King Juan VII Fernando was troubled. Rumours were spreading that the Tuareg Empire, the Ottoman Empire and Persia had entered into an alliance. Currently, reports from Casablanca revealed that there were ever more Tuareg ships on the North African coast.

The King was confused. Only a few weeks earlier, the Tuaregs had been offering friendly terms and even the possibility of an alliance, something he wanted dearly to become a reality.

He called for his lieutenant.

'Make preparations for my council and myself for a move to Granada. We must try to learn more of the Tuareg intentions in Spanish Morocco. Send an emissary, attempt to implement a new treaty. It is imperative that we protect our interests in North Africa.'

The lieutenant saluted and went to take the news to the Royal Council.

The King pondered over his maps and reports, trying to make sense of the situation. Leaving the Castile army in Saragossa would help strengthen the northern border, but hopefully there would be no need to do so.

There was a knock at the door of his stateroom.

'Enter.' he called.

Princess Ximena Carlita, his eldest daughter and heir, came in.

'You look troubled father. Is there a problem? Can I do anything to help?'

'Sweet daughter. No, there is nothing at present. Just concerns of our southern border. Hopefully nothing to worry overmuch about.'

She looked questioning. He gave in.

'Let us not worry about such matters. Come and talk with me. How are your brother and sisters? Your mother?'

'Mother has gone to Compostela remember? She wanted to see Galicia a little. She wishes you spent more time with us.'

'Alas, we are in troubled times. All Europe seems unable to find an equilibrium. But enough of this. I am weary. Let us go to the gardens.'

She accepted that he was tired, and arm in arm they went out into the sunshine.

"What are these reports you intended to show me?" Asked Amud. His aid had interrupted him while he had been playing chess so he could give his attention to a series of reports.

"Well," His aid began,"We've been receiving reports from some of the dock workers and sailors, saying that Europeans with odd accents have been snooping about, looking suspicious."

"Funny accents, eh? Would you go so far to call Spanish accents funny?"

"Not really, sir. Spanish accents are more charming. These accent where down right ridiculous according to the reports."

"I see." Amud stood in front of his map of the mediterania. He had been planning some sort of invasion of Sardinia, but these recent events where starting to change his mind.

"Take down some orders. All ships to North African coast. Eh...which armies are the ones on the Spanish Moroccan border?"

"The 3rd and 5th, sire."

"Ah yes. I want the 1st and 7th to the border. 2nd army to remain in Tunis. 6th and 4th to Algiers to make preparations for marine operations."

"Yes, sire"

"And send a message to The Ottomans and the Persians warning of impending action in the mediterranean. That is all".

"Yes, sire." The aid finished scribbling down the orders and departed. Peace was boring. Besides, there's a whole native populace that needs liberating in Spanish Morocco.

OOC: I don't have the resources for a ground campaing, so don't worry (too much) spain.

To:Tuaregs
From:Ottomans

Do you request any Sea Power in your little "impending action". I would be glad to help.

OOC:bought another army placed in Antioch

Be prepared to take naval action in the mediterranean. These actions may include fleet engagements and port blockades. We are not at war with anyone right now, but do be ready.

A Captain in the Swedish Smålands Dragoons from one of the armies posted in the baltic states tightened the harness on his mighty war horse. The captain had a important message in his sack, and he was escorted by several other dragoons. They were sent out to Hamberg. It took his several days ridding night and day, stopping for hours to catch some sleep, but finally, after days in the saddle, passing though poland, the small band reach the governemt building. The captain fixed his tunic and walked up the teps and in to the building looking for the nearest person who looked lile a governemt offical he ordered "Where might i find your King and grant an aduence?" the man responded

"This way sir." They entered a hall. The captain kneed.

"King Dietrich, here we have a letter from King Gustav IV Adolf of Sweden and the commander of the Baltic States Armies. Its reads;

Dearest King Dietrick
As the commander of the Baltic States Armies I would like to propose a trade agreement between our two great empires. We would both benifit greatly. And in the future to conquer a common enemy. Although this is just a trade agreement for the time being.

Signed
Gustav IV Adolf of Sweden"

Otto von Kurnig surveyed the letter that had been delivered. A the bottom was the recognized royal stamp of the Baltic States, signed by the King himself. All seemed above board.


The advisor inclined his head to the master of ceremonies, who announced the new arrival. Slowly, Otto made his way through the Hall toward the map-covered tables.

King Dietrich sat, perhaps incredibly without any form of food within range, perusing the maps. Not until the advisor had been stood infront of the table for several minutes did the King look up.

"Welcome, Baron von Kurnig. What have you for me today?" Leaning back in the chair as he spoke, the King rested both hands on his impressive stomach. Wordlessly, Otto handed the note to the King.

After half a minute the King placed the note upon the table. "This was confirmed to be authentic?"

"It was, your Highness. We are already in discussions as to the implications of such an agreement. I have taken the liberty of ordering their messenger to abide in the town and await whilst you make your decision."

"Very good, Otto. What is your opinion?" Despite their differences, Dietrich valued Otto's opinion greatly; both respected one another.

"Well, in my opinion we should sign a five year agreement. If everything works out well, sign a permenant contract. Should trade relations begin in earnest, it would likely not be long before peace were declared between our nations."

King Dietrich nodded his acknowledgement. "And what of this... common enemy?"

"Having conferred with Duke Dieter, we are of the opinion they are refering to either France, my liege Lord. Obviously we can simply ignore that aspect of the letter for now."

"Very well, Otto. Work with the court scribe to write up a trading partnership contract and send it back with the messenger, along with a note offering my fondest wishes for the royal family, to King Gustav."

"Very good, your Highness."

The Tuareg emissary began climbing the stairs up to the Prussian Palace. It had been a very long journey, first a boat from Tunis to Croatia then a long carriage ride through Austro-Hungary with plenty of stops along the way. Now he just had to climb a few stairs to deliver the offer to the Prussian King.

He reached the top and spoke to one of the Königlicherschutz men standing guard."I am hear on behalf of the Grand Amenokal Amud of The Tuareg. I seek an audience with your King concerning a trade agreement." The guard proceeded inside briefly before emerging. "Head inside, Sir."

"Thank you." The emissary entered to deliver the offer he and come such a long way to deliver.

OOC: The deal is 5 years of trade subject to lengthening if it goes well.

The captain recieved the letter and rode back to the Baltic States where the letter was given to a Captain in the Royal Navy and he sailed to Sweden. The Letter then was given to a awaiting Major from the Lifregementetsbrigadens grenadier corps. He then walked to the palace. He entered the hall where Gustav IV Adolf sat atop a thorne chair. The major presented the letter to the King. "Sir the reply from Prussia." The major reached out his arm towards his king. Gustav grabed it and began to read it.

"Very well. The Prussian-Norsk Trading Pact is now in effect. Begin to sent shipments as soon as posible. You cango now major. Good Job." The major saluted and turned and left his king. The letter had made his king happy, which in turn made him happy.

Gustav, once the major left, turned to his governemt oficals. "So as we were talking about before. What and where shall we reendforce?"

"Well my majasty, i think we should build another army and send them to Finland, and build up a defence there incase the Russky's attempt to invade. Currently we have 5 armies and 20 ships. So i think it would be wise to purchase a third fleet."

"Make it so then."

OOC: So i bought 1 army and 1 fleet, and have agreed to a trade agreement with Prussia +3 credits. 28 - 4.5 - 4.5 = 19

Current Army Postions;
1 in Denmark
1 in Norway
2 in Finland
2 in Baltics

Current Navy Postions;
20 ships in Sweden
10 ships in Denmark

OOC: Delesa, you have 40 base credits because of your 15 bonus at the beg. of game, so you actually had 43-4.5-4.5=34 Credits total.

The fortress city of Granada came into view, as the King and Royal Council rode hard to get to the town before sunset.

Riding through the massive city gate, the horses began to trot up to the rocky hill upon which lay the Alhambra palace. King Juan VII Fernando always enjoyed the palace; the relaxing music of the Lion Fountain, the columnaded halls and the beautiful Moorish architecture.

In his stateroom, the King assembled his courtiers. There was General Franco y Lopez, High Commander of the Spanish Army, Admiral Ricardo Zerithos, who commanded the Spanish Navy, various Dons and Barons and his Majesty's old tutor, Don Alvaro y Francisco.

The King addressed the Council.

'Gentlemen. The situation in Spanish Morocco is now at a crisis point. The Tuareg Empire is marshalling on our Southern border. We have only the Expeditionary army under General Christian Benelim stationed in Tangier, as well as several mercenary bands under their various chieftains. The majority are Berber tribesmen, the rest, a band of Catalonians.'

The Baron of Valladolid stood from his chair.

'If we could raise a new army here in Corduba, I would be glad to lead them to Spanish Morocco, in defence of your Catholic Majesty.'

'Thank you, dear friend, this is good advice. We shall also see if we can interest other Berber chieftains in a quick alliance, so that we can bolster our forces.'

The Baron nodded and sat down.

'I myself shall continue to Cadiz, to sail with the Royal Navy to Casablanca. I want an army with cannon in the town by the time we arrive.'

'Are you going to engage the Tuaregs, should they attack, Your Majesty?' asked Don Alvaro y Francisco.

'A show of force is necessary, old friend. We must protect our interests. But, if they do declare war, let us offer them a peace settlement instead. This is your responsibility, Don Alvaro. You must come with my and offer them peace.'

'Now, let us make the arrangements I have ordered.'

OOC: 2 armies bought, one in Granada, Corduba and one in Casablanca, Spanish Morocco. One fleet bought in Valencia, Aragon.

Emperor Benedicte sat in his chair comfortably, he carefully eyed the maps that lay before him...all of them were western Europe. "Gentlemen..." The Emperor said in a calm yet demanding voice that demanded respect. The numerous Generals of all of France's Field Armies stood vigilantly, eyeing their Emperor with the utmost respect. The respect he deserved. "As you all know, I have ordered the raising of a tenth army." He reached for his pipe and poured a bit of tobacco in it. The Generals in the room complied with nods of agreement. The Emperor looked back up to them and lit his pipe with the other hand. "I wish to raise two more."

There was shock in the war room, even the mid-level officers who were simply organizing troop numbers and logistics stopped what they were doing and looked to the Emperor with utter surprise. "Two more sire? That's over 160,000 troops...what do you suggest we will be doing with those military forces? Your highness already has the grandest and most highly trained army in all of the world." said General Lucien Petit in a cocky manner, obviously proud of his troops and his country. The Emperor couldn't help but to smile.

"I still wish it." Benedicte said forcefully. "Is this alright with you...General Petit?"

"Absolutely sire, I never doubted your decision to begin with, your highness." Petit spoke nervously, complying with everything the Emperor had suggested.

"Excellant." The Emperor stood from his chair and walked to a large table with a map of Europe gracing its top. "Tell me...what are the reports of this...Islamic Alliance...a term I detest." The Emperor queried, waving his hands in the air for enthusiasm.

"Well sire," a younger man walked forward with a large stylus in his hand. "The Islamics, the Persians, Ottomans, and the Tuareg peoples of the North African desert, have, as I have recieved from my spies, managed to form some kind of coalition amongst themselves." The younger man paused and chuckled a bit. "Hardly a threat to our great people, if I may say so sire."

"Indeed." Benedicte smiled. "What is your name, officer?"

"Colonel Germain Jaillet, of your highness's extensive spy network." The young man spoke proudly.

"Very good Jaillet..." Benedicte nodded and looked off at the map. "Keep up the good work."

"Sire, if I may." General Petit started. The Emperor looked up at the man. "I wish to explain our current situation. Colonel Jaillet has spoken to me about the current buildup of Prussian forces on our borders. I greatly suggest that when we conscript these new armies that we place at least one of them in the Alpine, particularly around Murs Grands and the surrounding area. They will make the Prussians think twice before striking into Belgium or, if they are foolish enough, at the Alpine itself." Petit pointed out the known positions of Prussian troops.

"No." Emperor Benedicte spoke with force. General Petit took a step back from his respected leader. "Prussia will not attack us, and in turn, we will not attack them." Benedicte took a whiff of his pipe and blew the smoke out of the opposite side of his mouth. "King Dietrich is not as hard stomached as his uncle King Wilhelm...he will not fight against the immense French Imperial Army in his first motions as King of Prussia. Instead, he will work with easier prey, perhaps the Baltic...or even the Russians who cannot even hope to defend all of their 'motherland's' borders." Benedicte nodded confidently.

"May I ask, what are the two armies for sire?" The newest General, Ariel Svensk, asked roughly to his new leader. Benedicte gave a sideways smile.

"This...Islamic Alliance is putting much pressure on many nations, especially Russia and Spain. The Tuareg people are planning something big, especially since they are building a massive navy...primitive boats I say, but let us use the term 'navy' liberally...and the Spanish are worried about their southern borders. All the while, they leave the north reletively unchecked. However...they have left much of their military forces in Aragon, and are still recruiting new forces. A few military sweeps with a large enough force could render the Spanish reletively crippled and easily defeated." Emperor Benedicte glared at the map, not looking up to see his General's mixed reactions.

"Sire...would you consider another alternative? Losses will obviously be high in taking Spain. We could do it, but the displacement of our military forces could leave us open to attack from our neighbors, especially the English and the Prussians." Another General, General Marc Ragot, governor of Normandie, informed the Emperor, his eyes full of respect and pride.

"The only other alternative I would accept, is peaceful submission, or making them a client kingdom under my rule. A...protectorate, so to speak." Benedicte had his mind set on this one thing. "In the meantime...send emissaries to the Spanish King, King Juan VII Fernando. Offer him those terms. Also, send an emissary to King Dietrich of Prussia, to the English, and to the Italians...if they ever decide to budge."

General Svensk looked disgruntled. He had desperately hoped that Emperor Benedicte would take action against the Italians before the Spanish, for the Italians were closer to Austria-Hungary...the lands he desperately wanted to control. Yet...it seemed that the Emperor knew what he was doing. He was a smart man, thought Svensk. Perhaps he was too smart for his own good.

"General Svensk." Emperor Benedicte blurted his name and the man instantly looked up from his daze. "I want your army to stay in the Alpine and protect us from Prussian attack. You will be accompanied by General Lizot's, and General Dumont's armies. That's more than a quarter of a million men. General Quenu will stay in Belguim with his garrison. That should be enough to discourage the Prussians should they decide to attack. I also want General Ragot to stay in Normandy and General Monteil to garrison Orleans, just for security's sake against the English should they reject our peace treaty." The Emperor barked the orders to the men whom all complied. "The rest of you, including myself, will travel to Aquitaine with the two newly formed armies, brining our total men in that province to nearly a quarter of a million. I need a lot of logistics commanders to feed and clothe our troops for the coming campaign, should the Spanish fail to meet our demands." Benedicte again spoke with a commanding presence. His many Generals did not feel as if they were being exactly useful.

"If Juan VII Fernando does not accept becoming France's protectorate...he will face our might. Inform him that if he is to make any military build-up whatsoever, that we will strike into his heartlands...and give no quarter." This made his Generals shudder.

This is a madman...he is not satisfied with France so he wants Spain too? What next...no one is safe unless they show the Emperor that they want his friendship...I'm glad I'm on his side. Grand General Petit thought to himself as he looked at the Emperor...a cold, heartless conqueror who simply wanted everything. He secretly hoped that his Emperor would die should this campaign against the Spanish commence.

(ooc: Purchased 2 more armies, moved 6 armies to Aquitaine, 3 armies to Alpine, 1 army in Belgium, 1 army in Normady, and 1 army in Orleans. Kept 20 ships in the English channel.)

A Turning Point

The fleet of Spanish galleons was already sailing from Cadiz to Casablanca by the time someone plucked up the courage to give the news to the King of Spain. As it was, he took the news rather well.

The King sat down in his state cabin, and said to the messenger 'Let me see it.'

The messenger handed him the document bearing the seal of the Emperor of France.

'So, while I am away protecting my border from the Islamic Alliance, His Majesty the Emperor wishes to invade our northern provinces? Have I understood correctly?'

'It seems so, Your Majesty.'

'I see. And the only alternative to an invasion is the offer of our proud nation and all our overseas colonies as a protectorate?'

'Indeed.'

The king sat in his golden chair, pondering, one hand with his State Ring pressed to his cheek.

At last, he said 'Send a message back to the Emperor, asking if we may deliberate over his terms. Mention of course, that we have much that is occupying us here in Spanish Morocco, and that we will certainly give him an answer very soon. Ask his forgiveness for this, but promise him that he will have an answer in the next few months.'

'Very good Your Majesty.' The messenger turned and left.

The King beckoned a retainer, a Moroccan named Khalih Al-Mujab.

'Sir Al-Mujab, when we land, could you send out messages to the various Berber tribes in the area around Tangier and Casablanca? We may need their help against the Tuaregs.'

The retainer spoke in accented Spanish 'Of course, Your Majesty. I understand the importance of this.'

'Good. Thank you. Now leave me please. I must rest before we disembark in Casablanca.'

The retainer left, shaking his head with sorrow for his King.

Otto von Kurnig grumbled as he followed the messenger boy along the hallways of the palace. Apparently there was an emmisary here from some strange for mystical foreign lands, someone whom no one wished to be in the same room as. After several more minutes of walking, something the advisor considered something incredibly unhealthy, the pair reached the ornate guest room.

von Kurnig entered as the two Königlicherschutz opened the door on his behalf. Standing at the wall, studying a tapestry, was a dark-skinned man of middle years. Otto cleared his throat to make the foreigner aware of his presence; Otto was not known for his tolerance of foreigners.

Looking over the emmisary smiled and spoke in a thickly accented language that halted frequently, "Greetings to your Highly. I am here to... be presenting your King... proposal of pact for trading."

Otto nodded. "Might I see this proposal...?"

It seemed as thought the emmisary were in two minds. No doubt he had been instructed to delivery his message directly to the King, however no foreigner was given permission to see the King, short of other monarchs. Eventually the emmisary conceded and extended the sealed treaty to the King's advisor.

Scanning it with his eyes, reading at an immensely fast rate, Otto nodded. "This is all in order. I shall deliver it up to the King and return to you in the morning. In the mean time, you have put to pull that bell-rope if you wish for food, drink or entertainment."

Without another word, von Kuring swept from the room, his large winter cloak billowing behind him.

"Come to me my Grand Vizier," said Selim III.

"Yes, my lord, what is it," replied Yusuf Ziyaüddin Pasha, the Grand Vizier.

"Have you gotten the reports on Europe?"

"Yes. It seems the French are attempting a peaceful submission to Spain, England, Prussia, and Italy."

"Thank you. You may go." *Vizor leaves. "If there will be fighting I will need to build my army."

OOC:bought 1 army in Turkey. bought 1 fleet in Antioch

King Dietrich reviewed the offer of a trade agreement. After some time he looked to Otto von Kurnig. "Very well, what do you suggest?"

von Kurnig smirked briefly, almost lost in the folds of the thick coat. "As a mere Baron I would not presume to know better than His Royal Majesty."

Dietrich rolled his eyes. "You are my advisor, now advise. I have also never known you to pass up a chance to speak your mind."

"Very well your Majesty. Trading would be exceedingly difficult generally speaking, however it is guaranteed to turn a profit. There is, however, the matter of instability in the region to consider. Creating a trade agreement with the Tuaregs could give Spain the wrong impression. On the other hand, if the situation defuses then there is no reas-"

Both doors burst open and a rather flustered Master of Ceremonies trotted forth in his court robes and staff. "Duke Sigismund of Frankfurt to see you, your Maj-"

Karsten, Master of Ceremonies, was shoved to one side by the dishevelled looking Duke.

"My liege Lord, urgent news! It would seem as though France is declaring war on Spain!"

The entire Royal Hall fell into shocked silence. Even functionaries usually concealed by pillars, curtains and other functionaries moved into view. The King sat atop his throne looking flustered. After several minutes he regained his composure.

"Give me all the information, Duke Sigismund."

"It would appear that two days ago the French Emperor Benedicte gave Spain an order to surrender to its' will and become a protectorate. However, as it did so it began to amass forces in the Aquitaine region. No doubt Spain will surrender peaceably or through force.

"Further more, Sire, the French have begun to reinforce their garissons in the Alpines dramatically. We are not sure what this means, but we are considering it as a form of protection from us, though others believe they may be planning to attack into Bavaria or the Rhineland." Sigismund looked grimly at his King, clearly he believed the latter of the two reasons for France's reinforcement.

"What?!" King Dietrich looked down with horror spread across his visage "They would risk a war on two fronts? What kind of mad man is this Benedicte?"

"All information on him determines him to be a very ruthless man, your Highness, a natural conqueror. It may be that he is indeed mad, your Majesty." Sigismund had only limited intelligence on the Emperor of France, however the information that was in the archives made for grim reading.

There was a silence throughout the Royal Court, broken only by the crackle of flames in their sconces.

"Your orders, your Majesty?" The Duke looked up expectantly.

With surprising speed the dumpy King moved from his throne and down to the maps spread across the tables which had since become a permenant fixture.

"If France attacks the Fatherland, I intend to be more than ready. If not, however..." King Dietrich's eyes came alight. "If not, then we shall extend the glory that is Prussia."

Otto von Kurnig, Duke Sigismund and Karsten, Master of Ceremonies, looked at one another then back to their King in fascination. Gathering tiny clay replicas of ships and forces from one side, he began to position them on an enormous map of Prussia.

Twenty minutes later the King looked up at the silent men "Very well, here are my orders.

"Firstly, I order the creation of ten new ships of the line to be stationed at Hamburg. Then you are to enlist fifty-five thousand men into the Black Coats and twenty-five thousand into the Iron Guard.

"Begin moving them slowly and in small numbers, so as not to alter anyone to the increase in military numbers. I want Stuttgart, Ravensburg and Ulm to recieve ten thousand Black Coats each, with five thousand place at Regensberg ready to sail down the Danube. Move the Iron Guard into Stuttgart.

"Keep me abreast of every action involving France, Spain or this new Islamic Alliance." The King paused.

"Pass me the trade agreement." Otto oblieged and watched as the King signed it and handed it back to him. "Tell the emmisary to depart at once. You are all dismissed."


(OOC: 1 new navy, 1 new army, trade pact with Tuaregs.)

Kaiser Dietrich, son of King Dietrich, Prince of Prussia and all her Empire, is a tall man who very much takes after his father. Pale of skin, dark of hair and with piercing blue eyes, he is nothing short of stunning.

During his fifteenth year, Kaiser Dietrich was sent from the Royal Court to Hamburg for he was causing many problems with his good looks. It had happened after the fourth minor nobleman came to complain that his daughter had fathered a bastard child that was pale of skin, blue of eye and black of hair. Of course none would dare state it for fact that Kaiser Dietrich was the one fathering these children, but it certainly made every nobleman with a daughter extremely nervous.

Now Kaiser was to be a most highly apt student, agile of mind, sharp of wit and quick with a blade. At Hamburg he was enlisted into the Iron Guard as a Lieutenant Artilleryman for his mathematics skills were excellent. Despite his rank as Lieutenant and Prince of the Realm, Kaiser was very down to Earth, carousing with the men and on more than one occasion buying the beer and women for the evening.

In his formative years, Kaiser was taught by a series of tutors, overseen by the sharp eye of Otto von Kurnig. This lead to the shaping of the young man's personality. Even though he can speak English, French, Spanish and Polish, aside from his native German, he is notoriously racist, believing in the genetic superiority of Germans. Furthermore, the young Kaiser was instilled with the belief that Prussia is the center of the world and the finest Empire in history.

Some might consider these negative points, however they proved to drive him in his education. The concept that somewhere in the world, there may be a foreigner who was a better swordsman, shootist, linguist, chess player or someone more educated in world history, geography, tactics, politics, court etiquette or mathetmatics was incomprehensible to him, thus he strove his utmost to ensure that upon his coronation, he would be the superior King suitable to lead the superior people.

We find Kaiser now, however, wide awake despite a night of heavy drinking, overlooking the Hamburg harbour. As with his father, Kaiser Dietrich is a morning person, so with coffee in hand at 5:30 in the morning, he is more than ready to face the day. If his men had a single gripe with the young Lieutenant it would be the enthusiasm with which he met the day; an enthusiasm the young Lieutenant seems determined to share with the rest of the world.

As I said, we find Kaiser now sipping a cup of coffee on the battlements of Hamburg Port, surveying the dock workers with mild curiosity. In his nineteenth year he is a man far taller than his father at an even 6 foot. His black hair is medium length but neatly trimmed and he affects a small black beard that consists of a single line from bottom lip to chin.

Watching the dock hands this morning, he considers the reason behind the construction of ten new ships of the line. Mayhap he may even have the chance to be involved in a battle somewhere.

A short portly man rode his horse rather quickly up the steps of the Imperial Palace in Prussia, his body ached terribly from the many days and nights he rode without pause. His bodyguard of Cuirassiers had halted at the gate of the large Prussian city, leaving the emissary on his own to do the business of the Empire and the Emperor.

He reached the courtyard of the Prussian King and dismounted with haste, he smiled as he was finally standing on solid ground and not sitting in the rather uncomfortable saddle of a horse. Approached by two Königlicherschutz Guards, he took what time he had and stretech his aching muscles in both his back and his legs, both had not experienced the feeling of earth under them for more than a day. The two guards finally reached him, they stood proudly with their Cuirasses upon their chest and sword hilts in the hand, though the swords themselves were sheathed. "Haben Sie einen Wunsch?" "What is your business here?" One guard spoke in German and then in French.

"Excusez-moi," the French Emissary started. "It is urgent business, his highness Emperor Jacques Bénédicte of the French Empire has sent the Prussian King..." The emissary looked down at the scroll for a name. "...Dietrich. Yes. I need to have audience with your King Dietrich." The man said in a cocky manner. The guards seemed slightly offended that this emissary did not remember their king's name, but they nodded.

"Ja...zu mir." "Yes...Follow me." The Königlicherschutz guard who spoke first told the Emissary, who complied willingly. He walked with the two men in a pompous manner, a sort of arrogance that made the two guards cringe slightly. They started to talk about them in their native German.

The courtyard of this Palace was impressive, though the sky was gray and it smelled of rain. Gardens and beautiful arrangements of flowers graced the emissary's senses where ever he looked, but the thing that impressed him most was the architecture. Whoever this Prussian Dietrich was, his predecessor sure had some taste. Thought the man.

They walked up the few steps to reach the large wooden doors of the Zentrum Platz, or the central palace-the king's residence during the day. Before the Königlicherschutz opened the door. They frisked the emissary for any concealed weapons. This was all standard procedure, the man knew, but it was very inconvinient. "Alles klar." "He's clear." The frisker said to the other guard, who pressed open the door to the main audience chamber. The other guard simply walked back into the courtyard, keeping a presence of authority in the area.

The chamber was gloriously decorated, almost as much as the French Palace, red carpet led all the way to the throne where Dietrich sat, he was surrounded by Prussian Coats of arms and yet more Königlicherschutz. They then began to approach the throne. The emissary walked closer and closer...he noticed that the King was eating some kind of pastry. He wondered if the King would offer him one. It had been some time since he had last eaten such an item.

"Yes? What is it." The man on the throne spoke, he took another bite of his tasty looking treat. The emissary stepped forward as the Königlicherschutz guard who escorted him to the throne walked backward toward the door to the courtyard, not keeping his eyes off of the King.

"I am Romain Turpin, emissary of the great and honorable French Empire under the equally great and powerful Emperor Jacques Benedicte." The King Dietrich looked at the emissary with surprise. He didn't expect a French Emissary to arrive so soon, especially with the looming conflict against Spain.

"...Go on." The whole room was silent. Just days earlier, they had been wondering if the French were planning attack.

"I come to you, King Dietrich, with a scroll the Emperor, himself, forged." The emissary pulled a scroll from a small pack he carried on his person. An Imperial Guardsman approached the emissary and snatched the scroll, inspecting it for any traces of poison and such. After he was satisfied, he gave the scroll to his king, who nervously cracked the French seal with his finger. He opened it carefully and read:

Dearest Prussian King Dietrich,
As Emperor of France, I regret not being there in your company to deliver you these terms personally, but I feel this method should be sufficient enough for this simple matter at hand. I wish to offer a truce...a peace between our peoples for a period of 3 years. If all goes well, perhaps an Alliance may very well be in due order. I know that you desire peace with our people, and that war between our two superpowers would not be in either of our best interests. So my offer stands. Please comply soon and allow my emissary to return to me with the news of your hopeful acceptance. Should you fail to make a peace, however, these pressing matters against Spain could include your kingdom.

Sincerely,
Empereur Bénédicte of the French Empire

Dietrich re-read the note, ensuring he was reading it correctly. It seems after the panic earlier in the week, the French have no intention of invading whatsoever; but then why reinforce the Alpines? Do they mean to attack Switzerland?

Cream dropped onto the letter.

"You are dismissed for the time being, Romank-" The King's awful pronunciation was in no part due to the large bite of pastry he took. Quickly, he swallowed. So quickly it was unlikely he had chewed. "I shall decide on this matter soon enough. In the mean time, however, you are a guest of my court."

Gesturing to one of the guards, he spoke in a low tone and nodded. "Good day to you, Sir." Handing the note to one of his retainers, he continued to eat the pastry.


As the guard lead the way from the room, he began to speak in halting French, his pronunciation dire. "You are be stay to... the room for you sleep. If hungrier, you may food demand." Continuing along the corridors, it was clear that this part of the palace was undergoing refurbishment. Marble encased the walls and floor while spirals of gold were hammered into gaudy patterns into the pillars.


Otto von Kurnig entered the Royal Hall at the behest of the King. Reaching the foot of the dais, he bowed low. "Your Majesty."

"Otto, what do you make of this?" Gesturing at one of the many functionaries, the King waited for the letter to be passed to his advisor. From amongst the crowds on either side of the foot of the dais, a young man moved forward in white pantaloons and jacket of a nauseating green. A ridiculous feather sprouted from the cap the dandy wore.

Snatching the letter from the fopp's hand, his eyes scanned the letter.

"What is it you wish me to say, my Lord?" Otto looked up at his King, once again wearing a cream-stained outfit.

"I wish to know what you think. Should I accept the truce? Can I trust this Benedicte?"

"Well, your Highness, in my opinion it would be unwise to place too much faith in the French. My advice to you is to accept the truce, however include a clause whereby there may be no more than one hundred thousand men in the Alpines and no more than two hundred thousand men and five thousand cavalry in Belgium, or it shall be considered an act of intended aggression. If they then choose to have numbers in excess of those stated, they will be in breach of the truce."

King Deitrich nodded. "Your advice is sound. Draw up the details and send the emmisary on his way at first light."

Dietrich smirked. Few things ever irritated pompous officials as much as early mornings; Dietrich should know, he did it to Otto often enough.

"Very good, my Lord." Otto bowed low and exited the room to begin work on the counter-proposal.

(OOC: 3 year peace during which time you may not have more than 100,000 men in the Alpines and 200,000 men and 5,000 cavalry in Belgium.)

Emperor Benedicte sat in a study in Palace Aquitaine, reading a book, as usual. The fire snapped loudly and startled the man, who closed his book imediately and cursed loudly. He stood up quickly and grabbed the fire poker, then jabbed it very violently into the snapping wood; embers flew onto his bare skin and singed him. He then proceeded back to his chair to continue reading his book on the history of Spain.

Such were the daily struggles of one of the most powerful men in Europe, his attitude was sometimes considered eccentric and quick tempered. This was best illustrated when he heard people simply mentioning his name and he would go into fits of rage, demanding they tell him what they were talking about. Every time it was harmless gossip, and yet every time he grew to despise his underlings.

Emperor Benedicte was a man shrouded in mystery. He became the self proclaimed ruler of France after the French King Louis XVII died without named heirs. It was the young General Benedicte who rallied the people, killed off opposition for the throne, and beat back other mock armies of France. During this period, he had managed to lose his hearing in his left ear due to a friendly artillery explosion that managed to kill the six men as its crew and Benedicte's horse. It is said that his shellshock developed from that experience and has made him rather edgy ever since.

Not short or tall, Benedicte stood at a comfortable 5'10'' and was of average weight and build. His hair was black, his eyes were icy blue. An average looking man, he could not keep a wife if his life depended on it. Too busy reading or being generally paranoid, he has had many wives, (and many fiascos) all of which have ended up leaving at his discretion. He has but one daughter, though he rarely sees her and often forgets her name. Her age is seventeen, he thinks, and she is considered to be a very beautiful by many, yet Benedicte sees her as a useful bargaining chip, especially in matters of politics.

Benedicte could seem perfectly normal at times, like his meeting with Ariel Svensk. That was an exceptional day for him, he had not had a violent outburst that entire day. Yet some days, people find him screaming at the top of his lungs at books whose history lessons he finds undesirable, like the fall of the Roman Empire, or the rise of the barbarian horde in the east. Often times he is extremely violent, throwing paperweights at mid-level officers, stabbing silverware into the court's animals, etc. Many Generals of his army find his actions disturbing, and actually wonder if he is fit to hold the position of power he does.

An emissary walked in with the Emperor's aide. "Sire. May we have a word in the War room? The Generals have gathered to talk about the recent report we recieved from the emissary we sent to the King of Spain, Fernando." The aide paused.

__________________________________________________________________

"So Fernando wants us to give him more time...all the while half of the French Imperial army is sitting on his doorstep." The Emperor scratched his chin.

"That is correct, sire." General Petit complied, the emissary stood next to him.

"That is unacceptable...however, given the lack of news from Prussia, I will allow them a few more days to think it over..." He stopped as another emissary stepped into the room, he was a larger man, and he seemed to be panting.

"Sire..." He gasped for air. "News from King Dietrich of Prussia." He handed the Emperor's aide the scroll. The aide looked afraid to give Benedicte the letter, fearing he may not like what was written inside. Benedict opened the scroll and read.

"I do not like this agreement...at all. Only 100,000 men in the Alpine? What does this man take me for, a fool!?" Benedicte grunted in anger, he nearly crumpled the note in his grasp. "Unacceptable..."

"Sire, if I may..." Petit started. "As your chief advisor, I suggest your highness take this agreement. Besides, we can easily strike back from Orleans if they do choose to attack. Not only that, but Murs Grands is impenatrable, General Lizot is a great commander and worthy adversary." Petit was shaking, fearing the response he would get. The Emperor seethed for a moment, then relaxed slightly.

"...you're right. We'll take this agreement. Move two armies out of the Alpine, place General Svensk's 10th army in Orleans and the other in Belgium with General Quenu's men. Displace all but 3,000 cavalry and add them to Svensk's forces in Orleans. If they betray us...Petit...it is your head on my desk." Benedicte was dead serious.

"Y-yes...of course s-sire." Petit looked grim, desperately hoping that the Prussians didn't do anything foolish.

" Back to the matter of Spain. King Fernando is a tricky one. If he moves any of his troops to Aragon, I will strike and strike hard. In the meantime...we must consider raising another army." Benedicte nodded off, almost talking to himself. The other Generals were sighing quietly, just wanting this chaos to stop. "What other news of Prussia?"

"They have recruited about a 100,000 more troops, basic infantry sire, and are raising what seems to be a navy of some sort. I have a feeling they do not wish war, but are simply building up their forces for the time being, now that we have a truce. Perhaps they will strike at Austria-Hungary." An analyst spoke frankly to Benedicte, who was seething at the thought of the Prussians being able to build up forces but he was not.

"Very well...I want spies in Spain, lots of them. I want to know every move that Fernando makes with his troops, I want to know every conversation he has with his Generals about this matter. Is that understood?" Benedicte ordered. "Prussia too."

"Yes sir." The men replied in unison.

The ships arrived the next day in Casablanca. King Juan VII Fernando was escorted off the ship, and brought to the fort. Looking out into the plain beyond, the tents and temporary shelters of the newly conscripted King's Army of Casablanca, stretching into the middle distance. All the soldiers looked up to the fort walls, to see their monarch standing there. They cheered uproariously.

'Men! I look upon you with pride and satisfaction! The Tuareg Empire gather on our southern borders, looking to crush Spanish Morocco. Should this come to pass, we will strike, and strike hard. We will use our superior weaponry and years of experience to teach these desert nomads to respect Spain.'

They cheered again.

'Also, I would tell you that of late, the French Emperor Benedicte informed us that he would invade our lands, if we did not become France's protectorate.'

Boos and curses came up from the crowd.

'I tell you now, that I have no such intention. A proud nation such as ours will never accept such a proposal - ever! And certainly not while the House of Castille rules in Madrid. Take heart men - all the eyes of Europe are fixed on Spain, to see what we do next.'

The army was quiet.

'And we will show them what we can do!'

The retainers and courtiers clapped enthusiastically with the king on the battlement - the army went wild with joy. Juan VII Fernando looked down upon them all and smiled in genuine gratitude.

'One more point I wish to address to you men. I do not trust Emperor Benedicte as far as I can throw him! I do not doubt he has spies among us even now!'

The men looked pensive and anxious.

'If you suspect someone of being a spy in the pay of the French, report him to your commanding officer, and it will be dealt with. It is most important that we do not show weakness when two nations jostle us from north and south.'

'If we do go into battle, fight well men, and honourably. And remember, should the Tuaregs attack, I will lead the charge. I will take up my sword. Follow me to glory men, and Spain shall be great again!' The King raised his hand, clenching his sword, and over eighty thousand fists punched the air.

'Viva Espana!' The King cried.

'VIVA ESPANA!!!' The army roared.

The King turned back to his retainers, who looked at him admiringly.

'Time for lunch.' he said.

Days passed since the Spanish delayed the offer of Protectorate status, and Benedicte was getting itchy. "Damn Fernando...make a fool of me." He cursed under his breath.

Benedicte had again started courtship with a Noble's daughter since his arrival in Aquitaine, he figured it would be only a few months before he married her. Hopefully this time, he would be blessed with a strong, healthy son. An heir to the great throne of France...his family was notorious for not having the most virility and longevity. Benedicte kept his mind open though, as he stared off into the beautiful Aquitainian landscape.

His company of Imperial Guards marched along side of him, he was mounted upon a great black steed, simply going sightseeing. Another rider from the rear of the marching column rode up beside the Emperor, who had his eyes closed. "Your highness." The man said. Benedicte opened his eyes grudgingly.

"What is it."

"Sire...it's news of Spain." The rider said. "General Petit wishes your audience with him."

Benedicte exhaled and turned his horse around, the infantry guard kept marching forward as he rode off in the opposite direction, back toward the 1st Army's base of operations.

After a short ride, the Emperor arrived at the camp and dismounted. Two Imperial Guards immediately escorted him to the luxurious structure that served as the operational hub for the armies in Aquitaine.

Once inside, Benedicte found Petit and a collage of other officers in dress uniform looking at maps. "What is it, General." He almost sounded annoyed.

"Sire, sorry to bother you, but this is very urgent." Petit spoke with obvious urgency. "The Spanish King Fernando has rejected our proposal of Protector status. It seems they want a fight, sire."

There was a long silence. Benedicte looked at the maps layed out before him. He remembered one month ago, he had made the threats and raised his armies for combat. But now the moment was here, and Benedicte wasn't ready for it. He knew he was still moving troops from Orleans and still training his new forces for battle, and they weren't ready for it yet. He had hoped the Spanish would simply submit without a shot fired, and that if they refused, the negotiations would last a bit longer...long enough for him to build an army and move them around. War was inevitable.

"They have already killed many of our spies, sire. Why, twelve were killed last week alone. Not many have failed in Prussia though. We are getting good intel on the King's son, Kaiser; beside the point. What I am trying to say is...convince them that you are not joking around. Give a show of force." Petit suggested, even though he didn't really want this war.

"Well enough. General. This is what I want you to do. We have six hundred cannons in Aquitaine. Take three hundred of them and commence shelling Andorra. Keep a constant guard of...say...two Line Infantry Regiments and, if possible, start raiding the city." Benedicte said as the Generals looked stunned. Attacking a country without declaring war was not exactly a well looked upon action, especially if ordered by a Lord.

"Sire? Is this the best method?" A General asked the Emperor. "Threats are different than actual attacks. I cannot honestly say I know what King Fernando will do when he hears the news of Andorra coming under shelling."

"That we shall see. In the meantime, send an emissary to both the King Fernando and the Tuareg leader Amenokel Amud. Tell Fernando that we will attack en masse if he should fail to reconsider our proposal."

"What of the Tuareg Amud, sire?" Petit asked, his voice showed signs of exhaustion.

"Offer them terms of a mutual attack on Spain. If we attack at or near the same time, Fernando will not be able to withstand us. Inform them that Spanish Morocco will be theirs should they comply with us." Benedicte smiled. "Heh heh...foolish barbarians."

Back in the Royal Palace of Madrid, Princess Ximena and Prince Christian, the eldest of King Juan VII Fernando's seven children, were sitting in their father's study looking over maps and documents, preparing for a French Invasion. Their father had charged them, along with the remaining Dons from the provinces of Galicia, Castille and Aragon, to look after the northern border.

'Recent reports say that the French have begun shelling Andorra La Vella,' pointed out Princess Ximena 'Of course, most of the populace have already moved out of the area, but it is a good thing for us that the French did so.'

'Why?' asked Christian.

'The Pyranean Catalonians who live in and around Andorra have sided with us, and those that haven't probably will. The Catalonians are fearsome guerilla fighters - excellent if the French try to cross the Pyranees.'

'Do you think we should move an army closer to the French border?'

'Perhaps. In the meantime, organise basic training for volunteers in Aragon and Castille. If we can inspire enough of the common folk, we can have yet another army.'

Christian poured over the maps on the desk.

'Let us set up a camp near Lerida. That is close enough to the border to allow easy mobility, and we can pick up any Catalonian stragglers and encourage them to join us against the French.'

'Good idea. We'll increase the rewards for the capture of spies. And think of something suitably nasty for the disposal of these despicable curs.'

'Public whipping? Hanging?'

'Or something French? The guillotine?'

'Sounds perfect!'

- It must be noted that these two (Ximena aged 21 and Christian aged 18) are not particularly bloodthirsty, but incredibly loyal to their father and to Spain. Ximena is of particular note, because she rides like a man, has learnt to shoot, and was tutored like a boy, as she was her fathers heir. Thus she has made a reputation for herself, and the people admire her for unique-ness. She is also incredibly beautiful, with soft curled black hair, high cheekbones and large dark eyes. Christian has also inherited good looks, but is the only boy among the siblings. The other girls are Juanita (16), Rosa (14), Cara Rosita (12) Francisca (11) and Melinda (10). -

Christian and Ximena sat back, considering what else to do. After some more minutes of wrangling over troop positions, they went off to the palace gardens to play chess. They packed the papers and maps into their father's writing case, and put it safely in the secret drawer of the desk.

Few looked at the unknown man who wandered the Palace corridors. Dressed in a large bear-skin coat and with a modest amount of silver jewellery, he looked like the son of any minor nobleman. Jakob, however, was no nobleman's son. Infact Jakob had no place in the Palace, yet here he was, carrying documentation of the recent French attack on Andorra La Vella.


Otto watched as the new boy entered his room without knocking. "You, boy! What do you think you are doing?"

Jakob flustered and simply thrust out the collection of reports. Even though he felt a need to shrink back at the approach of the Baron, the money in his purse persuaded him to hold his ground. As Otto reached the boy, he snatched the reports and slapped him hard across the face.

"When next you enter a room without knocking, I shall have your fingers cut off." Turning his back on the seething youth, he broke the seals and read the reports.


Otto hurried into the Palace Hall to see Duke Sigismund once again advising the King. As he approached the table, he cleared his throat noisily and, before King Dietrich could speak, began to recite his carefully planned words.

"Your Highness, France has begun to attack Spain." As he foresaw, there was silence, allowing him to pour onward.

"It would seem King Juan refused the French treaty. At this news, Emperor Benedicte has ordered the assault of Andorra La Vella in the north of Aragon."

Once again, silence. It was several seconds before the King nodded grimly and took the report to read for himself.

Placing the reports onto the table, he looked up at Otto and spoke in an uncharacteristically serious voice, "Very well, then war is inevitable. Otto, I want a report on exactly how much is in the treasury, a detailed map of the Galicia territory, detailed maps of both Acquitaine and Aragon, and keep me updated on any movement, no matter how slight."

Otto nodded, slightly bewildered by the odd requests, and hurried from the hall, writing down what had been said as he went. In truth, most of what he wrote was illegible, but his memory had never failed him yet.

Gustav IV Adolf of Sweden sat atop his throne in sweden. He was talking with his advisors.

"Sir, i belive people don't take us seriously. We are a child in a adults world. I think its time to upgrade and advance."

"Advance?"

"Recruit more men, create strong allies and trade with more nations. I propose we create 4 armies(16credits) and 2 fleets(8credits)."

"Hmmm." Gustav scratched his chin. He was thinking it over. He did want people to respect his nations, but in the meantime he didnt want to create fear in potential allies. But his will for victory took thebetter of him. "Make it so. Place 2 armies in the baltic and 2 more in finland. And dock the 2 fleets in the baltics."

"Right away."

"And get in contact with Prussia and try to set up a 5 year Peace Pact and with the UK, and a trade pact too with the UK."


To Prussia
King Gustav IV Adolf of Sweden and the Baltic States Alliance, would like to set up a 5 year peace agreement between our two nations to go along with our trade agreement.

To England
King Gustav IV Adolf of Sweden and the Baltic States Alliance, would like to set up a 5 year trade/peace agreement. I hope we can agree on some terms as it will benifit our nations greatly.

All signed by King Gustav IV Adolf of Sweden and the Baltic States Alliance and the royal seal

OOC:4 armies, 2 fleets and 1 peace, 2 trade agreements.

King Gustav IV Adolf of Scandinavia

Considering our current trading pact; the Prussian-Scandinavian Trading Pact 1800-1805; and our long term relationship, neutral as it may have been, has encouraged me to accept the offer of a five year Non-Aggression Pact between Prussia and Scandinavia. However, we include in the Non-Aggression Pact the Clause of Maneuvering and Non-Aggressive Occupation.

The Clause of Maneuvering and Non-Aggressive Occupation will give Prussia the right to move up to one hundred thousand soldiers and/or five thousand cavalry through any Scandinavian territory, should it be required, to allow for military positioning in the event of aggressive action against a foreign nation, territory or force. Furthermore, the aforementioned numbers of both infantry and cavalry may occupy position within the Scandinavian territories in a non-aggressive role so as to allow for future maneuvering or the concealment of forces.

Henceforth to be refered to as the Prussian-Scandinavian Non-Aggression Pact 1800-1805, I, King Dietrich of Prussia and all her Empires, agree to any and all of the above clauses.

Dietrich

King Dietrich of Prussia.

A week passed since the shelling and assault of Andorra La Vella. This city is beautiful. Thought Benedicte from atop his horse. He smiled and turned back toward the 1st Army camp, where much work was needed to be done. It was raining rather harshly, and the Emperor's bicorn hat collected rainwater that dripped off and landed on his longcoat, soaking his person further. He trotted his horse into the camp, with his contingent of guards of course, and noticed that this wasn't as much a camp as it was a city. Logistically, the French were very good. Benedicte's quartermasters made sure everyone had ample weapons and ammunition, the proper uniforms, fresh water and food, and of course, pay. His forces grew by the day, newly trained men were set to defend Orleans, while the veterans of Benedicte's last war were sent to prepare for his new one.


"What was the Spanish response to our attack on Andorra?" The Emperor asked as he walked into the makeshift war room tent. Petit and the first army commander, General Joseph Monteil stood over a map of Aragon.

"They have responded with yet more defiance. They have even gone about hiring Pyranese guerilla fighters...and if our reports are correct, Fernando has left his eldest children in charge of their 'defense' against our might." General Monteil spoke, sarcastically accenting the word 'defense'. Benedicte found a chair and fell in it. He rubbed his forehead and looked rather confused.

"...He would protect his lands from our might...with children at the helm!?" The Emperor spat. Monteil and Petit stepped back, afraid he would do something rash. "What does this Fernando take me for!? Does he not feel me serious enough? Does he think I won't attack more Spanish soil if I want to!?" The Emperor stood up and flailed his arms, slamming them on the table with the maps on them. The Generals and officers in the room recoiled. "Very well then!" Benedicte chuckled madly.

"What does this mean for us s-sire?" Petit asked timidly, afraid of this man's power. Benedicte smiled and laughed with rage.

"I'll tell you what it means." Benedicte breathed heavily out of his flaring nostrils, the men in the room were still taking steps backward. "It means war, Generals. All out war." the Emperor looked content, though signs of his rage could be seen through his beet red face. The Generals looked grimly at eachother, then at their Emperor. The men in the room pondered a bit over what had just happened. History was in the making.

"...Shall we go about hiring local mercenaries and scouts?" Petit broke the short silence and seemed confident enough. The Emperor looked pleased with this man, and broke a smile.

"Yes. General Petit. But let us not stop there..." Benedicte paused. "When we march in the next few days, every village we liberate from Spanish control will have it's male population drafted into our ranks, to replace those we may lose. Keep this a under wraps though...the Spanish may find this to be rather...uninviting." Benedicte finished. "Also, keep me posted on their troop positions...we have very little idea of how many men are in Aragon. Also, tell me of the Mutual attack treaty that we sent to the Tuareg peoples."

"Yes sire." Petit said, standing at attention. Benedicte waved him to stand down. "We will march on Aragon when we inform the other armies of our plans. The Spanish won't know what hit them before it comes." General Petit smiled, though his Emperor was obviously a madman.

Dearest and most foolish Fernando King.

For long enough have we put up with your rebellious actions toward the French Empire. We offer a peaceful solution to war and you choose to monger instead. But no more. We will not stand for your obsolete, warlike ways. Your using your people as a shield against us has greatly disturbed my people as well as many of yours, and I seek to oust you and your entire family when I succeed at conquering all the lands you and your ancestors have misused. Let this be known, this is not a war against the Spanish people. This is a war against the Fernando family line, who have long since failed to see that Royalty is a gift from the people, not a divine or hereditary right. IF YOU SHOULD FAIL at meeting our demands, the French Empire will continue to fight you until we end you and your influence over your fair people. Consider this a declaration of war against you and those who hold loyalty to you.

Your most honorable foe,
Empereur Benedicte of the French Empire

(ooc: Declare war on Spain. (costs 8) (Paid) Current peace offering: Become Protectorate and the Royal Family as well as the country will be spared from utter French Domination. Mutual Attack on Spain treaty sent to the Tuareg Amud. Impending reply.)

The Main Ottoman Military waited in the Capital City of Constantinople awaiting orders.

"My lord should we intervene in the French-Spanish Conflict," asked Chief General Ibrahim Pasha.

"No, we will wait until one team starts to be the victor of the conflict."


ooc:bought 1 army in Istanbul

Amenokal Amud looked over the proposal from the french, reading it several times to confirm what he read for his french was not what he considered adequate.

"So this Emperor Benedict has gone to war with the Spanish in the north, and he wishes us to attack the Spanish, assuring us that we will gain Spanish Morocco. Hah! He thinks us stupid! We can gain far more out of a war with Spain!" He threw the letter behind his back and walked towards his war map.

"Hm...give me a report on our current funds." An aide quickly handed Amud a recite for the recent spending."Oh dear. Looks as though we do not have the funds for a ground campaign in Spanish Morocco." He turned his attention back to the board." Inform the fleets. 4th and the fleets to go forth and blockade Casablanca. 1st fleet to blockade Cordoba. 2nd fleet to Galicia, and the third fleet to blockade Castile. And send a message to the Ottomans to please take similar actions against the Spanish>"

"And what of our ground troops?"

"The armies on the Spanish Moroccan border are to deploy for a defensive campaign until we have the funds to invade. Have the 2nd Army join the 4th and 6th armies in Algiers and have them prepare for possible marine landings in Spain."

"Yes sir."

OOC: War declared on Spain (8 credits paid). Navies moving to blockade Spanish ports. Armies on the SM border digging in, and I have armies in Algiers waiting in reserve. Hey France, feel like donating some credits for my campaign?

King Juan VII Fernando was taking his morning constitutional around the gardens of the Fort in Casablanca. A messenger came up, bearing an envelope with a French seal upon it. The king thanked him, and sat down on a stone bench, to read the message.

After a little while, he called for his portable writing desk and a canopy, so that the ink would not dry too fast when he wrote his response.

What he wrote was this.

Dear Emperor Benedicte

Greetings to you. I hope you are well and your family are also in good health.

As far as I can see, you are the only one who has made warlike overtures. The Tuaregs begin to move against us in the south, threatening our North African interests, and then you, presumptiously and callously demand that we become a client kingdom to France?
It is you who are in the wrong. By asking a proud nation of conquerors and explorers of the Americas, to give up and submit their right to their lands, you have the whole of Spain against you. The Spaniards will not stand for any French incursion. They are proud sons and daughters of Spain - and my people!
So it is you, Emperor Benedicte, who is warlike and deserving of all contempt! It is you who have thrown us into this northern war. Your meddling and unwanted attention makes all Spain sick to the stomach!

You are not an honourable man, Benedicte. If you were, you would have accepted our decline to your offer with good grace. When we oust you from our lands, Spain will not make overtures to conquer France's territories. We are not greedy war-mongerers such as you.

Yours,
King Juan VII Fernando of Spain

The king trembled a little at the power of his words. For a moment he wondered if he was doing the right thing. But then he sighed, and laid down his quill pen. His children were well schooled in tactics and economics, and the older Dons and Barons who had seen conflict before would steer them on the right path.

Another messenger came running up, panting a little breathlessly.

'Sir, the Tuareg have begun a campaign in earnest against us.'

'What are their movements?' asked the king calmly.

'A fishing fleet from Cadiz saw two fleets of ships heading to Portugal. They will probably attempt to blockade the ports of Vigo and Bilbao. There is another fleet attempting to blockade Casablanca.'

The king looked up. 'We have a fleet in the harbour have we not?'

'Indeed your Majesty.'

'Then we will fire upon them. Make sure the cannons in the Harbour Fort are constantly manned.'

'And in Vigo and Bilbao?'

'My children will look after them. I will be very suprised indeed if they manage the coastal route along northern Spain unscathed.'

'What of the Tuareg ground force?'

'Send out group of Berber Camel Riders. Ask them to kill any Tuareg scouting parties they find, but leave some and bring them back to Casablanca for questioning. Commanding officers, lieutenants, soldiers like that. Also begin training militia in all towns and cities of any size.'

'Very good your Majesty.' the messenger scuttled away, trying desperately to remember all he had been told. The king's orders were implemented, and his majesty settled back to enjoy the gardens.

Suddenly, he opened his eyes. 'Take a message to my daughter in Madrid. Ask her to make a trade agreement with the Baltic States and with Prussia. Yes, I know they are not Catholic, but look how our supposedly Catholic neighbour has been treating us. Make the arrangements immediately. Ask her to have it sent before the Tuaregs blockade Bilbao, if they ever get there.'

A Messenger to England

Several hours would yet pass before they moved through the foulburg surrounding London proper, into the city and to the gates of Buckingham Palace, by which time they would be cold, hungry and immensely tired; atleast the message was delivered that evening.

The gates of Buckingham Palace, where the King of Britain resided, remained closed to the weary traveler. Two Royal Guards stepped out from the sides and crossed their weapons in front of the gates. "Halt!" one of the two men shouted. "Ye shall not pass under order of the King of Britain." King George III had been battling bouts of sickness and did not like to be disturbed. He fully trusted the current Prime Minister to deal with all of the national and international issues, though he still required updates every month or so. "Take yes business away... the gates shall remained closed as the King is not seeing anyone."

They then proceeded to direct the traveler to Parliament and the Prime Minister's office before returning to their posts on either side of the gate.

Earlier

In his office, Prime Minister William Pitt the Younger sat behind his lavish desk as he poured over a series of documents and proposals. Sitting across from him on the other side of his grand desk were two of the most prominent men in all of Britain. They were General of the British Army, - The Duke of Wellington - Arthur Wellesley and Admiral of the Royal British Navy, Lord Horatio Nelson. Currently, the talk was about military affairs...

The Duke of Wellington spoke first, "It would seem as though many of the continental nations are militarizing and increasing their armed forces... or so say our spies. It can only mean one of two things: they feel threatened or they are about to threaten. The French in particular are gearing up for something large; all reports point towards a massive recruitment for the army."

"Could they be attempting to mount an attack on us?" Prime Minister William Pitt asked, slightly concerned at the thought of a war during such an economically prosperous time.

"Unlikely," the Duke responded. "Their navy still remains a pitiful excuse for a fleet. Certainly not enough to launch an invasion of the isle-"

"Let them try!" interrupted Lord Nelson. "Our Navy is the finest the world has ever seen. We could crush the French without lifting a finger."

"Yes, perhaps. But there are others to be worried about also," the Duke continued, picking up where he had left off. "The band of peoples in northern Africa has recently raised a navy, though their ship designs are still poor in quality, their training lacking any serious knowledge, and their commanders uneducated in naval warfare. However, we should not discount them... they may have to be dealt with swiftly. The Ottomans too have increased their navy and may seek to join together with the Tauregs in order to oppose us."

"In that case, we must increase the navy's holdings. Double the size! Add seventy ships and shove them off to the Mediterranean where they will deal with those Africans," Lord Nelson shouted enthusiastically.

"Now, now... that may be a little harsh. Though I agree we must increase the navy in order to safeguard our assets at home and abroad. You're awfully quiet Minister, what are your thoughts?"

William Pitt had been taking in all of the information as well as military knowledge of the two men who sat in his office. He breathed deeply before tapping his fingers down on the desk. "We will increase our fleet by forty ships to be done with as you please Admiral," he said at last, to which Lord Nelson grinned triumphantly. "And for now, we will raise another Army for the defense of the homeland should the French be stupid enough to attempt an invasion. In time, we will continue to increase both..."

The Minister stood up from his desk, quickly followed by both the Duke of Wellington and Lord Nelson. "That is all... you are dismissed to carry out the agreed upon increasings." The two military men saluted their civil leader and exited his office where a pair of guards escorted them both out of the Parliament building and back to their bases.


Shortly after the two men left, there was a rapping at the Prime Minister's door. "Come in," Pitt said without looking up from the document he was writing. Eventually though, when the door creaked open and the man stepped in, the Prime Minister looked up and smiled. "Ahh... just the man I have been waiting for." Before him, standing just behind one of the wooden chairs, stood Chancellor of the Exchequer Henry Addington, in charge of all financial matters of Britain. Pitt stood and shook his hand before offering him a seat, "Before we start, I should inform you that we will need to collect taxes for the new army and ships we have just decided upon raising."

"Ah, well, hopefully that should not be a problem," he said with a slight grin. "In keeping with your previous decision to attempt to stay neutral in any conflicts, I have decided that we should propose Trade Rights to most of the other nations on the Continent." It was well known that Britain was the economic and industrial powerhouse of the day. Leading the way in the Industrial Revolution, Britain had gained a foot up on the competition and its economy began booming.

"A good plan indeed. Draft the necessary letters and send messengers to Prussia, France, Russia, Austria-Hungary, the Baltic States, Spain, and Italy."

"Aye. I will send with all due speed," Addington replied as he stood up and once again shook the Prime Minister's hand in what was one of the quickest meetings to date. As soon as he left Pitt's office, he dashed to his own and began drafting the necessary letters. Finishing in an hour, he sent the seven messengers off... soon to arrive at their destinations.

[ooc: Just have them arrive at your leader's place and stuff...]

((Bought: 1 Army, 4 Navies: 20 Credits))

Current Deployment:
1st Army: Wessex
2nd Army: Wessex
3rd Army: Mercia
4th Army: Scotland
5th Army: Southern Ireland

50 Ships: The English Channel
20 Ships: Box West of Wessex
20 Ships: East Mercia
20 Ships: East Scotland

Princess Ximena was reading aloud from Don Quixote to her younger sisters when a herald came to the nursery and told her a British messenger had arrived at the palace.

Excusing herself, she went to the throne room, seated herself on her chair rather than her father's and asked that the messenger be admitted into her presence.

The messenger came in, bowed low to her. She stood up and acknowledged him with a smile.

'What did you come here to tell me?' she asked.

'I have a message here from the British Prime Minister, for the King of Spain.'

'I am sorry. The King is in Spanish Morocco, currently organising an army to defend against the Tuaregs. You have visited us at a time of great international tension. My mother is currently in Santiago de Compostela.'

'Let me see the message please, and I will give you an answer.'

The messenger handed the document to an aide, who in turn presented it to the princess.

She read it quickly. After a moment of thought, she handed it back to the aide.

'Tell Sir Pitt, that in the name of my father the King of Spain, I find it most amicable to open trade links with the nation of Great Britain. We are honoured that he should ask us, and pleased that we can give him an acceptable answer. We are not concerned as to how long this trading partnership lasts...if Sir Pitt wishes to terminate this agreement, please tell him just to send us a message.'

She rose, and curtseyed to him, flashing him a gorgeous smile.

'Thank you for bringing us this message. I hope you have a safe journey.'

She swept out of the throneroom, back to her sisters and Miguel de Cervantes.

Otto von Kurnig stared in disbelief at the letter before him. Surely such a foul-up was utterly impossible, yet nevertheless, somewhere things had gone slightly awry. Someone would be flogged heartily for their failure to serve the great Empire of Prussia. They were out of coffee.

Grumbling and setting the letter aside, the Baron of a small and relatively unheard of province in the north-east of Hamburg, reached out for the next in what had become known as an 'In tray'. What the...

After glancing at the letter unseeingly for several minutes Otto von Kurnig chuckled. Britain wanted to open trade? What then had happened to the messenger?


Joachim plodded wearily to the Houses of Parliament, letter locked safely inside the travel bag under his clothing. As he approached an impressive set of gates, he awaited word from the guards before him.


King Dietrich frowned at the letter. "No coffee?!" An outrage, how was one supposed to run an Empire without coffee?

Sighing loudly and slumping in his throne, Dietrich handed the letter off to one of the many aides, only to have it taken by Jakob, whose pocket was lined with francs.

"What next?" Another retainer passed over a note. After perusing it the King frowned, looking confused.

"Didn't we offer the trade agreement?"

OOC: incase some people dont check the OOC forum anymore, i'll be gone till wednesday and probaly cant reply till thursday with all the catching up.

There was a gentle rapping at the door of William Pitt's office. Clearly, he noted, it did not hold the authority of a member of parliament in its rigor. A guard perhaps? he thought as he waited a moment to give the man or men outside hesitation before responding. "Yes, come in."

The door opened, pushed in by a guardsman as another man entered. The Minister studied the man a moment before permitting him to speak. Evidently, he was not from Britain. "Yes, go ahead..."

"Sir, I do humbly present you with a message from King Dietrich of the Prussian Empire," Joachim said in the best English he could muster before removing the letter from his pouch and presenting it to Pitt.

"Ah, perhaps then he sends word about the messenger I sent him," Pitt mused as he took the letter from the currier and cut through the seal with a knife. It had, after all, been many weeks since the message was sent out to the nations of Europe. He scanned the letter once, obviously confused by the message he had been sent, and so he read it thoroughly once again.

"But I sent him an offer for a trade agreement..." Pitt added after reading the letter for a third time. "Oh well... tell them we agree."

Kellaz Furi along with top ranking generals of Persia sat on elaborate, oriental cushions as they waited for Marshall Ali Kessemal to speak. Around them was arrayed a set of maps, which tended to go for sea serpents rather than accuracy.

"Perhaps our forces couldn't sustain a forced march through the desert, perhaps the Ottoman's would lend us the use of their already departing navy?"
Kellaz Furi had finally spoken up after listening to an hour of half baked plans, some involving hot air ballons and very light frigates. "We could marshall the armies march them to Constantinople catch a ride on the departing fleet. The armies would arrive in time for the push on mainland Spain."

General Baliz Harrat looked condecendinly at Kellaz, "Yes but what's in it for us, I know were expected to attack but frankly it would be unlikely that we could gain any territory. The risk to the army at sea is also to high, I have little confidence in the Ottoman fleet.

Kellaz Furi slanted his eyes at the oily general who refused to wear a unifrom," Currently it's better than the Persian fleet. The risk is high but the Spanish shall never know of our coming." The aide slapped a piece of official looking paper on one of the tables, "Sirs, the Shah will sign this as long as he thinks everyone will leave him alone for a little longer. I shall take it to him along with the letter requesting the Ottoman fleet's assistance and they shall both be signed, our armies shall be at war within a month." He stormed out leaving the generals in a permanat state of bewilderment. And later that day two Armies in Iran were being marshalled for the march to Constatinople.

OOC Bought 1 army placed in Iran. And sorry I'll have my factbook up sometime today.

Amenokal Amud toured the lines on the North African-Spanish Moroccan border. His orders for a defensive campaign where being carried out excellently. Deep tranches where being dug where a Tuareg infantry man could walk upright in and not be exposed. The trenches had steps so that the men could step up and fire while still remaining small targets. His men had ruined all the smaller roads in the immediate area, so that the Spanish army would be forced to march down the main roads where his men had dug in.

As he watched his men improve their positions, his chief admiral came to him.

"Grand Amenokal Amud, I have concerns about your plans to blockade the Spanish. I do not believe we have a large enough force of ships to make it to the north of Spain. It is my opinion that they should be pulled back and put on blockade duties in Cordoba or Casablanca."

Amud turned to his admiral,"You concerns are also my own. But I don't believe we can get a message to the fleets to bring them back here."

"We can try, sire."

"Then make it so. Until we can join forces with the ottoman fleet, we stay in the Mediterranean."

OOC: A message has been send to the fleets heading north to turn back, but Spain if you feel like attacking them it makes sense. The armies are digging in but it won't count has a fortification because I don't have 8 credits.

Benedicte crumbled the note from King Fernando angrily. "Damn that man! Damn his children! Damn his grandchildren!!" He spat loudly, stomping his feet on the ground like a child in a tantrum. His aide walked into the private room of the Toulouse Palace stealthily. He brushed aside a lock of hair that invaded his rather effeminate face and then spoke to his master.

"Sire. You will get your revenge soon enough, we are fighting a war with these people now, after all." The man tried to calmly comfort his disgruntled Emperor. "The Generals will handle it well enough. You need your rest, sire. You haven't slept a full night in days." The aide spoke soothingly. Benedicte exhaled quietly and stood from his seat.

"What other news Lambert..." The Emperor tried to calm down, his face was enflamed. The aide Lambert smiled and began to inform Benedicte about the news of the past week.

"Well, sire, I am not much of a military leader...I can just tell your highness what the Generals have said." Lambert smiled to the Emperor, who cracked a smile.

"Go ahead."

"Well, Petit had informed us at the meeting last night that the Tuaregs rejected our mutual attack treaty. You remember that don't you?" He asked and the Emperor nodded. "Well...it seems that the Tuaregs are attempting to blockade the Spanish ports at A Coruna, Santander, or Bilbao in the Galacian province, Barcelona or Alicante in Aragon, and Almeria or Gibraltar in Corduba. We aren't exactly sure what they are planning to do since they are walking right into our enemy's hands..." Lambert chuckled a bit.

"I know." The Emperor started. "Those Tuaregs are a strange people indeed..." He looked off. His aide noticed his left finger on his hand was flicking madly. A sign his aide wouldn't soon forget. "Any news of England?" His voice started to calm down a bit. It seemed he was over the letter.

"Yes sire...It would seem they are building a larger navy..." Lambert winced, waiting for the raving madness to come over his Emperor. None did.

"Really...you know, with their navy and our army, we could become a powerful fighting force. Few could match us...especially not the Spanish." Benedicte looked off into the distance out the window, he seemed very serene. "Of course, we will have to compensate them for their loss of trade with the Spaniards." He turned his head back to his servant.

"Brilliant sire. Shall I dispatch an emissary?" Lambert asked as he pulled a scroll from a pocket he kept on his trousers.

"Yes...send an emissary to the British's Sir Pitt and inform him of the benefits of an alliance with our two powerful nations...also, mention the spoils of war being divided up accordingly." Benedicte nodded as he looked off out the window. He could see Imperial Guardsmen drilling in the courtyard...Benedicte smiled as they were quite the sight to see.

"Immediately sire." Lambert bowed slightly and started to walk out of the Emperor's private quarters, not turning his back to the man out of respect...and his own hide.

Benedicte sighed and remembered something before his servant left. "Oh, Lambert!" The aide stopped suddenly and looked at the Emperor's face. "Inform General Petit that he has the field for this up coming battle...I have many pressing matters in Orleans that must be dealt with accordingly. Like the possible construction and crew conscription of a keel of ships. Oh, and ask the Italian King if he desires a trade pact with us for a few years."

"Right away sire. I shall return with all haste."

(ooc: Benedicte goes to Orleans, battlefield belongs to General Petit. Alliance w/ 2 credits aid attached treaty sent to PM Pitt. (2 credits will be transferred upon acceptance.) Length of treaty: 12 years. Trade Rights offered to Italians for 4 years.)

"This is grim news indeed."

The voice was deep and booming, yet the tone was one that hinted great concern. The response was most certainly merited; the issues presented here today were nothing short of problematic, and boasted years of conflict if swift action wasn't taken immediately. The fact that they had arisen so quickly was equally upsetting, though not totally unforseen. The question now was how this new threat was going to be dealt with.

"We knew it would happen eventually. With barbarians at Spain's gate and a glory-thirsty emperor at the helm of France, it could only be a matter of time before Prussia began grooming more armies. Dietrich is no fool. But neither are we."

King Oktav I, lord of the Austrian-Hungarian Empire, turned from the balcony of his royal palace and began to run a massive hand through his deep, chest-long beard. Standing at 6'3 with a body comparable to a bear's and jet-black eyebrows that were always curiously arched, the king's physical features were astoundingly intimidating, unlike his Prussian neighbor's. But despite his barbarian build and the perpetual sneer he always seemed to be wearing, Oktav was a thinking man. He knew a good oppurtunity when one came knocking on Vienna's doors.

"We are fortunate Dietrich has come to us with formal dinner invitations rather than fourteen raging armies. I think he recognizes the importance of Prussia and Austria's shared cultural background. He would make us friends before he'd make us enemies, so let us be swift in appeasing him."

There was a slight pause, at which the other man, whom was considerably younger and still had a full head of hair, suddenly replied.

"You want me to go?"

Nodding stiffly, Oktav continued in his reasoning as he began to pace around his bedroom impatiently.

"Not only do I want you to negotiate an alliance, but I also want you to try for a defense pact. As it stands right now, the Prussians are the super-power in Europe. Should this Islamic Alliance in the south, who has brazenly attacked Spain, grow confident and try to creep into our territories, I want to be able to sleep at night knowing we've got fourteen Prussian armies watching their every move. It's important I send you because of your royal status. An ambassador is no good; I want to impress upon the Prussians the importance of an alliance between our two kingdoms. Who better to communicate that than Prince Gotthilf, the lone son of Austria's king?"

Raising his eyebrows and shrugging nonchalantly, the middle-aged prince stared back at his father questioningly, still not completely satisfied with the exchange they'd been having. Though the only features the two shared were the dark hair and the piercing eyes, and Gotthilf's stature was considerably lesser and sharper than Oktav's, they both thought along the same lines.

"And what will you do?"

Oktav snorted and paused in his pacing, rubbing his shiny, balding head as he did so.

"There is much to be done while you are off playing in Prussia's royal courts and being fine dined to death. I plan to open communications with Sweden and Russia, possibly with the Arabs too...though I loathe the idea of courting brown sun-worshippers. I've also spoken with my generals about raising four more armies. While it may be costly and time-consuming, we are living amongst war-mongers these days. It is a precaution we'll have to suffer. The main goal though is going to be the courtship of Italy. I plan to visit Italy personally in hopes of creating a barrier between ourselves and that madman Benedicte. Should France and Italy make peace, make no doubt about it-Benedict will strike us and strike us hard. Now, son, I must insist you make your way to bed. I've made arrangements for your departure to Prussia early tomorrow morning,
and I want you to be well-rested and sharp-witted for the start of the day. Make haste, for I am in a foul mood now."

With that Gotthilf exited the room, leaving his King to stew in the days events, and the events of the days to come.

[[OOC: Created four more armies. That's sixteen credits. 35-16=19 credits left. That brings me to a total of nine armies, though I'll roleplay only having five for a couple of days to simulate tyhe training of my new armies. I have one in Bulgaria, two in Serbia, and two in Austria. Prince Gotthilf has departed for Prussia. I'll make a post for talks with Italy, Russia, and Sweden in my next post.]]

General Petit stood over a map, like he usually did. Staring at the clay figures that represented regiments, divisions, and Corps, Petit wearily spoke to the other six Generals and some two-hundred twenty other high ranked officers who stood next to him in the Toulouse Palace Warroom. "Our Emperor has left Aquitaine this morning for Paris with Lady Monor." The General rubbed his head, wondering how the men would take the news of their Emperor leaving on the eve of battle. The Generals and other brass had mixed reactions. "...He goes to Paris to be married and leaves us in charge of the offensive." The men's eyes lit up. Their Emperor was to be married again, usually such times were of celebration, not of war. Perhaps this is Benedicte's wedding present... Thought Petit, but he quickly brushed aside the negative thoughts of his lord and got right back to the maps. I have got to stop thinking such blasphemies against my lord!

"...This is a time of celebration! Our Emperor is to be married!" The fist of a Colonel shot up in the air, followed by a few others. There were almost half-hearted cheers amongst the officers. Petit knew that morale was low...Benedicte had promised the other officers that he would lead the charge and take command of the forces on the field. A promise he had outright broken.

"Alright men. Here is our plan of attack on Aragon. The 1st, 2nd, 5th, 6th, 8th, and 9th armies will be involved in this operation, as you all hopefully know." There were minor chuckles from Petit's little joke. "And, as you all probably know, the armies go from the Bay of Biscay to the Costa Brava in ascending order, 1st army on the west flank, 9th army on the east flank." General Petit looked up to the officers who were nodding in agreement. A good sign so far. "We are going to try to avoid crossing the Pyranees Mountains as much as humanly possible...though the 5th army will have to cross through mountain paths our very own 127th Hussars have scouted for us." Petit looked to a Cavalry Colonel who bore the dress uniform of a Hussar. He bowed as the other officers clapped. Petit cleared his throat.

"Anyway, the 6th army must also cross the mountains from La Vella Andorra. A task that the Hussars have also made easier." Petit looked up at the sixth army General, General Armand Labrousse, who was too busy adjusting his hair to listen to Petit's information. He again cleared his throat. "So, this leaves the 1st, 2nd, 8th and 9th armies on the flanks of the Pyranees. The 1st and 9th will follow their respective coastlines to the nearest city. In the 1st army's case, this is Bilbao. The first army is to capture this city along with assisting the 2nd taking cities here, here, and here." Petit pointed at various towns and major cities. "Resistance is expected to be reletively light in these areas, but don't keep your guard down." Petit looked up to the 1st and 2nd army commanders who nodded at the General as if they understood their orders. Petit took a drink of water from a glass that sat on the table.


"Excellent. Please note that our Light Infantry Escarmousches and Voleurs are already causing havok and attempting to test enemy positions. They should be back by morning next Monday." The Generals nodded, though they did not give that order. Petit had taken it upon himself to do the honors. "Once the 5th and 6th successfully navigate the Pyranees mountain trails and roads, they will march divided and attack concentrated here." Petit slammed his finger on a small dot on one of the illegible maps of the day. "...Zaragoza. The city on the Ebro River." General Labrousse looked at the map attentively, especially after the slammed finger. "The 5th will attack the northern flank, the 6th the eastern. The city won't stand a chance. A majority of the resistance will likely be here. I am going to be frank, gentlemen...the losses will probably be quite high for the Zaragoza campaign." The officers were silent. None of them had spoken since Petit dominated the planning. Petit broke the silence. "Fortunately, Emperor Benedicte has given us the authority to conscript Spanish males between the ages of 16 and 40 at our discretion. Let us hope we don't have to do this, Generals and officers." General Petit again took a sip of water as the men grumbled amongst themselves. "The fifth army will occupy Zaragoza and the 6th will begin a march to Valencia. This will be explained later."

"As for the 8th and 9th...your mission is also quite difficult. You are to march divided and attack Barcelona, their main trade hub. Much resistance is expected, but not nearly as much firepower your men can muster." Generals Dorat and Dumont both chuckled heartily, knowing in their hearts and minds that this was very true. "The 8th army will stay in Barcelona while the 9th attacks Valencia with the 6th. After the battles of Zaragoza and Barcelona, Valencia should be piecemeal. The two armies will depart Valencia and attack here, at Alicante. After that, the 6th moves back to Valencia, and the 9th moves on to take Murcia..." Petit moved the 9th army's token across the map. "...For the kill."

The Generals in the room looked at eachother with content, they began talking amongst themselves, talking about known Spanish tactics like Guerilla warfare, exceptional use of light infantry, among other things. "Please, men." The officers quieted down at Petit's request. "Tell your men to get their rest. We march in three days." Petit looked at his men, rays of hope instantly cleared the cloudiness in their eyes. Petit shouted as he raised his fist "INTO ARAGON!!" The officers cheered loudly. "For Emperor Benedicte!! Hail the Emperor!!"

Strategy Map: http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a232/lukedeutsch/SpainAragonCampaign.png

Deitrich read through the letter from Spain carefully. A desire for a trade pact is a risky thing whilst they are being invaded, especially on two fronts. No doubt the country will be blockaded before much longer... As much as it pains me I shall be forced to decline.

Quickly, King Dietrich penned and apologetic note personally.



King Juan VII, Ruler of Spain and all her Colonies

I trust this letter finds you and your family well at this dark time; may you all come through it unscathed and should you ever need it, refuge can be found in Prussia.

Whilst I appreciate the offer of a trade agreement, I fear that before long your nation shall be blockaded, thus negating the agreement. Once this ugly turn of affairs has ended, should you still have it in your power, I would reconsider the merits of a mutual trade agreement. Until such a time, however, I must respectfully decline.

Yours Sincerely,

Dietrich

King Dietrich of Prussia and All Her Empires.

Puffing lightly at a pipe, King Oktav carefully observed the strangely dressed foreigner before him, clearly in deep thought. The repercussions could be serious; if Austria-Hungary were indeed to show support for this black sheep, other European powers would not look so kindly on it. However, if the barbarians were to get a foothold in Europe, or even if France were to be successful in their latest military endeaver, that could spell out disaster later down the line for the Austrians. Sighing audibly, Oktav finally came to a decision.

"It is a terrible business what France has done to your nation, in addition to what the barbarians are already doing, and I can't help but feel guilt for your plight. Europe has turned its back on you, and on a royal bloodline that has been around for ages. It isn't right. As much as I hate to put Austria's nose where it doesn't belong, I've no choice but to condemn Emperor Benedicte's actions as war-mongering and irresponsible and at the least lend Spain some economic support. Therefore, the trade agreement your fine King, Juan VII Fernando, has proposed has been accepted. We will immediately open up trade routes through our neighbors in Italy and begin to replenish your economy. I will also arrange for the transfer of funds from the Austrian treasury to your own, to help a war-ravaged nation in its time of crisis. Give your king my condolences. I only wish I could do more. At this point in time, Austria can't afford to get involved in such a hostile conflict. You may go now."

Staring down at the Spanish ambassador from his massive white throne in the court of his royal palace, and dressed lavishly in a uniform of a white vest, knotted red pants, and a golden undershirt, Oktav waved one of his giant hands dismissively, effectively ordering the departure of the man before him. The guards quickly escorted the ambassador out of the court, leaving Oktav alone with his majordomo, Ernst Gruenewald. Gruenewald, a decent-sized man with short curly brown hair, a high forehead, and narrow brown eyes, was almost forty-years-old and was one of Oktav's most trusted associates. When he spoke, the king always listened, as his advice and opinions were indispensable. On this occasion it would not seem so, however.

"I'm not so sure it's a wise decision to meddle in the affairs of the French and Spanish."

Oktav threw back his balding head and gave out a raucous snort, clearly amused at Gruenewald's concern.

"My dear Gruenewald, what can the French do? They are already embroiled in warfare...dare they cross through Italy to fight another war? Benedicte won't like it, but that's his problem, not mine. Spain will fall, inevitably, but not without a fight. Benedicte and Islam are thirsty. You think Spain will quench their thirst? No. After Spain goes Italy. After Italy...it is essential we stamp this fire out before it explodes. If that means feeding Spain out of our hands until they finally disintigrate, so be it. The longer we keep France from the doorstep, the stronger our armies get."

Rubbing the back of his head, Gruenewald sighed, a little frustrated but nonetheless content with the response his king had given him.

"Should I begin writing those letters to the Swedes and the Italians?"

Oktav heaved himself out of his throne and placed his pipe on a nearby table, heading for the court's doors as he did so.

"I want you to start as soon as possible. Time is of the essence."

* * * * *

The royal escort through Prussia was probably more grand and expensive than it should've been; when invited to dinner by foreign royalty it was hardly polite to trapse about the said country's cities and towns in glitter and glory, upstaging your own host in the process. But the Austrians, even the rougher, less textured Oktav, had always been advocates of fancy uniforms and grand entrances. It was tradition; it was nationalism. And so it was with a shameless stride Prince Gotthilf and twenty armed guardsmen of his own personal choosing ascended the steps of the Prussian palace, exiting massive, gold-trimmed coaches with white stallions and wagon wheels with the king's coat of arms carved in them. Gotthilf was eager to meet his Prussian cousin and immediately get negotiations underway. France was now on the offensive, and Gotthilf wouldn't feel secure until he knew his country had the eyes of a Prussian on its back. Perhaps he could find himself a classy damsel as well. While the women in his home country were no doubt appealing, there was something about foreign women that made his spine tingle. He was only thirty-four-years-old, and had much more acute physical features than his father.

Oktav was an ugly man, with a mass of web of tangled black hair climbing down his chest and a mouth full of yellow, rotten teeth. His nose looked like it had been lobbed onto his face with careless recklessness, and his arched eyebrows did nary for him either. Gotthilf, however, had a sharper, more mechanical appearance. His nose was straight and pointed like a hawk's, and his teeth, though hardly saint-like, were fairly passable. He chose to be clean-shaven, as his ancestors before him, and wore his hair short and neatly-trimmed. And though his eyebrows were arched, it wasn't in an unattractive manner. Of course, his father was a smarter, more experienced diplomat and an accomplished leader. Gotthilf was never much of a politician as he always fell prey to the money and the women. As he awaited the announcement of his arrival to the Prussian king, he secretly hoped he could battle his demons and leave Prussia with a mutually beneficial agreement.

* * * * * *

It was a furious June rainfall in Hungary, and the new Austrian-Hungarian armies were forced inside their tents for the day for fear of disease. As the downpour continued, General Bajnok Kardos, who had come to be known in recent years as "Bajnok the Bear" or the "Hungarian Bear", sat at a poorly constructed wooden desk looking over some military papers, the only light provided by a dim-lit lamp on the edge of the desk. Bajnok was adequately nick-named as he stood at six foot one and weighed a good two-hundred-and-fifty-five pounds, and bore a heavy brown beard and thick, caterpillar like eyebrows. He was an unnerving force to be reckoned with and no doubt a bloodthirsty savage in battle due to an ungainly temper. It was because of this that military personal tiptoed carefully around him. Such was the case with a Hungarian spy who entered the tent hesitantly despite being drenched. The general looked up briefly before returning to his paperwork, as if he hadn't noticed the spy. The trembling man cleared his throat and slowly began to address his leader.

"Sir, I have urgent news from France."

Kardos looked up again, this time growing agitated. He quickly dropped his papers and mumbled a swift curse.

"Well, get on with it. What say you, soldier? Be quick about it now."

The spy ran a shaking hand through his rain-soaked hair, obviously freezing from the outside weather conditions. Bajnok was not impressed.

"Benedicte h-h-h-has employed a n-n-n-new...a new general, sir. Of Hungarian descent. His name i-i-is...his name is Ariel, sir. Ariel Svensk."

Slowly but surely Kardos' eyes widened with shock, and for several minutes his face became distant, as if his mind was in another plane.

"S-s-sir?"

Snapping to attention, Kardos stood and began to pull on a heavy coat, preparing to brave the terrible weather. Before he exited the tent he grabbed the spy's shoulder and whispered in his ear.

"Retribution is at hand."

With that he ran out into the raging storm, leaving a confused soldier in his wake.

* * * * * * *

Gustav IV Adolf of Sweden,

The King and Holy Roman Emperor of Austria-Hungary, Oktav I, hereby cordially invites you to dine with him at his court in Vienna some time in the month of July, if possible. Among topics of discussion would be the possibilities of trade, alliance, a defense pact, and military strategy should the situation in France boil over to the rest of Europe. He hopes you can find enough time in your busy schedule to comply.

Sincerely Yours,
Majordomo Ernst Gruenewald

* * * * * * *

Kingdom of Italy,

The King and Holy Roman Emperor of Austria-Hungary, Oktav I, hereby cordially invites you to dine with him at his court in Vienna some time in the month of July, if possible. Among topics of discussion would be the possibilities of trade, alliance, a defense pact, and military strategy should the situation in France boil over to the rest of Europe. He hopes you can find enough time in your busy schedule to comply.

Sincerely Yours,
Majordomo Ernst Gruenewald

* * * * * *

To the esteemed King George III of Great Britain,

The King and Holy Roman Emperor of Austria-Hungary, Oktav I, hereby accepts your proposal for a trade agreement. He hopes our nations have an economically beneficial relationship for many years to come.

Sincerely Yours,
Majordomo Ernst Gruenewald

* * * * *

[[OOC: Made trade pact with Spain AND Britain. I'm transferring FOUR of my credits to Spain, for them to use as they wish. That brings me down to 15. Gotthilf is now in Prussia awaiting reception.]]

Karsten, Master of Ceremonies, gestured for the royal guard to open the enormous double doors before him. As on most days, he wore his official court robes consists of white over a crimson under-gown. Clearing his throat as he swept into the room, the Master of Ceremonies smacked the butt of the iron-shod staff into the ground.

"Announcing his Royal Highness, Prince Gotthilf of Austro-Hungary, Son of King Oktav the First of Austro-Hungary." Moving to one side, the aged man allowed the young prince to enter the Royal Hall, which had since been cleared of tables with maps, cream stains and riff raff, including the French spy Jakob.

Now the Royal Hall was bright and airy. All of the torches and been replaced, the marble floor gleamed and tapestries of the Ducal Households now adorned the pillars either side of the room. Those within the room were either Dukes or the Royal Family, even the Royal Dachshund was not present.

Atop the golden throne, sat uncomfortably and sporting a crown at a jaunty angle, was King Dietrich, Ruler of Prussia and All Her Empires. Over the past several months, the King had filled out healthily and now weighed in at just over 270 lbs. Robes of state adorned the body, though while others would seem to be drowning in the many folds and stretches of the fabric and furs, upon Dietrich the robes sat comfortably.

With the approach of Gotthilf, Dietrich rose from the throne with a warm smile on his increasingly round face. "Welcome, Prince of Austro-Hungary, to the Seat of Prussia."

Princess Ximena held the letter from the Emperor of Austria Hungary. Prince Christian was reading it over her shoulder.

'Very generous.' he observed.

'It is indeed. I must write a letter in reply soon.'

'It is unexpected, is it not?'

'Completely! But it is only right to accept. We must try to avoid making more enemies if possible.' She smiled.

Christian went back to the maps on the desk. Ximena took out pen and paper, and wrote a reply.

Dear King Oktav,

We are much indebted to you for your help in this matter. It is good to know that we have some friends still left in this world. If ever you should need Spain's help, just call upon us, and we will do whatever we can to aid you.
Our gratitude in this matter cannot be expressed with proper justice on paper.
We hope you and your family are well, by God's Grace.

Princess Ximena of Spain

'Please send this message to King Oktav of Austria-Hungary. As a token of our gratitude, please also send some of the Andalucian stallions and mares from our stables, as a gift.'

'Yes Your Highness.' said a lackey, and left quickly.

Ximena joined Christian at the desk. More maps and reports were spread across the mahogany surface.

'The French will no doubt send the bulk of their armies through the pass to the east of the Pyranees. Move the newly trained army from Lerida to meet them. Send the 3rd army to Barcelona, to defend the city if the Lerida army are not able to stand against the French forces. We will keep the 1st army in Saragossa (OOC: Saragossa is an alternate spelling of Zaragoza. Sorry if that wasn't clear) and being training another army in Bilbao with the Austro-Hungarian gold. Send the 2nd army that is based in Santiago de Compostela to march with all haste to Valladolid, in case of an invasion to central Castille.
Bring the Baron of Valladolid's army to Valencia, in case the French get that far south.' she paused, scanning the maps quickly '...yes, that should be enough to safeguard us for now. Order the Catalonian guerilla bands to be vigilent for French scouts in the Pyranees.'

She left the room, leaving Christian to instruct an aide in all that she had told him.

"Yes...send an emissary to the British's Sir Pitt and inform him of the benefits of an alliance with our two powerful nations...also, mention the spoils of war being divided up accordingly." Benedicte nodded as he looked off out the window. He could see Imperial Guardsmen drilling in the courtyard...Benedicte smiled as they were quite the sight to see.

...

"Right away sire. I shall return with all haste."

(ooc: Benedicte goes to Orleans, battlefield belongs to General Petit. Alliance w/ 2 credits aid attached treaty sent to PM Pitt. (2 credits will be transferred upon acceptance.) Length of treaty: 12 years. Trade Rights offered to Italians for 4 years.)

As usual, William Pitt was pouring over numerous proposals and documents in the comfort of his lavishly decorated office at Parliament. Recently - actually about two months ago - a new tax bill had been proposed by one of the members of parliament and the Prime Minister was just now getting around to reading it. His work load was immense and the issues never seemed to stop coming. That is why he was quite relived to hear a pair of knocks on his door; it would give him a short break from reading so that his eyes could rest and his mind relax.

"Do come in..." he invited as he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "Don't mind me, I am just tired... I am still paying attention," he added as his rested on the back of his chair and he looked - though his eyes were closed - at the ceiling above him.

"Sir, both the Prussians and Austrians send word that they will agree to our trade alliance. I propose we make it for six years to be reviewed after such time. Quite a boost for our already booming industrial section," Chancellor of the Exchequer Henry Addington said as he took a seat on the edge of a wooden chair at the foot of the Prime Minister's desk. "The benefit to our economy and ability to support our soldiers will be immense and we will be able to continue to build our fleet so that none can near rival us in numb-"

"Yes, yes. That is all very good. Leave the military matters to myself, Lord Nelson, and the Duke of Wellington, will you? You do much better with coins and numbers than a musket and sword," Pitt said as a smile crept onto his face.

"Yes, well met," Addington replied as he too smiled. Since taking over Pitt's position as head of Britain's finance not long ago, the new Prime Minister and he had become quite good friends.

With a sigh, Pitt rocked his head forward and opened his eyes. "I am terribly sorry, but I have loads of work to do. Is there anything else?"

"No, si-... Well, actually, there may be. I was thinking about extending a trade offer to the Islamic Alliance of the south. I believe that includes the Ottomans, the Persians, and the Tauregs. I know you don't like the idea of getting into business with them," Addington continued without giving Pitt a chance to voice his objections. "But with our strong industry and their relatively unheard of industry... we could prosper very well." His eyebrows seemed to scrunch up as he awaited the Minister's response on what he knew to be a very dicey proposal based on Britain's view of the Tauregs and the rest of the lot.

"Hmmm... interesting," Pitt mused as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk and then rested his head on his thumbs so that his index fingers touched the point of his nose. There was silence for several moments as he knocked the idea around in his mind. Eventually, he stood up and gave his reply, "You are a very smart man Addington. I value your opinion and trust your ideas. We shall propose trade to the three nations of the Islamic Alliance." When Addington began looking gleeful, Pitt hit him with the one condition, "BUT, I am also a very careful man, which is why the initial proposal will only be for four years. Should everything go well, I will consider extending the trade alliance."

"Thank you, thank you! I will get right on it." Addington backed out of the room and down the hall as he continued to thank the Minister.

Pitt, on the other hand, rubbed his eyes and plopped back down into his chair. Soon his eyelids became heavy and closed for a short nap...



Only thirty minutes later, the tired Prime Minister was awoken by another, this time much louder, knock at his door. "Wha... ah... yes, come in," he said as the momentary amnesia of sleep drifted away. Placing his glasses back on so that he could see, Pitt noticed a royal guard enter the room with a sealed parchment. "Sir!" he saluted smartly. "I have just received this message from the leader of France."

"France?" Pitt asked, quite surprised. Not it made sense why a guard carried the letter and not an actual currier. Frenchmen hadn't been allowed into the Parliament building or Buckingham Palace for that matter in over eighty years. No doubt the French Currier had been stopped at the door and was now urgently awaiting the return of the guard who had taken his duty to the Prime Minister.

"Yes, sir. This is the message he carries," the guard said as he handed over the still sealed letter.

Pitt took the letter quickly from the guard and began reading furiously.

After several minutes of reading and rereading, the guard became quite eager to know the contents of the letter. "Sir?" Pitt didn't seem to notice. "Sir... if you don't mind me asking, what weight does the letter carry?"

Pitt paused before looking up and then to the guard. "They... They want an Alliance..."


[ooc: Details of the trade agreement to A-H and Prussia are proposed at six years. Alliance and trade agreement agreed to with France for twelve years. France will pay Britain a sum of 2 credits for reparations of forcing a break in Anglo-Spanish trade.]

"Ahh so the English want a trade aggrement with us?" asked the Sultan to his Vizier.

"Why, yes, my liege. What do you think of it?"

"I agree. It could create peace and help our income to prosper," replied the Sultan. "Also, prepare an army in Istanbul for defense."

"Right away. My lord."

OOC:bought 1 army in Istanbul and agreed to trade with England

A Window on Europe

Czar Ivan Mikhail paced his stateroom in the Winter Palace of Saint Petersburg. The lights of the city shone in oily patches through the great floor to ceiling windows. He returned to his ormolu desk, the only things covering it some documents from his spy ring and contacts in the rest of foreign lands, his marble inkwell and finest quills, and a Faberge egg, rest in its carved wooden stand.

Of late, things hand become tense in the rest of the continent. The King of Spain was currently in North Africa, waging war against the Tuareg barbarians, while his eldest daughter held back an assualt from France on mainland Spain.

Meanwhile, the three Islamic Empires had drawn up an alliance, and Prussia seemed indecisive on it's actions. No one seemed willing to come to Spains aid.

The Czar was a calculative, commanding man when confronted with issues of politics and economy, but was in private an exceedingly gentle man. With fifteen children aged twenty three to six, he was immensely fond of his family.
A tall, lean man who discouraged extravagancy, but fond of comfort and good taste.

With such a large empire extending from Poland to Alaska across the Pacific, it was impossible to be the caring monarch so many smaller countries took for granted. Much less approachable than the British or Prussian monarchs and with Russia's reputation for harshness and inclemency, had done much damage in the less civilised provinces. For, he was in the position of not only worrying about the powers of Europe, but those of Asia also - Persia, China and Japan.

An aide came into the stateroom and bowed. He gave the Czar a letter, and back out. Czar Ivan took up a slim silver letter opener, cut the seal of the Prime Minister of Great Britain, and took out the letter.

After some thought, he took out a sheet of the highest quality paper, and wrote his reply.

Dear Sir Pitt,

It is a great privilege to be offered trading rights from such an illustrious nation. I hope that we can make full use of this agreement. I understand that much has happened in Europe of late, and I must say, Russia stands on a sideline. My compliments to you however, for steering your nation in the right direction while King George is regrettably...indisposed.
My greetings to Queen Charlotte and The Regent.

Yours,

Czar Ivan of Russia

He sat back. Hopefully, through this trade agreement, Russia would learn more of the situation of Europe. It was imperative that Russia knew how the political climate of the European states was, in order to successfully navigate among them.

He rang for a messenger, and instructed him to give it to an emissary, for urgent dispatch to London.

Amud examined the letter from Prime Minister Pitt of England while he sat in his tent near the army trenches on the Spanish Moroccan border.

"Hm...alright then. Send a reply stating that we agree to these terms and that we are grateful for the opportunity." He dropped the letter and turned to his aides.

"Have our ships turned around yet?"

"Yes sir. They should arrive on station with the rest of the fleet, perhaps a little while after."

"Delay the fleets actions until they rejoin." He stop and thought."I am finding it hard to make decisions when it comes to the fleet. Give a new order."

"Another one, sire?"

"Yes another one! Scratch the blockading of southern Spain. All ships to Blockade Casablanca."

OOC: Ships are now meeting in North African waters rather than attacking.

A letter to the Tuareg Leader

Dear friend,

I have heard of your plans of the blockade and am wondering of you could make use of the mighty Ottoman fleet. We could help blockade key points of Spain. Please rely ASAP.

Your friend and alliance member,
Sultan Selim III

Please take all measures to exterminate the Spanish navy.

Our fleets will be on the lookout for any Spanish ships

Kellaz Furi looked over the Trade rights with britain it all seemed to be in order , and came to the conclusion that if the Islamic Alliances won to many battles it would get much worse than mild untrust from their European neighbors. A response had already been issued to Lord Pitt and stated quite clearly that the Islamic Alliance was created strickly for the mutual protection and of course Persia would accept England's gracious offer.

Kellaz's writing room, in comparison to the palace was the most spartan of rooms, although it too had a complete marble floor and mosiac ceiling. What he was doing now was behind the Shah's back, but considering you'd have to travel along way to find his back he thought he'd be fine for long enough.


To: His Most Gracious Imperial Majesty Czar Ivan of All Russians
From: His Most Serene Highness Shah Ali Afsharid

Good day, and before I begin I wish to offer our most sincere apologizes for recent hostile actions in the past decade between our two great nations. For a better future and the continuation of mutual acceptance we offer the following package to Russia.

1. Full Trade Rights between our nations and the protection of said trade in all of our futher dealings.
2 A end to all hostilities between our nations for the next four years. We are not at war of course, but we offer the option and our solemn promise that no Persian troops shall enter the russian motherland, and vice versa. The Persian Empire suggests that this relationship shall bolster ailling ties between our nations in the hope of a more peaceful future. Persia looks forward to seeing Russia as an ally, and a friend, as a new star is rising and it shall rise for all allies of the Islamic Alliance.

The aide closed the open door to halt the warm breeze that flowed in freely and moved to seal the smarmiest letter he'd eve written. It didn't particularly matter if the Russians agreed, just that Persia had made the effort. The moon was begining it's never ceasing rise into the night sky above Furi's summer home In Tribuqad as he sat down to right his next letter to the Ottomans.

He left it on marked at the top hoping that it would reach someone of importance in the Ottoman naval command.

As you well know a Persian army is approching Constantinople, looking for passage on Ottoman naval vessels to the front of the Spanish war. Persian high command is looking for confromation that transport shall be arranged for the armies of the Islamic Alliance. As a gesture of good faith we offer the Ottoman empire two credits in the hope that we shall become even stronger friends.

Signed:
Minister of the Interior Kellaz Furi High Aide to Shah Afsharid

He sealed this too he was begining to wonder if he would ever sleep, the entire persian government seemed centered on his head.

From:The Ottoman Empire
To:The rest of the Islamic Empire

Hello my fellow Islamic friends,
what is your position of the conflict in Spain. I am sending ships to take any Spanish fleets but what do you feel about this? Also, what should our priorities be after the war with Spain.

Sincerly,
Sultan Selim III

OOC: Hey Turkey and Persia, wanna start a separate thread for us to discuss our plans for the future?

IC:

To (who ever actually runs Persia, not the Sha),

We, The Tuareg Kingdom, require financial aide. As you are well aware, the Islamic Alliance is at war with the Spanish. My territories are located closest to the Spanish, and as such are at the greatest risk. And as of now, we lack the coin to launch a ground campaign, and are restricted to naval actions.

It is with these circumstances in mind that we ask your aid.

The Grand Amenkol Amud of The Tuaregs

OOC: I just need one freaking credit man.

(Russia)

The Czar was given a letter from the Shah of Persia. He read it calmly, and decided to write back himself, rather than pass it on to one of the noblemen of the Russian Cabinet.

His Most Serene Highness Shah Ali Afsharid

Russia would be glad to see a trade agreement. We are stifled somewhat by a lack of ports and easy trade routes - dealing with such an important trading nation would help us certainly. I also apologise for the hostilities between our nations over the last few years, and I hope this may be a start of a solution.

Yours,
Czar Ivan Mikhail of Russia

He sealed it, and gave it to his valet. Then he called for his dogs and took them for a walk in the palace grounds.

(Spain)

King Fernando was content. His daughter had sent many reports of the French conflict, and he was assured that she was doing her utmost to protect Spain. He could see that the country was still functioning well, and that trade was good, although mainly now with Austria Hungary and Russia.
However, storm clouds gathered on the horizon.

Fishing fleets in the Balearics had reported seeing ships of weird and strange design, moving towards the coast of Aragon. The Tuareg fleet had been harried along the coast of northern Spain, eventually turning back into the Atlantic, but with pitifully small losses.

Casablanca was still blockaded, and even from the fort on the edge of the city, Fernando could hear the constant boom of cannon, as Tuareg ships and the gunners in the harbour towers fought it out.

Meanwhile, Berber Scouts had reported seeing little or no Tuaregs in the deserts and mountains - evidently they had not the resources to invade...yet.
And this delay meant that Fernando was wasting time and money sitting about in Spanish Morocco, just waiting while conflict raged on the northern border.

It would be better if the Tuaregs did attack, he thought to himself. Then we could get this over and done with and back to Madrid.

He stretched in the shade of his canopy in the fort gardens. Ximena was capable of defying any invader he thought. Leave it up to her for a while yet. Just...for now.

The festivities of the arrival of Prince Gotthilf had long since died down, with many revellers lapsing into unconsciousness and being taken to their beds. Gotthilf himself has since retired to bed, leaving King Deitrich to attend to the duties he neglected during the evening.

Reading through the large stack of papers that always found their way to the Royal Hall, the bloated and ever-growing King reviewed the state of affairs in France carefully. Rumours of an alliance with England abounded, whilst the best sources indicated that a full scale invasion was now inevitable.

When investigating further through his papers for information from Britain, he discovered only the unusual fact that trade with Spain had discontinued. Discontinued...

Sighing audibly, he tugged on a bell-pull, causing a retainer to enter the room inquisitively.

"Waken Duke Sigismund and send word to the Duke of Ravensburg. I want them both here within the hour. Then go and sober up Baron von Kurnig however you deem suitable.

"When all parties are contacted, return the maps and tables to the hall."

A curt nod answered, followed by the sound of the doors being shut. It would be a long night.

[\QUOTE]
OOC: I just need one freaking credit man.[/QUOTE]

The Persian Empire agrees to this and finacial aid along with are troops shall arrive shortly.

Kellaz Furi

OOC Sent 2 Credits to Tauregs, and maybe another thread would be good for strategy and such like, so yes.

OOC: I'm just posting to say that I'm not dead, but rather, having severe writer's block. So instead of writing something that's complete shit, I'd rather wait and see if I can create something decent. I'm working on a post, but it's just taking a while. It will be up soon. I apologize for the inactivity.

It was with a sobered, solemn stare that Prince Gotthilf reviewed the other men at the table, the adventures of the week's previous festivities clearly starting to catch up to him. Truth be told he was a little embarassed. His father had sent him on a diplomatic mission to unite Prussia and Austria-Hungary under a like-minded alliance, and thus far he had failed quite miserably, choosing rather to indulge his primal instincts with booze and women. Now he sat opposite of the massive King Dietrich, eyes bloodshot and a thick sheet of stubble smothering his angular face, stewing in his own failure. It didn't make matters any better that the news of a Franco-British alliance had just reached Prussia; the entire Prussian palace was up in arms. His father was probably seething.

Clearing his throat and waiting for the dukes to finish their banter, Gotthilf stood up from his seat and began to pace, much like in the fashion of his father. He thought better when he was moving, on his feet; all this sitting and staring was putting him to sleep. Unknowingly he crept across to the farside of the room where a tapestry of a Prussian monarch long dead stood proud and erect on a pillar. For several minutes he gazed at it, running a hand over his beard in deep thought. Then suddenly he realized with a slight unease that all the talking had stopped, and all eyes were on him. Quickly he returned to his seat, apologizing profusely.

"My apologies, my good hosts. Thinking...I've just been thinking of all the events that have come to pass in recent days. Too much festival, not enough business...I knew I shouldn't have gone to bed with those women but the Prussian royalty is so generous and...my apologies again, my lords. I'm babbling."

Gotthilf tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, as if he were asking the Gods for help. The Austrian prince had never been a wordsmith, and always steemed to stumble over himself clumsily when engaged in debate or discussion. He had always felt that the lords and ladies of the courts in Vienna had regarded him of lesser intellect than his father; the notion infuriated him. Quickly he regained composure and began to speak again.

"Your majesty, I have a purpose here. You and I both know it, and I think it is time we discuss it. I'm afraid I've been caught up in all the celebration in the midst of a European struggle. It is time to put the fine dining and womanizing behind us. Tyrants could be marching for our lands as we speak."

There was a dramatic pause for effect. Then Gotthilf resumed.

"There should be little doubt in either of our minds what Benedicte plans to do. Let Spain be our witness, for God's sake! With the greatest army and the biggest navy now united, there's no telling who will be next after Spain. We must act now. King Dietrich, you are like a cousin to us. Our great nations share heritage amongst our people. Our kingdoms are practically intertwined...if there is any monarch I trust to watch our borders, it's you. You have been a gracious host and an invaluable friend. Please...help us in our time of need, and we shall in return do the same."

* * * * * * *

The heavy clank of boots marching across marble echoed down the massive arched hallways of the royal palace in Vienna as King Oktav seemingly made a mad dash for the courtroom. Thrusting the massive double doors open and disturbing his majordomo Gruenewald from whatever paperwork he'd been buried in, Oktav swiftly made his way to where his trusted advisor was now standing and clasped him on the back, a rotting smile plastered to his clumsy skull.

"You leave for St. Petersburg tomorrow, my good friend."

With a look of besmirchment at the King's suddenly jovial mood, Ernst Gruenewald turned around and began to stack the papers he'd been working on, as if the king had just been joking.

"And what has brought around this turn of events?"

The grin on Oktav's ugly face was almost boyish, if the word could even be applied to one of such atrocious phyisical appearance.

"Word out of Prussia is that Gotthilf has succeeded. Prussia and Austria-Hungary now stand united, my boy, effectively making us a super-power! We must now make haste to Russia and try to win their interest. Should the three of us align, we shall be an unstoppable force. I have already informed the Czar of your departure. Make haste, my boy, for I have my suspicions that the jackal Benedicte will try to interfere given the oppurtunity."

In light of the latest news Gruenewald quickly became solemn, and began to shuffle his papers together in a hurried effort. If the news of Prussia's agreement to an alliance was indeed true, it was key that Gruenewald made it to St. Petersburg as fast as possible. With one last glance at his majordomo, the King exited the room, no doubt on more important business. Today would be a historic day in Austria-Hungary.

[[OOC: Alliance made with Prussia for 10 years. Also trade routes established. Gotthilf is on his way back from Prussia, and Gruenewald has departed for Russia.]]

June 10th, 1800.
Aquitaine-Aragon Border
Deployment Stage

General Petit stood carefully on the balcony of the Government Palace of Andorra, a gathering of lesser brass stood all around him. "How goes the advance?" Petit asked quietly as he stared off into the distant Pyranees mountains of Andorra.

"Excellent sir." A young colonel spoke. "Everything is on schedule. We've only had minor setbacks...a few guerillas blocking our path in the mountains, nothing our Dragoons couldn't handle."

The General sighed as he watched more elements of the sixth army departing Andorra, in particular the supply wagons. "Great news. Just remember to keep our supply wagons guarded at all times by at least a company per train."

"Absolutely sir. It has already been done." The Colonel said confidently, General Petit turned carefully and looked at the Colonel to speak.

"Perfect Colonel. But what I really want to know is how our 1st army progresses." Petit put his hand on his hip. The Colonel looked almost confused. "Why...just yesterday the Hussar cavalry of the 1st gave us reports that a fresh army was trained not six weeks ago is now entrenched there." Petit glared to the Colonel, his intelligence had been wrong and it was too late to divert the 2nd army to make a joint attack with the first on the city. "Your intelligence reports on the resistance was...dare I say...flawed." The General almost made the Colonel melt with his gaze. The man tried to save himself.

"Sir...spotting forces in the field is one thing...but trying to assess a garrison is entirely-"

"Silence. I don't want to hear it. If this attack goes ill, I will place you at the feet of our great Emperor. We shall see what kind of mercy he can conjur...but I wouldn't get my hopes up." Petit warned. His anger barely showed except through the subtle tone in his voice. The Colonel nodded fearfully, his desperately hoped that all would go well or else it would be his head on Benedicte's desk.

"Let us just hope that our men's training and discipline can overcome our enemy's. I have little doubt that it will, but we must expect the unexpected." Petit looked back out to the gorgeous Pyranees mountains, the air was cold and harsh even though it was summer's eve.

_________________________________________________________________

The 1st Army was itching for a fight. General Monteil knew that morale was soaring, he could see it in his underlings whether they be Colonels or Corporals. They all had it drilled into their heads that the French army was so superior to the Spanish's bandits, that many believed Aragon would be taken without a fight at all, and that simply the sight of a column of highly trained French Fusiliers would make the enemy break before a shot could be fired.

Monteil knew otherwise though...yet it was best to let the men keep celebrating their premature victory; it was excellent on the fear of battle that they knew was coming. "Eighty thousand men and a hundred cannon...and we have to root them out." The General said to his staff. They looked almost grim, but optimistic about the effect of their troops on the Spanish.

"This battle will not be easy. We match them man for man, but they are on the defensive today. They are going to be dug in deeply in and around Bilbao..." Monteil continued. "The men are optimistic and morale is exploding. I am counting on you men to feed them a comfortable balance of what to expect, and how they are going to celebrate once the battle is won. Do you all understand?" The officers saluted simutaneously. Monteil waved them down. "Good." The General looked at the map of Bilbao.

"We must keep their backs to the sea, sir." A Brigadier General spoke as he pointed at the map. "Bilbao is a small city, roughly 8,000 inhabitants. The Spanish will most likely set up their command post inside the city and have runners giving orders to all the troops defending it." The Brigadier General looked up at Monteil who was itching his chin. "If we can thoroughly cut them off from the surrounding land by encircling them, we can push them into a tighter spot than they are already. This is all assuming the Spanish are not actually moving but digging in. We don't rightly know what is going on right now as Lieutenant Colbert's Hussars have not yet returned from their scouting runs." The man said almost annoyed with the lack of intelligence they possessed.

"They will arrive soon, General. Don't get too flustered. Hussars have a dangerous duty." The Hussar company Captain tried to calm the evidently bothered man. The Brigadier General exhaled and nodded. "I trust Colbert with my life. He will give you what you want." The Captain reassured everyone.

"Alright..." Monteil started, looking hopefully at the other men. "How are we on supplies?"

"Sir, if I may." Another cavalry Captain stepped up. Monteil nodded and waved his hand. "Thank you sir. As you all know, General Petit in Andorra gave the order for one company of 180 men to defend ten wagons. Since we have put this order into effect, we have had only a few isolated incidents where the Spanish guerillas have been bold enough to attack. Only a few have succeeded. This is in due part to our Dragoons who have turned the tables on our attackers and caused terrible casualties on these...rebels." The captain smiled. "Well, sir, our supplies will be safe for the most part. There may be a few meals missed once in a while, but nothing that will hinder our troops in the slightest." The Captain seemed proud of himself.

"Very good Captain. I am counting on you and your men to eliminate as many of the irregulars as possible. The more casualties we cause against them, the lower their general morale will be, especially since they are irregulars." Monteil looked at his staff once again.

"Now for our deployment. I will leave this up to the Brigadier Generals because I feel they know the limitations on their own troops." The men looked almost confused. They were all wondering the same thing. Why isn't HE doing this? "Just keep the men shooting in the same direction. Present the battle plan to me once it's finished. I will be going for a walk to talk to the NCOs in every Company to get their perspective. I'm sure it would bolster the morale of the men yet some more." The General began to walk out of the tent. "Oh, and let the men know we sent a messenger to Benedicte informing him of our glorious victory at Bilbao."

Benedicte sat in his throne room, the hues of blue and yellow gleamed brightly in the open-air courtyard where only a few were allowed to enter. The General of six months, Ariel Svensk, stood before Emperor Benedicte, sharing some tales of battles long past.

"Oh sire, you had to have been there...we could have used your military genius at Mako." Svensk sat in a chair near Benedicte, the Emperor was enjoying the conversation.

"Indeed, Ariel." Benedicte smiled. "You are a fine commander yourself, it does me much sorrow that you are not involved in the Aragon Campaign." The Emperor said truthfully. "We could've used your skills well."

"'tis alright my lord. I have had all the more time here in Paris drilling my troops to the bone. When they are to be called upon, they will be ready for anything." Svensk looked smug and nodded his head. "Anything."

"That is good to hear, General. How goes the other General here...oh what was his name...ah! General Pineau! Yes...how are his men?" Benedicte smiled, awaiting Svensk's reply.

"Well sire, if you ask me, he is not exactly the most 'classical' of educated people. But he seems to know what he is doing. Pineau fought under you during the Great Blue War, didn't he?" Svensk asked. Benedicte went silent for a moment.

"...yes. Pineau was a Brigadier General of Hussars at the time. It is incredible that he survived this long, especially the way I used Hussars." Benedicte scratched his chin, a beard was starting to develop, his face was shadowed.

"Sir?" Svensk looked concerned for his Emperor.

"Yes...the Battle of Poitiers, about twelve years ago." Benedicte looked off into the flora and fauna of the courtyard. His mind raced back in time, recalling almost everything he ordered that day twelve years ago. Some of it was mistaken, some of it, disasterous. For a few moments Benedicte felt the utmost guilt overcome him, until Svensk interrupted his trane of thought.

"Sire." Svensk was standing now, he looked directly at Benedicte. "Perhaps some other time."

"Yes...perhaps." Benedicte said, a forced smile on his face. Svensk bowed and walked backward, again, not turning his back on the Emperor. When Svensk was out of sight, Benedicte sat again and thought of Poitiers...and the massacre. He was yet again shaken out of it by a familiar voice.

"My lord." Lambert, Benedicte's aid muttered. "Shall I send out invitations for your highnesses' wedding to the lovely Jeanne Lacroix?" Lambert asked nicely, he had an empty scroll he was just waiting to write on.

"Yes, Lambert. Please. Send the invitations to our Nobles and Counts, save the Generals in Aragon right now. Also, send invitations to the Kings, Queens, Regents, Czars, and Shahs of all the nations. We may be able to have a summit here in Paris should they wish it." Benedicte requested very serenely, his mindset seemed distant and aloof.

"Everyone, sire?" Lambert asked almost in disbelief, surely he was expecting the Emperor to disclude at least some nations.

"Yes, Lambert. Everyone. Including the spineless Spanish, the barbaric Islamics, and the backstabbing, money smuggling, foe's friendly Austro-Hungarians. Everyone."

"Right away sire." Lambert bowed and retreated back to his study, where he would work on the invitations with the deep into the night.


Dear Lord(s) of a distant land,

You have been formally invited to attend the royal wedding between the all wise and powerful Emperor Benedicte of France and the beautiful Jeanne Lacroix. They will be wed July 20th of the year 1800 in Paris, France. Please bring the Imperial Staff of your nation, for after the wedding there will be an official summit of sorts where the French Empire may discuss current events and treaties amongst you all. You are welcome to make treaties and trade agreements amongst yourselves should you desire it. The Emperor awaits you, and wishes your presence with the utmost delight.

Sincerly,
The Empire of France and its Territories

"ahh, tell France that we will attend their party with open arms."

"yes, sir."

"I can try to discuss peace and trade. It's perfect."

EDTI:fixed typos

General Pjotr Mistivoj mumbled gloomily at the tired and old reflection in the mirror, wishing for days of glory long passed. He was going to be sixty-one-years-old in November, a number he was secretly dreading, and still here he was with almost nothing to his name. Oh sure, he was wealthy to a certain degree. He owned a modest estate in Ukraine and a plot of land near the coastline of Bulgaria. But his name as a prominent military leader was no longer mentioned when discussing the art of warfare. His days of victory and patriotism were gone, replaced instead with feelings of envy and hate towards his own king. It seemed no matter how long you gave your services to these wretched monarchs, unless you were Austrian you were forgotten. Mistivoj was a far more decorated war hero than those phonies Kaestner and Austerlitz, and yet they were given the titles. They were given the money, the fame, the attention.

Sighing silently Mistivoj turned from the mirror and placed his calloused hands around each end of his gut. He missed his old physical appearance the most. What once was a lean, handsome young gentleman with a flowing head of hair was now a fat, balding old man with a head covered in gray. His forehead was creased and wrinkled like a wad of crumbled paper, and his eyes had telling bags that stretched almost as far down as to his cheeks. The days of old were gone, and he was forced to accept it. If only Ukraine hadn't fallen into this wretched empire...perhaps things would've been different.

Glancing one last time in the mirror, Mistivoj buttoned up the deep blue, gold-trimmed military jacket he was wearing and laced up his shiny black boots. Maybe the ball the King had thrown to celebrate the success of the Prussian alliance would cheer him up. Oktav would have the court filled with much younger maidens, the kind Mistivoj liked, and there would be a magnificent feast. The bedroom the King had lended out to the Ukrainian general alone would've been rather appeasing if the general hadn't known that Austerlitz and Kaestner had been given much bigger, fancier rooms. Such was the way of the Austrians; they looked after their own, meanwhile forgetting about the foreigners who made them what they are. It made Mistivoj sick, but he kept his misgivings to himself for the most part. There were others like him. He knew for a fact that Kardos, the fiercest general Oktav had, and Szader were subject to the same prejudice, despite Oktav's insistance that the Hungarians and Austrians were brothers.

But alas, all the griping was making the general weary. He grabbed a brush and ran it over his thinning hairline quickly, than went to grab his ceremonial sword, trying to forget about how miserable he was. His thoughts were interrupted though, by a sharp rap on the bedroom doors. Opening them up with a frown on his face, Mistivoj poked his bulky, mis-shaped head out into the hallway to discover the Hungarian general, Bajnok Kardos standing there with an agitated look on his face. Rather than wait to be invited in, Kardos found himself headed straight for one of the bedroom's cabinets where liqour was stored. He already had the faint odor of alcohol consumption about him, but that didn't stop him from pouring himself a small shot glass. The great, bearded man threw the liquor to the back of his throat and grimaced, uninterested in the other room's inhabitant, who now had both doors closed and was staring curiously at his compatriot.

"Thirsty, Bajnok? The ball's already started. I'm sure the court is drowning in liquor by now."

The massive Hungarian scoffed in his throaty voice, grabbing the corners of the cabinet to steady himself. If he wasn't drunk, he was certainly tipsy. But Mistivoj took note that he wasn't a happy drunk; something was on his mind.

"Damn the ball! Damn the liquor!"

Like Mistivoj, Bajnok was in full military garb, even sporting that ridiculous spiked helm that the Germanic people had become notorious for using in battle. It looked awkward on a man of such size with such a heavy beard, but Mistivoj hardly thought his companion even-tempered enough to make jest at it. Instead he tried to soothe the younger general's nerves; the last thing he wanted was a raging warrior swinging his sword around aimlessly.

"Quiet now, general. That talk is hardly appropriate, especially in the royal palace. Come, what's the problem? Has your wife refused your will again?"

With a mighty belch and trembling knees, General Kardos managed to heave himself into a nearby armchair where he promptly placed a giant hand over his face in frustration. Outside the palace Mistivoj could see a heavy rain begin to assault the bedroom's windows. This did not bode well.

"If she had I would've beaten the wench mercilessly. The lazy bitch lays fast asleep, though. I can't rejoice, Pjotr...I can't even think straight. He's alive, Pjotr, alive and well! Eating from the palms of the French emperor no less!"

Mistivoj's Ukrainian accent was now heavy with concern, and his tone was considerably lessened, almost to the point of a whisper.

"Who do you speak of, my friend? Who?"

"Svensk. Ariel Svensk."

The room had grown considerably silent, the only sounds radiating from the crackle of the fireplace and an occasional thunderclap outside. The rainfall grew heavier, shaking the windows violently as if to say, "we want in!" It was some time before either man spoke. Finally Kardos ventured forth an explanation.

"They told me he was dead, Pjotr. They said he had fallen at Budapest. They said they'd KILLED the bastard!"

Mistivoj dragged a foot stool before Kardos' chair and took a seat himself, briefly stretching out an arm and clasping his fellow general's shoulder. The eyes that had been so worn and exhausted earlier now gleamed with intrigue at his guest's plight. He had heard of Svensk, and had in fact heard Oktav speak passionately about crushing the resistance he once led against Austria. It was by no mere coincidence this man now stood under Benedicte's command, primed for attack. He was a good soldier, but a better tactician. The news was certainly relevent, in any case.

"Where did you hear this? Can you be sure?"

"Good god, have the Ukrainians no BRAINS? Of course I'm sure! The whole of Europe knows of the Frenchman's newfound commander!"

The inebriated Kardos suddenly lowered his voice and leaned forward, until his hot, sweaty breath was steaming in Misivoj's face.

"And what's worse, Pjotr, is that he hasn't forgotten. How could he? He never forgets. He remembers what I did, no doubt. I bet he seethes over it each and every night he readies for bed and after every sunrise. I sold him out at Budapest. I betrayed his presence, his power, his strategy. He called me a friend and I threw it back in his face--and for what? For THIS? For that fat bitch I go home to every night? For this-this title?"

"Calm, Bajnok. You sold him out for the glory of Hungary, and glory it has! The Austro-Hungarian empire is one of the strongest regions in Europe!"

"But he doesn't forget. He'll come for me, and when he does....he'll kill me."

At this the stone-faced Mistivoj frowned even deeper than before. Although he and Bajnok were hardly the best of friends, the Ukrainian knew the Hungarian well enough to know that this was unusual talk. They called Kardos Bajnok the Bear for his fierce temper and his unmatched rage in battle. He had watched this bearded behemoth smack a three-hundred-pound woman around without batting an eyelid and break a soldier's face with his first blow. How could such an intimidating force bow before a peasant like Svensk? But it was then that Mistivoj understood. He was intoxicated...he didn't know what he was saying, and if he could hear himself sober he'd be throwing a violent tantrum by now. Hoisting his colleague up from the chair by the arm, Misivoj wrapped his arm around the bigger man's broad shoulders and started leading him towards the bedroom door.

"Nonsense talk. Svensk is a gutless princess--you've killed women tougher than him. I won't have any more of this coward talk either. I'm taking you to your chambers. Hopefully you'll wake tomorrow and find your thirst for blood again rather than discover the woman's loins between your legs you've showed me tonight."

With that, Mistivoj began to lead the younger general down the palace hallways, deep in thought about his colleague's misgivings. Perhaps Svensk was a real threat. Either way, whoever he was he had managed to slice into the Ukrainian's festivity time. That warranted offensive action.

An Invitation

Princess Ximena recieved the French Invitation with a smile. Only later in her private quarters did she eventually give herself over to helpless mirth.

Several minutes later, her mother, the Queen of Spain, swept into the room. Although once very beautiful, Queen Maria had become accustomed to the good life, as chocolates and the comfort of palace life had taken their toll on her once slim and vivacious frame. Not fat exactly, but the kind of motherly tubbiness and a very robust character that made just about everyone feel as if she was a favourite aunt, or a charitable hostess.

Behind this screen of affability, lay a forceful will and iron determination. Ximena knew her mother well. She sat down on a chaise, still giggling, and looked at her mother.

'My dear, what has caused you such complete inebriation?' asked the Queen imperiously.

'Mother, we have just recieved an invitation.'

'Really? I do like parties!'

'It is from the French Emperor, Benedicte. An invitation to his wedding.'

The queen took the paper from her, scanning it quickly.

'Well, I must go! See here, the bride is Lady Jeanne Lacroix! I knew her mother well, so I must pay my respects on this happy, happy occasion. Her father, the Count of Toulouse married a dear cousin of mine you know - la, and what a position she is in! To marry that awful frog!'

Ximena began to laugh again, but her mother quietened her with a stern look.

'I imagine that dear Benedicte will have an alternate purpose. He is very subtle - in some respects at least. A tactful war-mongerer but absolutely hopeless in the bedroom I gather. Don't look at me like that!'

'So you will go?'

'Wouldn't miss it for all the gold in Mexico darling.'

'Take an entourage then. And an emissary, should we need to make treaties with anyone. If you have the invitation, you'll be given passage through France I imagine.'

'Certainly. I leave tomorrow. Now, I had better go and get ready.'

'Very well mother. I shall see you at dinner.'

Queen Maria swept back out, trilling one of her arias. Ximena smiled after her, then put the invitation in a safe place, ready for her mothers departure in the morning.

Back in Bilbao

The Baron of Bilbao surveyed the Bilbao Army with satisfaction. He was well pleased that the Princess Ximena had given him charge of the regiment - the first battle in 'Bastard' Benedicte's campaign.

Bilbao was a difficult place to attack. The city lay in a bend of a river, protected on the north, west and east. The city was walled, with turrets and cannon placed on defensive areas to the south and north. The river stretched away in a valley, heading south - the direction from which the French would most likely make their advance. It would be difficult though, the river crossed and recrossed the valley, making it hard for a force of any size to march together.

A camp of a sort had been made in sight of the city's southern gate, on top of a low hill, just across the river. This was where the army was stationed. Some eighty thousand fine young men, willing to serve king and country. The Baron felt proud to be Spanish.

Teams of Catalonian scouts had been riding hard on the hills and mountains, but had so far not reported seeing a French army. They had killed off any soldiers seperated from their units, and burned some wagon trains, but as far as they could tell, the French army was still some way away.

The Baron was pleased with all that was going on. It would be near impossible to encircle the city, what with the mountains on either side, and the river making progress slow. He had prayed to God last night, and felt buoyed up with hope and the thought of victory.

He turned to one of the lieutenants of his personal entourage.

'I think we should have a fireworks display tonight,' he said 'It will strengthen the people's resolve, and give the French something to think about, if they are anywhere close. Seeing us rejoicing should make them think twice about whether they really want to invade our beautiful lands.'

'Send a message to Madrid. Inform the Princess that all is well here. I must rest on what to do tomorrow.' he smiled, and as the lieutenant left, went back to studying the terrain from his south-facing window.

It was very late at the Grand Imperial Palace in Paris, and all but a reserved, small statured man lay asleep. Roughly 5'6'' tall, the middle aged man moved stealthily through the corridors, trying to find his way to the royal kitchen for a midnight snack. He wore silk pajamas, comfortably elegant and embroidered to him and him only. The intials on the right breast: AS.

A two man Imperial Guard patrol walked from out of a corner in the man's path. They saluted him quietly and he waved them down. He continued on. The windows were open, cool air rushed inside the rather confusing corridors, and the moonlight poured in like milk in the promised land. Speaking of milk, he skulked until he found a door that had Cuisine Royale, or Royal Kitchen, scribed over the way. Sneakier than last time, he snaked his way in and saw before him a plethora of delicious fruits, salted meats, dried fish, and even some cold cuts that were not eaten in the royal feast, with Jeanne Lacroix, the Emperor's fiance` as the guest of honor.

He decided an apple would be suitable for this hunger pain, for now anyway. He snatched one up and began to eat its sweet flesh right where he stood. This apple was tastier than usual, it was almost as if someone had placed it out for him and him alone to eat. A calling. A noise came from a darkened corner of the kitchen, behind the hanging salted pork. Quickly, he turned and looked at what seemed to be the source of the sound. Curiously, he moved closer to the shadowy corner to investigate. After a second, he established that it was nothing. He turned to see someone in raw moonlight standing in front of the door. Shocked, he took a step back.

"Hello General Svensk." The caped figure spoke in almost a whisper. Their face was indescernible from the angle Svensk was at. Ariel knew the voice, but couldn't place a name.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" The General demanded an answer from the person at the door. The air was getting colder and thinner. Ariel could hardly catch his breath.

"Oh, you know who I am." The figure paused and stepped forward a few paces, slowly removing the hood. There stood a middle aged man of greater stature than the General, and the face was unmistakable. "If only you can remember Budapest."

"You...you're...I thought the Austro-Hungarians killed you. Austerlitz made the announcement that all rebels, especially the officers, were to be killed." Svensk looked as if he had seen a ghost. In fact, he looked like one.

"And yet, General, here you stand." The figure made a point. The General still couldn't believe it. "It has been a long time, my friend."

"Too long." The two men walked forward to embrace eachother. After a few seconds of hugging, they parted and began a conversation of how their lives had turned since they escaped Budapest. Both were coated in tragedy.

"I was a peddler in the Aquitainian countryside for more than twenty years. I picked up French and voila...I somehow managed to become a General in one of the most powerful armies on the planet." The other man stood in awe, the leader of the Hungarian uprising, one of the members of the Ducal line, had such demeaning work as a peasant. "So. How about you?"

"Oh Lord Svensk...things have gone up and down for years for me...fleeing the Austro-Hungarian POW camp was like escaping from a death sentence, of course." The graying man spoke gloomily. "Five years of hell before me and a young Hussar Captain...oh god, what was his name...ah! Captain Ervin! Before me and Captain Ervin narrowly escaped the firing squad." The man continued, to Svensk's disbelief. "Well, for the most part, I've lived in the new Austro-Hungary...I've moved around a bit, a little bit of Russia, a little bit of Istanbul and Rome...and now Paris." The man grinned at Svensk.

"Well, it is good to have you back, Gergely. You always were good at escaping things." Svensk smiled at the beaming cloaked man. "Especially ill battles."

"Yes, indeed." Gergely looked down and nodded in a joking manner. The two men laughed quietly.

"So...how is home." Ariel asked discreetly and almost with a tinge of sadness.

"That is why I came here, General." Gergely looked at the General's eyes, his pride in his birthplace was shattered and both of them knew it. "I came to tell you how it is now." Both men were grim. "The annexation occured just as you said it would. Hungary became a puppet state of Austria. King Oktav graces his own before the 'conquered peoples', of course, almost all of our countrymen were for the annexation so there wasn't much conquering involved." Gergory told the outraged Svensk the news.

"Damn that pompous Oktav and damn his overzealous lackeys...especially those whore-sons who betrayed us." There was a break in the conversation, footsteps of Imperial Guards could be heard down the hallway through the door of the kitchen.

"You mean Kardos." Gergely stated rather blandly, as if he knew the answer to his frustration. Svensk looked at the only man he had trusted and had not betrayed it. The General did not speak, the words could not come to him no matter how hard he tried. "My lord, Bejnok is alive and well." Svensk looked up in disbelief, he had witnessed too many ghosts in just one sitting. "I saw him drinking heavily at a ball that baffoon of a man Oktav threw together, as a celebration of their alliance with the Prussians." Svensk bit his tongue. He didn't rightly know what to think.

"...He knows you are alive. I am not certain about Oktav yet...but you are renowned all across Europe as being the 'Second Chance General', so I assume he will know shortly." Gergely beamed to Svensk who was still trying to take all of this in. "The world is waiting to see what you are going to do. Some of the tacticians in Italy have suggested that you may try to eliminate the Emperor and take the title for yourself so that you may start a war against Austria. Some scholars in Prussia have even theorized that the chances of you hijacking an army and crossing the Alps into Austria is greater than Benedicte conquering the Tuaregs in open field combat." Gergely cackled as Svensk considered the possibly for less than a second before rejecting the idea.

"...How interesting. I had no idea." The General sniggered at the thought of him being a world-wide celebrity. "But I would never betray the Emperor. I've lived through his war on the other French factions, I've been treated like a king, and he is a good friend. I trust him."

"You trusted Kardos as well, sir. Look where that got you." The man was suddenly brought down to the floor with such speed that he would never have seen it coming even if he had warning. On top of him, Svensk, with a strong grip his throat.

"Don't ever..." Svensk paused. He quickly let go of his throat and stood up. He backed up in horror. The grounded man struggled to sit up. "I'm...I'm sorry."

Grasping his throat, the man nodded carefully. "Quite alright, sir...I deserved it." He stood up slowly, trying to not allow the blood to rush to his head too fast. "Would it be too much to say that Kardos was paid well by the superficial Oktav? I was offered twice what Kardos was offered, but I refused."

Feeling all the more guilty for his attack on his friend, Svensk spoke. "I...thank you. But it probably would have been better if you'd accepted Oktav's offer. You'd be in a better position. A position like Kardos."

"Are you kidding me? You think I'd want to be a puppet in an army that does not embrace my very existance? And have you seen his wife?" The two men cackled quietly, as not to attract too much attention to themselves. "I fear that I must leave before my presence is known. I am, of course, an agent of another nation...and that wouldn't look good on either of our government's desks--especially not yours."

"Who?" Svensk asked with the utmost curiosity.

"I am not at liberty to say, good sir." Gergely sneered at the General who shook his head. "So what will you do now?"

"Now that I know the man I have dreamt of killing for more than two decades is alive and living large off of the bosom of the loathsome Oktav..." Svensk shook his head and looked carefully into the eyes of Gergely. "I am not sure of what I will do. I will kill him though, it is just a matter of when...and where."

Gergely smiled. "Excellent." He then ran off out of the palace without saying so much as a farewell to his friend. He moved stealthily, avoiding the predictable patrols of Imperial Guardsmen. He had to deliver this information to his Imperial Lord, immediately.

"Sincerly the Empire of France and its Territories," the young Colonel finished reading the letter he obviously looked over before brining it to the Shah's throne room."

"Ah...France, my father visted the place once before he was Shah, wonderful place full of exqusite food...fine wines." The Shah stopped abruptly and looked at the message bearer who still stood at back splitting attention. "I suppose an envoy shall repersent every nation, and figures of some importance shall be at this party?"

"I expect so your Majesty...It is expected that the French would like to remove all Taureg influence from Spain, leaving the land soley for France."

"No that is not the point of this meeting it's something something deeper than just Spanish land or an envoy from spain would not have been invited. We can not allow france to become any larger or more powerful it will bode unwell if this summit comes to success."

The colonel along with some of the other palace staff that were in the room looked mildly shocked at the Shah's perceptiveness. This was one of his longest coherent sentances ever and the palace was generally impressed.

"Majesty, i suggest Prince Hizam for this mission, he seems the most diplomatic of your sons."

"Hmm...Hizam can't place the name but I suppose your right, make the preperations Colonel you leave tommorow." The colonel bowed and exited the room doors swinging shut on the Shah and his pleasure filled rooms. Later that evening a party had already been assembled, it consisted of Colonel Jehar, Kellaz Furi, Prince Hizam, 4 ambassadors, 12 Gaurds, and cart load of slaves. When the group departed the next day two additional men had jumped into the baggage and hid themselves expertly, the summit woould have a little shake up with these two.

Algiers


General Marwani Gellarad scanned over his assembled troops 160,000 infantry glistened in their white desert uniforms. His gaze looked over all of them but stopped on his precious cavalry, which glistened in the unframiliar sun. He wondered why they were here through Persia might get something out of the attack but unlikely it would be worth it.

"Seargent, send a runner to the Taureg high general or whatever, the Persians have arrived and were ready for an attack into Spanish lands. We await a plan and your army."

Dietrich was eating breakfast, consisting of twelve rashers of bacon, eight sausages, a pigeon, several mushrooms, two full tomatoes and a side of beef; further me he was drinking a mug of coffee, a glass of brandy and a glass of port.

Otto von Kurnig entered the King's private chambers, a rare honour even to him, though perhaps honour is not the word when confronted with the sight of his King breaking fast over enough food to feed a legion. Fighting back waves of nausea and digust, Otto, who was blanching lightly, handed over the urgent report.

After a moment of breaking away from food, the King, whose grease-stained fingers caused areas of the reports to increase in opacity, read it through and frowned.

"France has begun its' assault in earnest then..." He thought aloud.

"Very well, send a message to my son in Hamburg. I want him in Moscow by the end of the week to invite the Russians into the Eastern European Alliance." King Dietrich paused in thought.

"They may join the alliance if they agree to the unification of Poland under Prussian rule. Inform that we will pay for their loss."

Otto frowned. "Are you sure the boy is ready for such a thing? He has not even completed military training let alone-"

"Do not question my orders this time, Otto. If my son succeeds, tell him he will have my permission to return to court." There was rare steel in the voice of the King, steel that was enough to silence opposition, if nothing else from the sheer shock of such a sound issuing from the cheerful, jolly monarch.

"Very well, your Majesty..." The Baron turned curtly and left the King to the remnants of his feast.

(OOC: Nothing has been offered yet, I will add a post later wherein Kaiser Dietrich offers the Russians the deal.)

OOC:im back

August 12th, 1800

"Sir, we have a plan now that we have the scout's reports." A young and brash Brigadier General spoke to General Monteil before he had even completely entered the tent. He had a great deal of maps and topography charts laid out before him.

"Go on, I'm listening." Monteil removed his Bicorn hat and heavy coat, and he gave it to a lower ranked Comissioned Officer standing next to him.

"Well sir, Captain Colbert has revealed to us the location of the enemy's camp." He started pointing to the maps. "They are located here...just outside of the city." The young officer smiled as he looked up to General Monteil, who was astonished at the sheer incompetence of the Spanish General. "Sir, they are-"

"Flanked by rivers on all sides but one...yes. Sometimes this may feel safe to the defender, yet attackers like us love to attack these kinds of fortifications." Monteil spoke as he looked up to the officer. "I also see they have failed to take the higher ground...they would abandon these hills that overlook their own positions and city?"

"It seems that way, sir. Shall we maneuver our way to the top, as usual sir?"

"Yes. Put the artillery on the high ground. We will be able to hit them and they won't be able to touch us. I also want infantry traps built from the nearby forest. Block their way out with our men...we shall perform a British Battle of Long Island..." Monteil looked up to the grinning and eager officers. "Except we will not allow them to escape."

"Excellent sir. We shall order the Combat Engineer regiments to begin building the traps. They will be complete by morning sir." An Engineer Regiment Colonel spoke up proudly.

"Good news. We march tomorrow morning, we will avoid following the river, and instead follow the ridge on the high ground. For safe measure, keep our light infantry and dragoon regiments on the flanks and the front...I don't want any surprises from these Spanish cowards who skulk in the shadows to kill, rather than do it on open ground like men." There were nods in the tent from the officers. They all knew what they had to do. They just had to follow Monteil's lead. "Dismiss our Cuirassiers and Lancers...order them to perform as Dragoons for the time being. This should bolster our Dragoon force to well over 1,500. That's roughly 350 to 400 horses per flank. Less than I'd like, but this should be sufficient warning should attack come on any flank. Keep the Hussar reports coming in also, Colonel Jean." The General looked at a man in the tent who saluted him.

"Very well. Keep the supplies coming and protected. The last thing I want is an enemy army with the advantage of defense killing my starving and naked men. Is this understood?" All the officers in the tent saluted collectively, Monteil knew they were ready. "Dismissed."

August 20th, 1800

The men in the camp were starting to feel the effects marching fatigue. Poor terrain, hot weather, and long marches meant disaster, especially when climing steep hills and crossing numerous rivers with artillery and supply wagons. Since they had left Irun, just outside of the Aquitainian border, there had been nothing but chaos. Occassional raids by Portugese Riflemen took their toll on the French Army's logistics. Food, fresh water, gunpowder, and hundreds of thousands of lead balls were stolen outright. Patrols would go out to try to snatch the beggars, but they would never return, or rather, return days later without a stitch of clothing on their backs. A distasteful mock on the French forces in the region.

The French would have their revenge at 'Cowards Mound' at Bilbao; the Frech soldiers jokingly called the small sloping hill Cowards Mound due to the fact that the Spanish refused to fight them in open combat before seeking solitude at a 'last stand' position. The Spanish's intended result by fighting a war of attrition was foolhardy, though. The Spanish had a significantly smaller army and mediocre training regiment, the French army had hardy and very well trained men. The Spanish had guerilla fighters, the French had specialized units for both guerilla warfare and counter-guerilla warfare. The Spanish just couldn't keep up with their competitors. It was a lost war from the moment King Fernando declared he would not surrender his nation to the great Emperor Benedicte.

That day, on the twentieth of August, the men began their ascent to the top of Hill 20, nicknamed 'Champions Hill' by the very same French troops who nicknamed the Spanish's mound. Though the going was tough, and the previous night's rain made it no easier, the 1st Army led by General Monteil pulled the heavy artillery and infantry traps the whole fifteen miles, uphill, in under ten hours. General Monteil was impressed with the progress made by the French Army. In just eight days' time, the 1st Army of well over 80,000 men marched from Irun to Bilbao. Though rather tired, the men were not finished. Monteil knew that a great battle of utter importance lay ahead. "Set up the guns here. I want them completely ready for combat by morning..." Monteil ordered the 500th Artillery Regiment of 100 cannon and 1,000 men. The regiment's Colonel looked at the impossible task that beset him, but got to work right away. He figued they would work in shifts.

August 21st, 1800

Morning came, and in his tent, General Monteil sat, listening to the Hussar's scout reports. "Like we said before, sir. They haven't moved and there's 80,000 of them. Just sitting there. They have built some minor fortifications in the small town-village, nothing our boys of the 500th can't knock down."

"Perfect news, Captain. Do you know of their state of alertness?" Monteil rubbed his forehead, his head was aching due to lack of sleep the previous night.

"Sir. They know we are here and aiming at them. I'm damn sure they've realized their mistake in not taking the high ground but holding on to the small village ouside of Bilbao. Though I wouldn't underestimate them. They match us in strength and are on the defensive. Cunning and discipline will win the fight, as I'm sure you know." The Captain spoke as if he'd had many campaigns and fights in his lifetime. "I'm not trying to rush you sir, but if we spook them too much, they may try to make a break for Castile. And yet, if we are caught in the open trying to fight them muzzle to muzzle, we could be seeing well over 50% losses before we could get off the field. I do not know your strategy sir, whether you want a tactical victory or a strategic victory...but it is your call and we will gather intelligence accordingly."

Monteil sat for a long moment. There was a silence that almost unnerved the cavalry captain. Monteil looked up and spoke wearily. "We are going to crush this army here." He paused. "We will not brush this Spanish force under the rug for another army to deal with. We will crush them and prevent their escape." Captain Colbert looked proud and arrogant at the General's order.

"Yes sir." He saluted and left the tent, back to his Hussar regiment. Monteil sat in the tent for a few minutes before the Colonel of the 500th Artillery stepped in and gave him a hearty salute. The General signalled for him to go ahead with his report.

"The 500th is at full combat readiness. We just need your order to commence waking up the enemy." The moustached Colonel stood cold and silent. The General smiled and spoke.

"Commence firing. Start at the inside and work your way out." The Colonel had a slight smile on his face at the General's order.

"Right away sir." He left the tent. Not ten minutes later...the bombardment began.

August 31st, 1800

Ten days of bihourly bombardment (1 hour of shooting for every 2 hours ceasing), nearly round the clock, had taken it's toll on the enemy. General Monteil had recieved reports of the Spanish soldiers being exhausted from the lack of sleep, and constant fear of being killed by the randomly placed French artillery shots. They had also caused significant damage to the fortifications, nearly caving in every trench, knocking down every wall, and destroying many supplies. Soon would be the time to strike, right after the next wagon train of food and ammunition arrived.

"The plan is simple, men." Monteil spoke during a break in the artillery shots. It was about five miles from the camp and heavily defended by a regiment of the General's Imperial Guards, and to the fresh French troops it only sounded like a dull booming sound. "Tomorrow night. We attack in force. I realize you are all wondering why I plan it for tomorrow..." He was correct, the officers had difficulty in understanding why the 1st of September would be a good time to attack. "It is simple really..."

The men guarding the tent could hardly hear the conversation, and they were usually the ones that spread the rumors throughout the entire 1st Army. The were also used by the Generals to spread false rumors, attempting to give the wrong information to enemy spies that they knew were among the French ranks. The men struggled to hear why tomorrow night was so special, but they could not hear due to the muffled booms of the cannon shots. The two guards gave up and just stood guard, like their duty demanded they do. Sunset was coming soon and the men could see the billows of smoke rising from the enemy's camp, and the sea of Spanish troops moving rapidly trying to put out the fires with the water from the river nearby.

After the bombardment ceased for the hour before the stars shone, the men could barely make out fireworks coming from the Spanish camp. "What crazies...our artillery are fireworks enough for me." The left guard laughed heartily as the right guard chuckled.

September 1st, 1800

The day began with a light drizzle and heavy cloud cover, luckily the French kept their powder dry. The artillery continued to pound the Spanish, so much so that the men began to make a tally on how many 12 pounders were fired. Some men lost count at a hundred thousand, others, at significantly higher numbers. Nevertheless, the 500th was pounding the hell out of the Spanish garrison, and both sides knew it well.

"When the cannons stop firing at midnight, we move our troops from Champions Hill to the Spanish camp, under cover of darkness. We will leave our fires burning as normal, but our troops will not be present. Our deception will prove their undoing." Monteil smiled. "Brief the men at two hours before midnight of our operation. We will send the 10th Infantry Division on the East side of the camp, the 12th and the 14th down the center, and the 16th on the West side. The men are already in their corresponding places so don't worry about moving your men too much." The General grinned at his higher staff of Major Generals. "We simply must be fast and swift. If they see us we will be damn near doomed. Though I highly doubt that they will have the ability to see us." The men in the tent chuckled. "Alright. Inform your units accordingly. We will meet back here at 9 p.m. for a status check. At midnight...we move out. Dismissed." The Generals saluted and left the room without speaking a word.

The troops were thoroughly briefed on the situation and told that if they were spotted leaving the camp at all, they were to be shot on sight. The French troops were not going to mess around on this. This operation was life or death, and everyone knew it.

As the darkness came, the troops began to understand why the General chose this night over all the others...it was quite obvious, actually. The men were absolutely impetuous and were itching for a fight. They had marched toward this battle for the better half of a month and now it was here, just waiting for them to take by the horns. They would not fail even in the face of a force equal their strength.

General Monteil walked out of the command tent, very pleased with how things were going. It was the better half of 11 pm now, and at the moment the artillery of the 500th stopped firing...he would give the order. Everyone was in position, the deceptive camp fires were lit, the tents were still set up, the bedrolls were still warm. Everything was perfect. Only a few minutes to go. Anticipation squandered Monteil's thoughts, but he kept his mind clear. He would not call off this attack for the end of the world. Total destruction on either side was the option.

On top of the hill where the 500th continued their deadly barrage, Colonel Pierre looked at his men and the enemy's camp below. They made especially sure that they hit the outlaying trenches first and foremost. These would present a danger to Monteil's force. The Hussar's had also made it clear that every break the French allowed in between the artillery fire, the Spanish soldiers would try to sleep. Unfortunately, this would be their downfall. The Colonel knew his responsibility...he looked to his left and right and brought up his hands to call for a break in the firing. It came, only moments later. "Godspeed, General Monteil."

September 2nd, 1800. 12:15 am.

The entire army was making history at this very moment. Sneaking a battalion of soldiers was one thing, sneaking a division was exceptionally difficult. But sneaking four divisions toward a heavily fortified, yet damaged, camp of at least four enemy divisions was almost impossible...unless the circumstances were correct. Smoke covered the field where the French soldiers were to cross, smoke from the expelled gunpowder the cannons used in excess. Aside from that clever masking technique, the new moon made it extremely difficult to see anything other than the fires of the enemy's camp. General Monteil followed the 14th Infantry Division directly down the center, hoping that the other divisions would be as stealthy as his was.

Another advantage of the French troops was their dark blue uniforms, they blended in well with the night. The Dragoons were especially well suited with this sort of operation, their dark horses and dark uniforms made them almost perfect for the task. At least 80,000 men were moving stealthily toward the oblivious enemy. This fight was already going well.

"Sir." The Major General of the 14th whispered to Monteil. "I believe we can get within fifty yards of the first trenchline before we must order a silent charge. This will undoubtedly throw our enemies off balance. The last thing you'd expect is four full divisions of angry Frenchmen running at you. They will most likely fall back without a fight. Once we lose our surprise, we will have to deal with open combat. We will crush them sir." The zealous man accented his words with his waving hands.

"Very good." Monteil observed the men who were quietly moving like a sea of blue. "The other Generals know this?"

"Absolutely sir. We covered it before you arrived in the command tent. This should be piecemeal." The General smiled widely, though Monteil could hardly see him. Monteil smiled back and followed his men. They were less than 200 yards from the enemy position. "It's ten miles to the top sir. I'll see you there."

"Right General. Give them hell."
_________________________________________________________________________

The 14th Division reached the enemy trenchline first. And, as expected, showed little resistance. Unfortunately, a few hundred shots went off and threw the entire camp into havok. The troops in the camp were very unprepared, many still slept as the alert went up that they were under attack from all sides by what seemed to be the entire French army.

"Oh my god..." The Baron of Bilbao saw and heard gunshots from all directions. "You! Over here, now!" He shouted to a young boy, barely sixteen. "You know those fireworks? Shoot them off at the enemy! We need tracers to see what we are dealing with here!" The young Spanish boy agreed, though he was extremely frightened. He ran off to the storage room where the small rockets and flares were located. The Baron looked out on his balcony and viewed the debacle that lay before him. In utter awe, he wondered aloud how the French got in so close without setting off a single alarm.

The boy ran quickly to the outside and lit the fireworks with a package of dry matches. The rocket shot up in the air and exploded over their northern flank. Everyone who observed dropped their jaw. The Baron witnessed a sea of blue figures, moving quickly marching in what seemed to be a massive block of men...an organic brick that moved with such speed and killed with such haste that the Baron ran down the stairs and out into the streets, where thousands of men were gathering and marching toward the enemy, but it was futile.

The French were gaining a lot of ground, quickly. Not without cost, though. The marching French columns had lost many men due to the second and third trenchlines, which they stormed and captured for themselves. An hour passed and the fighting raged. Artillery from Champion's Hill again started to pummel the Spanish town, just as all four divisions were starting to choke the Spanish almost utterly.

"Give me a situation report." General Monteil spoke casually as a few stray musket balls whizzed by him and his horse. The sky was starting to glow red from the fires inside the town and village, coupled with the beautiful arrangement of fireworks.

"Sir! General Mousant of the 10th Division has been killed! General Signoret has taken command! The 14th is making great progress, but the 16th can't seem to break these Spanish bastards. Should we order the 12th to offer assistance, sir!?" A runner asked Monteil, he had been running from division commander to division commander since the battle began.

"Yes. Tell Bouteiller of the 12th to lend one regiment to the west flank."

"Right away sir!" And the runner ran off toward the 12th to give the orders.

Meanwhile, the Baron was recieving his reports as well. "What do we have?"

"Well sir...we may still have them should we fall back to the final trenchline. We have lost all of our defensive lines save two, and the one closest to the enemy isn't holding out very well. Dreadful casualties...I would say almost ten thousand killed or wounded sir. Our center is especially failing. Yet our left western flank will be able to hold out a little longer, but that is doubted." The officer told the Baron who was running his hand through his hair. "Sir?"

"Our men...the facade...it is breaking." The Baron said, he didn't turn to see his staff of officers. "All I know is...that if we stay here; we are doomed to either capture or mass execution. You never know with that 'Bastard' Benedicte."

"What are you suggesting. Baron." A General, clearly disrespecting the Baron, asked aloud. The man turned slowly.

"We can spare much of our army should we leave one division here and take the other three back across the river. Back to Bilbao." The Baron said deperately.

"Sir. You and I know that's an impossibility. Even if we do move our men back the the city, we will be in the same situation, only worse because they outnumber us!" A cannonball smashed a building outside of the Baron's window. The Baron thought for a moment before another ball hit the same building, smashing it even more.

"Then our only other option is forced march to Castile...we will march down the river toward Zaragossa." The Baron made another suggestion or order, whichever was suitable.

"I believe Monteil has already sealed off the river valley with his skirmishers. He expects us to retreat that way. We should disappoint him and retreat to the south, through the mountain paths. Of course, we will have to abandon our artillery and take only a few supply wagons with us. It will be a long march, sir." The General said.

"Very well. A withdrawl to Madrid is in order. When we get back into friendly territory, we should be heartily welcomed with food and supplies from the civilians." The Baron hoped. "I will stay and overlook the defenses so that you, General, can safely escort our troops to safety."

"...Yes sir. But I advise you come with me to Castile. The King will not welcome the news of the death of his chosen nobility."

"He will also not welcome the news of a defeat at Bilbao. Go General, that is an order." The Baron demanded loudly. The General nodded meekly and left the room with his staff of lesser officers. "Order the division currently defending the western flank to pull back to the main trenchline. Order everyone back." The Baron said to his runners, who reluctantly agreed.

The French forces had taken well over ten miles of land that was previously controlled by the Spanish army. Such progress was incredible, even to General Monteil who was the mastermind behind this whole plan. "What news?" He asked a rider this time.

"Sir. The Spanish troops are pulling back to the main trenchline at the top of this mound. There has to be at least 20,000 of them sir. The rest of the Spanish troops, what seems to be about three incomplete divisions, are attempting to pull out across the bridges to their rear. They are using these defenders as a sacrificial pawn, sir. I say we use this to our advantage." Large explosions were both seen and heard from inside the town. "It will take them about three hours to fully evacuate three divisions across the bridges, assuming about ten thousand men swim across and they leave their guns behind."

"Ha ha...great work Corporal. The defenders' morale is probably extremely low due to the fact that they are deemed the 'unlucky division' that was unfortunate enough to be left behind for our army to ravage. Send the troops from the rear to the front and likewise with the front. Our fresh troops will undoubtedly crush this line of defenders. We must break them before the Spanish can successfully flee. Give these orders to the commanding officers of the four divisions."

"Yes sir!" The rider spoke as he began to ride off. This would be the final push in their battle against the Spanish at Cowards Mound.

Over three hours passed since the first shot was fired, and it was still raging as terrible as ever. The French troops were to overwhelm an overstuffed division of Spanish troops, packed shoulder to shoulder in a deep trench. Artillery support was obviously going to help. Spanish Artillery guns were mostly destroyed in the ensuing battle. This was going to be an interesting maneuver.

Monteil decided to attack one point in the enemy line and concentrate all forces and firepower at that exact place. Another rider was sent to Champion's Hill to order an attack on a 1,000 yard piece of land, packed with at least 2,000 Spanish troops. The artillery fired simutaneously and destroyed much of the fortification along with many troops. Monteil sent in two regiments of Infantry. The infantry were unable to take the line and suffered quite heavy casualties. He did not stop, though.

He sent yet another Regiment, and another, until the little more than half mile stretch was eradicated of enemy troops. The battle would be over soon, the Dragoons and 14th Infantry division poured into the break and captured many thousand Spanish troops, but not before the rest of the Spanish army made a run for the mountains.

The morning sky came, and the men of the French army saw the debacle that lay before them. Thousands upon thousands of men in varying coat colors were scattered about the field, crows and vultures scoured the sites of the dead men, only to be chased away by zealous soldiers who wanted to honor their fallen comrades. Many of the soldiers could hardly believe they survived the night, being as chaotic and bloody it was.

Many more of the men were shaken. They never expected battle to be like it was. The blood, the gore, the grisly pictures that were drilled into their minds of men mauled by bullets and cannon...and it was taken further by the public hanging of the Baron, and his captured Generals. This war would soon be over, many hoped. For if any other battles were as bloody as Bilbao, god help the soldier's soul.

Gustav IV Adolf of Sweden,

The King and Holy Roman Emperor of Austria-Hungary, Oktav I, hereby cordially invites you to dine with him at his court in Vienna some time in the month of July, if possible. Among topics of discussion would be the possibilities of trade, alliance, a defense pact, and military strategy should the situation in France boil over to the rest of Europe. He hopes you can find enough time in your busy schedule to comply.

Sincerely Yours,
Majordomo Ernst Gruenewald

OOC: im sorry i was fishing and away

http://www.allempires.com/empires/polish_lit_summary/polish_lcav_sm.jpg

Gustav IV Adolf of Sweden got word of a dinner in austria. He was thrilled, but due to choppy waters, the ship with the letter was terribly late. But he got a major and 50 other Mörnerska husarregementet saddled up and rode out to the port. They borded a ship and headed out towards Poland where they would cross the land to Czech then on to Austria. They large convoy arrived at the palace and Gustav walked up the steps, dressed in the finest calvary officers uniform. Surrounding him were 20 Mörnerska. They knocked on the doors and entered, going to the nearest respectible person, Gustav prestented the letter.

"I'm here to talk to Majordomo Ernst Gruenewald. We have much to talk about. Make it snappy. Anounce that King Gustav IV Adolf of Sweden has arrived and requests a meeting."

***

Meanwhile back in The Baltic States Alliance, orders where givern that the armies of the BSA were to begin to train. And train they did. Cannons roared at the ranges, blowing marked targets to bits. As Calvary made charges a scarecrows again and again. Infantry were making forced marches all night, preparing for the worse.

A harsh, biting wind swept through the Hungarian encampment, straining many of the already dwindling campfires and forcing most of the newly trained soldiers to huddle closer together. Thus far, December had been the worst month for the two new Hungarian armies. The heavy snowfall, vanishing food supply, and the vast frosts that smothered the camps in the early hours of the morning had proven a worthy obstacle to the Austro-Hungarian trainees, and it came as no surprise that many were starting to turn on their general.

For months now General Kardos had been in his own personal slump. Stories of drunken stupors and embarassing verbal outbursts had been largely circulated through the camp, leaving little doubt that something was wrong with their once ferocious commander. In these harsh times, much of the soldier's only comfort came from plastering their general with insults amongst each other in harsh whispers and low mumbles. This was the case tonight.

"Have you heard about our dear General's latest adventure?"

The rumble of interest that was emitted from the huddled crowd of fully uniformed Hungarian troops clearly indicated that indeed they had not. Many were grinning at just the mention of Kardos' name, which had almost become synonymous with pathetic. Others sipped at wooden mugs of beer quietly, eyes shining with intrigue but bodies too cold to adequately respond. The fire before them was by no means magnificent--it was a wonder that half of them hadn't already retreated to their tents as the day gave birth to the night.

"Another night of drinking and screaming in the king's royal court?"

"Even better! In an unusual display of respect, Kardos chose to honor the local baron of a nearby town by hosting a dinner ceremony at the said baron's house. This of course is in return for the use of the baron's town as a training field. Well, among the attendees was Kardos' pig of a wife--this is all true of course. You know me, boys...would I lie?"

"Only if it meant gettin' yer peter stroked!"

There was a raucous bout of laughter at which the storyteller smiled wryly.

"Good jest, good jest. But my good man, a friend of mine saw this happen with his own eyes! Now, we all know Kardos' wife...she's a wildebeast! If you cook it, she will eat it. Well, she ate at the dinner ceremony all right...she ate the baron out of house and home! Literally! You think they would've restrained the woman when she saw the feast laid out before her, but alas no one did, and the food was gone in the blink of an eye! Kardos' had to send the stable boy for more food!"

"So wut? 'ow's that funny? She does that all the time."

"Comrade, comrade, come now. I haven't finished. More food the stable boy did bring, and more she ate. The festivities stretched long into the night, until the baron deemed it fitting that Kardos and his wife leave. They would've left--very eagerly in fact, if it hadn't been for one problem. Kardos' wife ate so much, she got BIGGER. Just big enough...to get stuck in the doorway."

This time the laughter was hysterical. Fully grown soldiers lay about the campfire holding their ribs and screaming in ecstacy. The punchline had been classic, but the wide grin on the storyteller's face revealed that he was hardly done.

"Oh, but it doesn't end there friends. Kardos insisted that the stable boy break the doorframe with an axe, but the braon wouldn't have it. The baron's house had been passed down to him by his ancestors, and he was hardly willing to destroy it. Instead the stable boy and several other strong men pushed and pushed, trying to force the heathen through the door.They huffed and puffed and strained and sweat, until finally...finally, the woman did budge. She lurched forward like a cannonball, and would've managed just fine had it not been for her dress."

"You mean those drapes she wears? If ye can hang it o'er yer windows, it ain't a dress!"

"Right you are, friend. Her dresses are so long and flowing, and much was the same of this one. It got stuck on a nail."

"So what happened?"

"Well, simply put...it tore off."

Despite the wretched weather, the soldiers were now all in a terribly merry mood. Many were clapping now at the storyteller's finesse in his delivery, while others were still trying to quell the bouts of giggling that now held their bodies in a tight grasp. Of course, the soldier explaining this all was now very proud of himself, and felt confident enough to continue. The attention he was getting was overwhelming...several soldiers had now exited their tents to see what all the fuss was about.

"Can you imagine Kardos' big, fat, naked wife rolling about in the snow like a beached whale, hollering for help? What was even funnier was the look on the baron's face...I don't think he ever saw such a large-"

A deafening crackle silenced the noise and echoed through the night air violently. For several seconds the only sound to be heard was the burning of the campfire. Than slowly a massive man stepped forward, garbed in full general's dress and wearing a disgusted sneer on his bearded face. He holstered his pistol and started a menacing pace before the soldiers, stroking his thick brown beard as he did so.

"Funny...I don't remember that sequence of events. Maybe because...that never happened? I'm going to be frank...the passed couple months I haven't been the world's greatest leader. I hear your talk...your erroneous, ill-informed jesting at my expense, and I understand it. But tonight it all ends. I am finished with my moods, and you all are finished with your jokes. From here on, if I hear ANY man..."

At this line the general's eyes bulged and spittle showered the crowd of quivering soldiers.

"...ANY man at all talks the way they have talked tonight...they'll end up like THIS bastard here..."

Kardos' eyes followed the trail of blood to the body of the storyteller, whose head had exploded like a cantelope upon the impact of the bullet. Chunks of gray brain matter stained the snow a deep, sickening red, thoroughly convincing the soldiers that they had made a mistake. As the enraged general made his way back to his own private tent, he left an air of silence in his wake. Not a single soldier spoke the rest of the night.

* * * * * * *

"And now, presenting his royal highness...King Gustav IV Adolf of Sweden!"

To see the giant King Oktav leap from his throne could almost be perceived as comical, what with his waist-length beard and oddly arched eyebrows. Nonetheless, nobody laughed--to do so in the presence of such prominent European royalty would've been suicide. Boldly embracing Gustav in a hug and clasping him on the back with two ogre-like hands, Oktav spoke enthusiastically for the whole court to hear.

"My friend, my good friend, it is good to have you here in Vienna! Wait until you see the feast we have prepared for your arrival...it will make you blush, my good king. Such good timing too, might I say! My son Gotthilf is back from Prussia...I'm sure you've heard the news! Bah, but here I am going on about everything and nothing, and you've just had a wretched journey...follow me to the dining hall...we've much to speak about."

The short walk through the royal palace to the dining hall must've been interesting for Gustav; Oktav made a point to speak about every tapestry hanging in the hallways, recalling great previous Austrian royalty with an apparent sense of pride and nationalism. In truth, he was setting Gustav up for a proposal...whether or not he accepted would probably be based upon his visit and the problems presented throughout its duration. If Gustav did indeed agree to Oktav's idea, Austria-Hungary would be a centerpiece of power in Europe for years to come.

Following a massive feast consisting of every known animal to Austria and the territories surrounding it, the king sat back in his chair at the long and impressive table, which was now smothered in empty dishes and random foodstuffs. Gustav sat at the other end, flanked on either side by Gotthilf and Gruenewald, who had returned prematurely from Russia due to a nasty storm. With his uniform coated in various creams and crumbs, Oktav looked very much the part of a slob. His eating manners, despite being of royal bloodline, had always been atrocious and most surely had apalled the Swedish king. Now was not the time to pass judgement, though; now was the time for strategy.

After requesting that only he, Gruenewald, Gotthilf, and Gustav remain in the room, a heated discussion began amongst the four men about the current state of affairs in Europe. Many subjects were touched upon, including the aggressive nature of France, Spain's invasion, and the Islamic Alliance in the south. The subject drifted on to Prussia, and inevitably talks of an alliance sprouted.

"You see, my good Gustav," Oktav began amiably, after talking about the terms he and Dietrich had come to previously. "If Prussia, Austria-Hungary, Russia, and Sweden were to form an Eastern European Alliance, we would be an unstoppable force. And why shouldn't we? We all share tidbits of each other's culture and ethnic background, don't we? Now is the time to act, while France is preoccupied. Should we band together, Europe will be under our control and each of our respective nations shall prosper. Prussia and Austria are already in bed together; Dietrich seeks to win the approval of Russia as we speak. But what of you, Gustav? What do YOU think?"

The king patiently awaited his counterpart's reply.

Kaiser Dietrich sat at the dinner table with King Ivan of Russia. Throughout the meal he had exchanged pleasantries and spoken briefly of various pieces of art about the room. His manners were impeccable, his form pure elegence and his behaviour refined to the point of him being inhuman. About the large table were many people of note in Russia, various generals, nobility and relatives to the King. The womenfolk had all flirted with him, either openly or discreetly, at one point or another during the night, with him reciprocting most cautiously.

As time drew on, the Czar and Kaiser bade the group good evening and retired to an adjoining antechamber to begin discussions. Once the door shut, the entire warm and courteous manner of Kaiser dropped, his features became hard and unpleasant with his eyes showing a power to command far beyond his years.

"Time has come, Ivan-" Kaiser used the first name of the Czar seemingly with abbadon. "to discuss what I came here to discuss. No doubt you are aware of the beginning of the Eastern European Alliance? Well I bring you an offer.

"You have the choice of joining the Eastern European Alliance; if you do so you will agree to the reuniting of Poland under Prussian rule. In exchange we shall compensate you well, financially speaking. I have taken the liberty of having proper documentation drawn up, so if you would sign, I would be glad to welcome you into the fold of your brother nations."

There was a brutality in both the tone and demeanor of the Prince that would sit ill with any ruler, but, despite the Prince, could the Russian Czar afford to turn down the offer?


(OOC: Russia joins the EEA while Poland and Eastern Poland are made a single Prussian territory.)

1801

It is 1801. The new year brings many hopes for many nations, as well as many demises. The three main alliances in Europe now are the Islamic Alliance to the south, the Eastern European Alliance in Eastern Europe, and the Anglo-Gallic Alliance in Western Europe.

Many nations have emerged as dominant in their region of the world, some have shown weakness.
Richest Nation: Russia w/ 73 Credits.
Poorest Nation: Tuaregs w/ 29.5 Credits.
Largest Army: French w/ 12 Field Armies.
Smallest Army: Italians w/ 4 Field Armies.
Largest Standing Navy: UK w/ 110 Ships.
Smallest Standing Navy: Italians w/ 10 Ships.
Largest Land Income: Austria-Hungary @35 Credits.
Smallest Land Income: Tuaregs & Persia w/20 Credits.
Largest Trade Income: United Kingdom @6 Routes and 1 Alliance.
Smallest Trade Income: Italy @No Trade Routes or Alliances.

King Fernando of Spain is pressured by enemies from all sides, including the French Emperor Benedicte, the Ottoman King Selim III, and the Tuareg King Amud. King George, the King of England, has taken sick and his Regent William Pitt has taken over issues of war and finance. King Dietrich of Prussia, King Oktav of Austria-Hungary, and Czar Ivan of Russia are thoroughly engaged in an Eastern Alliance, bent on the occupation of the rest of Europe, though no actual declarations of war have yet been signed.

So was 1800, now is 1801, the year of turmoil.

Giuseppe II stands at 5'8" and has dark hair with hints of graying.
His father insisted on harsh discipline in his upbringing and military
service when he came of age. His time in the army fostered a fondness
for a Spartan lifestyle that he strives to maintain.

His Royal Majesty Giuseppe II, ruler of a united
Kingdom of Italy, read through reports of war to the west with
great concern. His father Ferdinand I, King of Naples, had
spent much of his life warring to bring Italy under one crown.
Giuseppe II had hoped to show his people the prosperity of peace, but times dictated that he prepare for war.

"General Cielo, you will raise three new legione grigio!” the King shouted across the large map that the Royal Council stood around. “You will deploy them to our Swiss territories…this French aggression is worrisome. Furthermore, Baron Verde, you will take a legione to garrison Genoa. Count Arancione, you will take your force to Bologne. The force at Latina will remain where it is to cover Rome, under your command General Montagna. Baron Blu, you will take your force to Sarajevo and cover us in the East.”

“And the Navy Majesty?”, asked Admiral Sole eagerly.

“Ah…yes , the navy”, the King muttered as he held out his hand to an aide for the appropriate notes.
“ Admiral Sole, you will take five ships and patrol the waters around Sardinia. Admiral Pioggia, you will take 3 ships to patrol our waters around Sicily. And our Croatian waters are your responsibility Admiral Albero.” The King gazed out a near window to see a blood red sunset before stating in a quiet voice, “I will not have all that my father worked for taken away by some greedy Frenchman.” Stirring himself into a more passionate expression he shouted, “Do your duty gentlemen!”

The nobles and officers cried in unison, “For Italy !“, before departing.


OOC: Hope this wasn’t a horrible post.
Bought 3 armies & placed them in Swiss.
Garrison: 2 armies in N. Italy.
1 army in S. Italy
1 army in Croatia
5 ships at Sardinia
3 ships at Sicily
2ships at Croatia

"So the Slavic rabble and the pathetic Germanians have joined forces to take on the west eh?" Benedicte smiled as he took in another fork-full of his steak, his jaws clamped together the meat in a fashion that annoyed his fiance, Jeanne Lacroix.

"...Yes, that appears to be the situation milord." A uniformed man spoke in a heavy Swiss-French accent. The man looked at General Svensk among the other Lieutenant Generals who sat at the table, eating steak as well. "The Austrio-Hungarians have trained fresh armies, sir. It is thought that they will soon strike either south into Ottoman lands, or even to the Italian lands...the latter is more likely, I'm afraid." The soldier noticed the quick glance Svensk made at the mention of Austria-Hungary. "The armies are led by an officer by the name of Kardos. He isn't much of a leader, and is generally well hated by his own men. Yet there is a respect amongst him and the men...perhaps out of fear. Who knows."

The Emperor did not look up as he dug in deeper to his food, his mouth was open and he chewed loudly. "You know..." He looked up with a mouthful of food. "There are some things forged with silverware that can cause many health problems," he looked down and scooped up some peas. "Like lockjaw."

The officers that sat at the table almost all simutaneously raised an eyebrow. Though it was not common talk amongst common ears, it was commonly heard at the rather uncommon Imperial dinner table. "So I have heard, my lord." The officer pretended to be akin to what the Emperor was talking about.

"Yes...very nasty stuff." He said. "Thats why I have my Lambert sterilize all the wares before they touch my food." He smiled widely at himself and looked down at his food again. "Such a good aide, that Lambert..." He said as is fiance closed her eyes while shaking her head, wondering how she was engaged to this lunatic.

"Indeed sir, he is a great asset to the Empire. Now if I may ask your greatness, what is your reaction to the current situation?" The soldier asked, feeling alienated by his 'leader' and his personal thoughts.

"Simple." Benedicte said. "Raise me 260,000 men, 4,000 Cavalry, and 200 Cannon." The men looked stunned. That was a significant amount of soldiers, over a quarter million. "I want them all ready for action by March, and place all of them in Southern France...there we can protect our flanks against any ideas of an Austro-Hungarian invasion, however foolish their leader Oktav may be, he couldn't possibly be foolish enought to try to attack three, fully trained and hardy French Field armies."

Amazed by the mammoth request, the soldier had but to ask. "Wh-Who will command the training and equipping of this massive force?"

"Oh, General Ariel Svensk can handle it." The General looked up and over at the Emperor in astonishment. "He's fought the Austrians before, he knows how they think and how they work. He is more than suited for the position." The Emperor said as he finished his plate of food, chomping loudly. Jeanne Lacroix looked disgusted at the Emperor, but looked over to General Svensk, who could hardly believe the position he had just been given. General Petit and the Emperor were the only men in France that could match him in military power.

"S-Sire? What am I to do with my command over the 10th Army?" Svensk asked warily.

"The Tenth Army is to be permanently based in Paris, under my command. You, General Svensk, are to command the 13th, 14th, and 15th armies in Southern France. I don't know...maybe we may even conquer the Italians one day." Benedicte said casually as he glanced over at his fiance who seemed distant due to his grody habits.

"Yes sir." The General didn't know whether to stand and salute or just absorb the moment. He stood and bowed to the Emperor as he stood up also. "Thank you sire. This is an honor I will do my best to uphold. You will not be disappointed."

"I know I won't, General." Benedicte said, acknowleging the General's position. He then hastily walked out of the room, leaving the newsbearer standing right where he was. This 'conference' was promptly over, due to the Emperor's apathetic attitude.

"Well..." The soldier said. "...I guess we'll talk about Spain later."

(ooc: Hey, that wasn't bad Italy. Keep it up. :D
2 Field Armies Purchased for 8 Credits.
1 Infantry Army Purchased for 4 Credits.
Tot. 12 Credits, 3 Support costs.
In training until March.)

Dietrich eyed the accounts. His coffers were filled once more to the brim and Prussia was strong both economically and militarily. Poland was once more united under Prussia and the most powerful alliance ever seen had arisen at his will. Yet the King was troubled. As is standard for when he is troubled, rather than gleeful, the King ate pork pie. Groping idly to one side, lost in thought, he searched out his beer. Discreetly, an aide nudged the beer toward the now enormous hand of his King.

Raising the beer to his mouth, the King swilled the pork pie down his gullet. Reports that Switzerland was being reinforced, albeit slowly, to an intolerable level, made him nervous. Of course Bavaria was filled with the hardiest of soldiers next to the Rhineland, and it had fortifications and soldiers aplenty. However almost half of the Italian army had been positioned there. Why?

Already his orders were being carried out. A further twenty ships of the line were being fashioned in the shipyards of Hamburg, nearly doubling the Prussian Imperial Navy. Conscripts were being taken from Unified Poland to be entered into the Black Coats and even Prussia herself was being forced to offer up citizens to fuel the growing army. The Prussian military was at its' largest and verging on breaking point.

Over one hundred thousand men had been conscripted from both Unified Poland and Prussia, with more hands being raised in Hamburg and Bavaria. In truth nigh on quarter of a million soldiers had been raised in the past month, with training being done in Prussia and the Rhineland. Horses too, had been purchased from Austro-Hungary to support more cavalry units and the artisans of Hamburg had been developing further artillery.

In Bavaria, at both Ravensburg and Stuttgart, fortifications had been developed designed to withstand any siege.

War would be declared by the East before the year was out, of that Dietrich was sure.

(OOC: Purchased 3 field armies, 2 navies and 2 fortifications, both placed in Bavaria. Total cost: 31)

ooc:dammit did i miss the party because I WAS AWAY!!!!1

(ooc: Srry Italy, I don't think he's in play anymore. :( )

Giuseppe II, King of Italy, stood before a map of Europe that he had commissioned painted across an entire wall of his War Room.

“Gentlemen,” the King began, “we stand between a mad man to the west and greedy barbarians to the north and east. War is coming. Our only hope for survival is to be prepared. Colonel Campo, I believe you have a report for us.”

“Yes Sire,” Campo replied as he stepped forward briskly. “It appears that the Prussians have begun to fortify the Bavaria region and move more troops into the are. Also, the French are moving massive numbers of troops into Southern France. This could be a preamble to aggression on the part of France. On a slightly different note sir, it seems that the people of our Swiss territory have gotten wind of the near-by threats and descided to take initiative in their own defense.”

“What do you mean?” the King asked curiously.

Campo looked at his note and replied, “It seems that each community has begun to form militias of sorts.”

A thoughtful look crossed Giuseppe’s face as he turned to an aide and said, “send word to General Cielo that he is to raise an additional 100,000 men in the Swiss region.”

As Giuseppe faced the gathered officers again a young lieutenant spoke up, “that will show the warmongers that we won’t be an easy victory.”

“Not only that,” the King interjected, “it will also assure that these militias are loyal to the Crown.” With a final glance at the map on the wall the King said sternly, “Do your duty gentlemen.”

With a resounding “For Italy” the officers began to exit.


OOC: Bought an Infantry army-placed in Swiss.
Bought Partisans for Swiss.

My math so far: 32-15=17-4= 13 credits now.

A note was passed out to King Oktav II of Austro-Hungary, King Adolf of Scandinavia and Czar Ivan Mikovich of Russia. In both instances it was a request for an alliance meeting in Prussia and invited both parties to bring as many advisors and retainers as was desired.

The purpose remained unclear as to why Dietrich was calling a council of the newly formed Eastern European Alliance, however, there was no doubt good reason.

King Gustav IV Adolf replied with great courage in his voice,

"Of course. I was afraid that Russia would start a war with me, but we we can ally, well then i can devert my troops to another weak point and contrublute positively."

OOC: Sorry i had a better responce days ago, but my jolt logged me out and well i haven't had the time to redo, so this is as much as i can.

Benedicte sat on his throne, thinking for a brief moment. Then in the middle of the court, he stood up and shouted. "I've got it!!"

Everyone turned to look at the man who seemed to have lost his mind. But Benedicte was on the verge of genius. He sat back down and ran through the plan once again in his head. We ally with Italy...we know a war between them and their more powerful neighbors in imminent, so why not forge an alliance? We can grab up our enemy's lands without paying the enormous costs of declaring a war, and we can cause our enemies' much heartache in the process. Not only that, but think of the riches we will recieve! The Prussians will also have to pay to break the peace pact we signed, and the entire Eastern Alliance will have to break their trade rights with England...this war will be costly for the enemy and cheap for us! The Emperor schemed.

"Lambert! Lambert get over here!" Benedicte shouted to his aide who was only a stones throw away. The aide carefully walked over to his Emperor who beckoned his presence.

"Yes, my lord?"

"Quickly, Lambert, time is of the essence. Send an emissary to Italy right away and inform him that we desire an alliance. They will surely not refuse us now, especially since they are surrounded by superpowers." Benedicte smiled as Lambert wrote down the information on a scroll. "This will be an excellent maneuver on our part...yes..."

(ooc: Alliance offered to Italy.)

January 3rd, 1801
Parliament... Daybreak

With the celebrations of the new year over and the drunkards returning to work as usual, the Prime Minister sat in his office with the Chancellor of the Exchequer Henry Addington as they went over the finances of the new year.

"Sir, you will be most pleased at this year's windfall. Business is booming throughout the country, creating an abundance of goods for the citizens as well as to be traded to the other nations, which in turn has brought a myriad of capital to the Kingdom. The nation is as rich as ever and industry is booming," Addington said proudly as he leaned back in his chair, apparently happy with the job he was doing. It was evident that the economic success of the nation wasn't all that dependant on who the Chancellor of the Exchequer was - unless he was a complete fool - but there was no reason to tell Henry that.

"So, I see," Pitt said as he scanned over the documents Addington had handed him a few minutes earlier. "You have done a fine job, Mister Addington. I will petition parliament to give you a raise." Only the lord knew if he ever would actually ask the parliament to give him a raise, but at least it made the Chancellor feel better. As he came around the side of his desk, he clapped Henry on the back and led him to the door. "With the way things have been going... I think I might be beginning to enjoy these meetings of ours," he said in a joking matter with a smile on his face.

"Good day, sir." Addington exited the office and soon Parliament as well. He eagerly wanted to get home in order to inform the Misses of the grand news...


After closing his door, the smile on Pitt's face grew until a grin covered it from ear to ear. "Now is the time," he announced to nobody at all, "When this slumbering giant will stir... and the world will know fear."


January 4th, 1801
A Meeting of Epic Importance

The Duke of Wellington and Lord Nelson met each other in the corridors of Parliament as they walked towards the Prime Minister's office. Both of them had received vague summons from the head of state that urgently hastened them to come. Two of the most powerful men in the Kingdom had been summoned by Pitt... and they scurried to appear.

As they arrived, the Duke opened the door into the office where the Prime Minister sat in his fine leather chair, "After you, good sir."

Now, three of the most powerful men in the United Kingdom, sat in the same room staring at each other. Not a word passed between them as William Pitt leaned on his elbows and let the enormity of the moment be enlarged by the ambiguity of their arrival.

It was Lord Nelson who spoke first, curious as to what they were doing there and why the Prime Minister was not saying a word. "Sir... you called us?"

"Yes I did," Pitt responded the moment the word 'us' at left Nelson's lips. Apparently it was the cue he was waiting for. "Gentlemen... I've called you hear for one reason above all. I've not informed anyone else of this - you two will be the first to hear... and it is because the pair of you will be leading the day. Gentlemen, it is time we reminded the world of our power..."

"How would you have us to so?"

"Through victory! Quick, undeniable, decimation of the enemy! I have already spent finances on raising three more armies as well as a slew of technological advancements that should lessen the burden of supplying and raising our armies. However, that is all an afterthought. Fourteen days from now you will set sail with half the armada and over three hundred thousand soldiers." The Prime Minister was now standing, leaning over his desk with both palms laid flat on a map.

"And our destination?" Lord Nelson asked.

Drawing their attention to the map, Pitt traced his finger from the north of Britain down to their target... Spain. "Our allies, the French, have already invaded and nearly taken the province of Aragon. Now intelligence reports that their fleet is weak and they have but half an army in Galacia. We will strike quickly and without mercy! You will sail to Vigo, the main city of Galacia, and crush any resistance. Blockade the harbor, destroy any ships, wreak havoc on their puny military... and take the city. With Vigo goes the province."

"And what of Parliament?"

"What of them!? Leave them to me..."

January 5th, 1801
FrontPage of The Times

Headline: War!
"Prime Minister William Pitt addressed a joint meeting of the House of Lords and the House of Commons yesterday afternoon. Reportedly, with a stirring speech and elegant words, he quickly won over the members' applause and support. After a primary vote, Parliament overwhelmingly supported the Prime Minister's proposal. And what the proposal was? War...

In a formal letter today, Prime Minister William Pitt declared war on the Kingdom of Spain, joining the unlikely ally, France, in their already underway attack. Supposedly 400,000 men are being mobilized as you read this and will be shipping off for the peninsula in less than two weeks time. What this will mean for the Kingdom, only the Lord knows and only time will tell...

January 17, 1801
One Day Early...

Eager for battle and un-experienced the horrors of war, the Royal British Army had wasted no time in mobilizing and loading onto the hundreds of transports awaiting them. The 1st and 2nd Armies under General Robert Crauford loaded onto the awaiting transports in Wessex as they met up with the sixty ship fleet that would be accompanying them to the peninsula. General John Moore and the 3rd Army loaded up in Mercia and quickly met up with the 4th Army and General Henry William Paget who had loaded up in southern Scotland and traveled into the channel. General Picton and the 5th Army would be transported to the mainland where they would stand guard during the war... much to Picton's chagrin. With him, the remaining fifty ships of the Royal British Navy would remain in strategic positions to defend the isle should anyone be stupid and impudent enough to attack.

All in all, by the wee hours of the 18th, the impressive fleet of sixty warships and enough transports to carry four armies met up at the edge of the English Channel, where they would begin their short journey to Spain and then war...



[ooc: Purchased "Half support costs for duration of game" and "Can purchase Field Armies for 3 Credits instead of 4 for 15 credits each (total of 30), as well as three field armies for 3 credits each (total of 9). 51 - 39 = 12 Credits remaining. Attacked the province of Galacia (3 credits). 12 – 3 = 9 Credit remaining.]

(ooc: Hey DMG, you are already at war with Spain because of your alliance with me, so you have 9 credits remaining. But your war support costs went up to 3 from 1 because you are actively IN the war now. And France Purchases Half support costs for duration of game, bringing me down to 15 credits. :D )

King Giuseppe sat at an enormous oak table that stretched the entire length of his palatial dinning hall. The table was stained a dark chocolate brown that had been applied in a swirling pattern. The King had found this table pleasing since he was a child, it reminded him of candies that his grandmother brought him on her rare visits. The candies had been one of the few indulgencies that his stern father had allowed. On this day the King had more serious matters on his mind than swirling chocolates.

“Well Campo what have you for me today?”, the King asked before eating a grape from his breakfast plate.

“Our ’informants’ tell us that a great volume of letters have recently passed between members of the Eastern Alliance. This could speak ill for us. French masses in the west and build-up to the north. There is even rumor that the Scandinavians are joining with the East, although we can’t say for certain yet. Something we do know however, is that Britain has declared war on Spain…”

“What!” Giuseppe choked slightly on a piece of fruit.

“British newspapers announced the declaration and impending deployment a short time ago.” Campo replied matter-of-factly.

“Perhaps we…”, that’s as far as Giuseppe got before the staccato clicking of boot heels drew his attention.

A smartly dressed Legionary Reale briskly entered the room. A short distance from the table the legionary bowed and announced in a loud and clear voice, “An Emissary has arrived from Emperor Benedict of France.”

The King gave a quick look of surprise to Campo before standing and ordering the Legionary, “Wait ten minutes and then bring our guest to the throne room with my deepest apologies for the delay!”

“Yes Sire,” the Legionary replied before bowing and leaving the room with haste.

Giuseppe turned to Campo and ordered in a hurried voice, “gather my advisors in the throne room in five minutes, by what ever means, not a moment later!”

Just as the King finished this order, the same Legionary as before ran back into the room. “My Lord, an Emissary has arrived from Britain,” the Legionary gasped out of breath.

“My God!” Giuseppe screamed as he looked to the muraled ceiling. “Show him to a guest chamber, inform him of our present occupation with the French representative, and assure him with my most profound apologies that we will see him as soon as possible.” the King commanded. The King glanced down at the remains of his breakfast with a rueful look before heading to the throne room.

(OOC: Hey, I'll delete this post in a min, but Lothrain? Do you have MSN or HTML or Yahoo?)

The silence in the St. Stephen's cathedral was deafening, and certainly intimidating to any within its confines. The crackling of several rows of burning votive candles and the howl of a winter storm outside the church made worship even eerier, but the Catholics kneeling before the offering didn't seem to mind. Their heads were in another place, a heavenly place, seeking guidance from an invisible force of holy origins. Finally the silence was broken. King Oktav slowly raised his misshaped head from prayer and wiped a tear from his aging face, moved by the deepness of his thoughts and the overwhelming nature of the cathedral. He stood up and straightened out his white, gold-trimmed uniform and red cape, before motioning for the archbishop to come forth. The older man, garbed in robes of blood red and a towering hat that signified power within the church, quickly scurried over, ready to serve his king at a moment's notice. When Oktav spoke, his voice was deep and proud, as if he'd gotten a fresh wave of energy just then.

"I must thank you for your time, Archbishop. I was sorely in need of some spiritual guidance. He who sees all has granted me with such."

The reply of the Archbishop was nearly a whisper, and was uttered in the voice of a soft, kindly old man.

"My lord, it is not my time, but God's time we have shared here tonight. I am glad you've found peace with Him, and put your inner turmoil to rest."

Oktav nodded and placed a gnarled hand on the back of the elderly bishop, urging him to walk with him. Archbishop Freistadt complied, and before long both men found themselves significantly distanced from the king's entourage.

"I prayed my friend Gustav had a safe journey back home. These are turbulent times we live in, bishop, and the winter hasn't made it much better. My nephew's son has fallen ill from the cold. I fear he may not live to see the spring."

"I'm terribly sorry, your majesty. I will pray for him, as I have for your well-being."

Again Oktav nodded vigorously, almost as if he was trying to hurry the conversation along. All in all he didn't seem terribly sincere, but the Archbishop ignored it. At the age Strom von Freistadt had reached, he had come to understand that some men used Catholiclism for their own ideas, rather than the idea God had put forth. Oktav had an agenda, and who was Freistadt to complain? They all had their own agendas, including himself.

"Thank you, my friend. It warms my heart to hear of your concern."

Suddenly the gentle hand that had been stretched across the older bishop's back clenched his shoulder, stopping both men from their little walk around the cathedral. Oktav stared deep into the shallow face of the Archbishop, which had become gaunt and wrinkled over the years, and the bishop's great gray eyes stared back out in fear from their sunken pits. Freistadt's dried, cracked lips opened as if to call for help, but the king quickly silenced him, his voice filled with urgency rather than anger.

"Listen, Archbishop. I come to you today with a request; a request on the behalf of the Austro-Hungarian royalty. It is a favor you must do for us that may compromise your status within the Catholic church."

"W-w-whatever you wish, my lord. H-how can I be of service?"

When Oktav spoke, his voice became considerably lower, even a little menacing. Obviously he didn't want the other men to hear what he was saying.

"With the formation of the Eastern European Alliance, our enemies have grown scared. They will seek to tumble our empire any way they can. I fear with the inevitable conquering of Spain, Italy will cave into French and British pressure and join them to stave off invasion. Should this occur, your job is simple. You must speak out against the Italian royalty; finger them as cowards for submitting to the will of their stronger neighbors and name them with the likes of Lucifer. Publicly name Benedicte as Christ's enemy...Italians are foolishly Catholic. They'll buy any garbage you spew at them, as long as it's coming out of the mouth of the church. Benedicte could very well be the anti-christ as far as any of us know...translate that to the public."

Archbishop Freistadt was clearly taken aback. Was his king serious? Those charges were ludicrous, so much so that they could get him killed! He struggled to find an adequate answer to give to the king...he couldn't refuse him, but how could he oblige him? The consequences could be deadly!

"But-but your majesty," the aging Freistadt stammered. "I could be excommunicated or...or even worse! Executed!"

The expression on Oktav's battered face was very solemn and serious. It was apparent that his mind was already made up; he wasn't asking the Archbishop, but odering him to do this.

"True. But the rewards outweigh the consequences. I am quite confident that King Giuseppe will play the part of the fool flawlessly and succumb to his warmongering neighbor's wishes. If this indeed comes to light, we will have no choice but to invade. The Austro-Hungarian military is among the continent's finest, Archbishop; the Italians couldn't hold a candle to us. We are the lumberjacks and they are the forest; they shall fall and fall quite easily. And when they do, we will hold the Vatican. The pope will be hung upon capture, and a new pope will be needed. Do you follow?"

The Archbishop couldn't bring himself to acknowledge what Oktav was telling him. Here was the Holy Roman Emperor, the king of his home, instructing Freistadt to desecrate the name of his church and pope with venomous accusations. What could he say? Although he had always aspired to be the pope, and the wealth would be beyond anything he had ever experienced as an Archbishop, he was truly faithful to his God, and this just seemed so wrong.

"What-what if I refuse?"

At this Oktav threw back his head and laughed heartily, slapping Freistadt on the back before heading back to the entrance of the cathedral.

"You always know what to say, Archbishop, to get me chuckling. I trust you'll make the right decision. If not, you've lived a long, fruitful life. We all have to die some time; at least you'll die with a clear conscience."

Still laughing, the king pulled his cape around him tightly and beckoned for his men, preparing to meet the winter storm outside head on. As they trudged down the steps of the cathedral and into the blinding snow, they left Archbishop Freistadt standing still, a crusty frown stretched across his pasty white face.

"God help us all."

* * * * * *

It was with eyes of burning nationalism that General Bajnok "The Bear" Kardos watched the neatly lined Hungarian troops, all fully uniformed and armed to the teeth, march in tidy rows, displaying almost perfect unison. In the months since Kardos had blown that man's skull apart he had mysteriously returned to his former self, and the drunken stupors the Hungarians had once joked about were now non-occurences. Standing rigidly with both arms to his side and dressed in a gold-trimmed blue military uniform, the general's mind raced with images of the previous days leading up to his successful return. His thick brown beard, although trimmed to be more acceptable, was still present, although his hair was beginning to thin out, and his gut was noticably smaller, though also still very present. All in all, he looked and felt like a new man. Prince Gotthilf was impressed.

"I must congratulate your efforts, General. They look very battle-ready. We knew your history of harsh discipline and ferocious military tactics would teach these men to be killers. I had my doubts of course, but my father was always in your corner. He was right."

For a moment Kardos felt a pang of rage echoeing in his head. He had never liked this smarmy brat, just like he had never cared for any of the higher ranking Austrian generals. These bastards really thought they were something, what with their silky statesman robes and fancy talk. He knew deep in his heart that any magyar could put this Gotthilf in the ground in a split second. Regardless, he held his temper successfully and tried to sound enthusiastic in his gruff reply.

"Thank you, my lord."

"How soon do you think they'll be able to fight?"

At this Kardos was slightly surprised. Of all the armies to choose from, why would his see action first? Both Austerlitz and Kaestner commanded veteran armies, as did Mistivoj, a proven military tactician. It didn't take long for him to rationalize it, though. He was Hungarian, as were the armies. If first blood had to be drawn, Oktav would be sure it was Hungarian rather than Austrian. Not to mention Austerlitz and Kaestner were a couple of fuckheads; Kardos had always joked amongst his men that the two probably wore panties under all that uniform.

"They could be deployed tomorrow, your majesty, if you wished it. We fear nothing. French, Italian, English, Persian. We'll fight anybody and win. These men are the pride of Hungary; they'd sacrifice themselves before they lost a battle."

At this Gotthilf scoffed, his angular face mimicking signs of amusement. Kardos was quickly getting irritated.

"I don't doubt they're ready to die, but rather if they're ready to win, General Kardos. All this talk is fine, but what of Svensk? Do you feel your armies could weather the might of the second chance commander?"

At this Kardos exploded. Lunging at the marching troops, Kardos grabbed one soldier by his shirt and flung him on the ground near Gotthilf, drawing his pistol in the process and scattering what once was an organized army. Face red, nostrils flaring, and spittle now spraying out of his mouth, Kardos pointed the pistol at the screaming soldier and blew his brains out all over the ground. Gotthilf's eyes widened and his jaw dropped in horror; who was this madman his father had procured to command their armies?

"THAT is a man. That man is DEAD. He's dead because I killed him. Svensk is a man. Those could be Svensk's brains on the dirt...Svensk is nothing! I piss on his name, his family, and I'll piss on his grave when I scalp him myself! Anybody who fears Svensk is a WOMAN. Because Svensk is a woman! And believe you me, when I meet him again I will FUCK him like a woman."

Prince Gotthilf stared at Kardos in disbelief, his mouth still agape at the scene he'd just witnessed. Many of the soldiers were doing the same. But the low, menacing command of their general quickly sent them back into their rows and marching again, fearful that next time it could be them.

"I-I see. I-I must be back to V-Vienna. Clearly y-you've got control of the situation. C-congratulations, General Kardos."

Still trembling from the shock of seeing mounds of blood and flesh at his feet, Gotthilf retreated to his tent, evidently still shaken from the incident. Upon his return to Vienna, his father would laugh at the story, and promptly tell his son, "I told you so." Kardos was the empire's secret weapon. Oktav knew this, and prayed for the men who would meet Kardos in battle.

* * * * * *

"Agh, piss on you."

Staring bleakly at the king's majordomo, Niklaus III, Archduke of Transylvania, and the only other blood relative to Oktav other than Gotthilf, slammed a fist down on his desk, scattering a mound of papers everywhere. Despite only being the nephew of King Oktav, the Archduke definitely shared his physical characteristics with a few munuit exceptions. While he was short and fat rather than tall and broad, Niklaus was similar in the way that he was exceptionally hairy, and barbaric-looking in nature. While he didn't wear a beard, he was always forgetting to shave, the result being a thick sheet of stubble smothering his chubby cheeks. And his dark hair, much like Gotthilf's and Oktav's (before he started balding) had many kinks and curls in it. He ate atrociously, treated women poorly, and cursed and drank like a soldier, all typical of Oktav. But despite all that, he hardly felt a kinship towards his family, especially now.

"Don't they know my son is dying?"

Ernst Gruenewald carefully selected his words, as years of being a majordomo and ambassador had taught him to do so. As he pieced together an eloquent reply he couldn't help but notice how much smaller the archduke's castle was compared to the Schonbrunn Palace in Vienna.

"His royal majesty understands that harsh times besiege you, but this is an urgent matter, your excellency. Prince Gotthilf is in Hungary and King Oktav shall be leaving the empire shortly on his own business. I would go but he feels that a Prussian meeting dictates royal presence. With the French takeover of Aragorn and the British announcing their declaration of war, spies are everywhere. He feels only family can be-"

The Archduke waved a hand in dismissal, signalling that he was done listening. He made his way over to a window overlooking his Transylvanian kingdom and for a while there was silence. Than he let out an audible sigh and turned to Gruenewald.

"Tell Oktav and Princess Gotthilf that I'll depart for Prussia tomorrow. My son is lost; the nurses say we might as well bury him. I hear Prussia's women are in bloom this time of year anyway. Perhaps I can find a wife that can birth me a heir and not a sickly little headache."

With that, Gruenewald quickly departed, leaving the Archduke with his advisors. Whatever Dietrich wanted, it must be important. To pry a father from his dying son for such matters must've made the Prussian request significant.

The Battle of Bilbao

August the 20th 1800

From their camp on ‘La colina de Héroes’ the Spanish army watched as the French lines made their way down the valley. Harried by the Catalonians to the point of exhaustion, the French army was in poor shape. Supply wagons had been lost, scouting parties intercepted and from the reports from the villagers and farmers fleeing before them, morale in Benedicte’s army was not at its highest.

The Spanish on the other hand were well-fed and watered. As to their defence, trenches were unsuitable for a hilltop position. They had made rough barricades out of turf, wood and stone that they had found. They faced down the valley, watching the French advance. Ten cannon had been placed in the derelict farmhouse to one side of the hill; the others had been placed atop the walls that enclosed the city.

The soldiers had been resting over the last few days, practicing with their muskets and bayonets on various sacks of hay and straw in the camp. All was ready for the French assault. Darkness fell, and bright torches glimmered in the darkness as the French made camp, just before the bends in the river to the south.

August the 21st 1800

The previous night, the Baron of Bilbao had ordered fireworks be let off, in order to cheer the people and hearten the soldiers. From the French camp, music and dancing could be heard from inside the city walls. The chatter and smells of cooking wafted from the Spanish camp, making French mouths water. They longed for better fare than the meagre rations from the Emperor.

The French began shelling the Spanish encampment and surrounding villages. This produced little casualty, for the Spanish villagers had all been evacuated into the walls for safety. The encampment was little troubled by the commotion, and the French general ordered a cease in firing in order to avoid wasting ammunition.

He also ordered a group of Dragoons to skirt up onto the high hill to the east of the town. A flanking movement by these brave men would help ensure victory, should they need it. The men were also in better spirits. A supply train, that had been thought lost had found its way through the mountains to the camp, bring with it extra food, tents and munitions.

August the 30th 1800

Attempts had been made over the last few weeks to shell the Spanish encampment, but had produced little success. The general Monteil had assembled his most senior officers to his tent.
‘We attack tomorrow,’ he said. ‘A strike while the Spanish are unaware of our plans is an excellent plan. The element of surprise; a favourite of mine.

All the soldiers were informed, and the men set about invigoured, polishing muskets and cleaning uniforms.

From atop the high medieval battlements of Bilbao, the Baron took out his telescope. It was a good one; brass with engraved bands downs the stem. He scanned the French camp, noting the activity.
‘They are more restless than ever now,’ he commented. ‘Look, there. Soldiers washing their uniforms in the river, polishing cannon, running like ants…’
‘What could they be doing my Lord?’ asked one of the lieutenants.
‘I suppose they mean to attack tomorrow or the day after. Certainly it explains the activity.’ he took his eye from the lens and put the telescope back in its case.
‘Keep watching them. I suppose a night attack is what they propose to do. I’ll ride out to the camp to alert the commander.’

August the 31st 1800

It was early evening before the French made their move. Crossing the narrow bends of the Nervion river was no mean feat in the fading light. The Spanish had by now started firing off from their artillery in the derelict farm buildings. Cannonballs whirred through the air, splashing into water and men. Tendrils of steam curled up as the red hot lead boiled the water.

The French had made it across with few casualties. Now they rolled out the cannons. The Spanish were on the higher part of the hill only a few hundred yards away, and the cannons made short work of the artillery that had just an hour before terrorised the men. The Spanish watched in horror as one after another cannon was ripped to splinters and the barrels only so many buckled plates of iron. Soon, the only field artillery the Spanish held was obsolete. The French continued their bombardment of the first Spanish barricade well into the night.

September the 1st 1800

Dawn came, and it was a sorry sight among the Spanish barricade. Many lay dead or dying, and it was reported that the death toll was somewhere in the region of three hundred men and twenty horses.

In the gathering light, the French pressed their advantage. They stormed the first barricades, smashing the wooden shelters and knocking over the stone walls. The Spanish fought them tooth and nail, driving them back and being pushed back again, like a deadly game of Tug-of-War. Eventually, with many lying dead in the once fortified barricades, the remaining Spanish retreated to the second barricade.

The French had not time to rejoice however, as cannon boomed from the walls. The first shot struck an officer, he and his horse torn apart in a bloody mess of legs and arms and bodies.
Feverishly, the French attempted to re-form the barricades they had just knocked down, as cannonballs tore into the grass of the hill and the men of the French Army alike.
Several minutes later, the cannons stopped firing. The French assumed this was because they were afraid of hitting their own troops. With cries of what they hoped sounded like glorious expectation of victory, they stormed the second barricades.
The Spanish were packed tightly in, their bayonets catching any who foolishly leapt over the top, and disposing of them quickly. Soon, the French hastened to get into the gap that would bring them face to face with the enemy once again.
In the cut-and-thrust of battle, no one noticed the red flag being waved from the French general’s tent. A bugle was sounded, and another red flag waved from the hill to the East. All eyes watched, and then – ‘La cavalerie!’ shouted the French, as the dragoons galloped down the hill, towards the unprotected Spanish flank.
For a moment, all eyes watched them; the Spanish in fear, and the French in joyous hope. Then…disaster!
The French dragoons had not noticed that the hill down which they advanced ended suddenly, in a small but dangerous cliff. The horses realised it before the riders, and tried to slow, neighing in alarm…but too late! Riders and their mounts seemed to fly briefly, and fell helplessly to the ground. Clouds of dust roiled from the parched earth as they hit the ground.
The other dragoons behind them had seen, and tried to slow their horses. Some toppled over the cliff helplessly, but others managed to come to rest on the cliff edge, looking down in horror at the mangled bodies below.
This was short-lived however, as riders behind them had not seen what had happened. Still blowing bugles and shouting war cries, they cannoned into the others who had stopped, flinging all over the cliff.
The French were aghast, the Spanish horrified. Such a tragedy hadn’t been witnessed by many in that army, and even though the French were deadly enemies…to come to such an end…
Eventually, the few riders that had been able to save themselves from the cliff, dismounted and led their horses back down a safer path. With that, the spell was broken. The Spanish and French turned back to each other with deadly force, the French even more embittered now by what they had witnessed.
The barricades were taken, one after another, with heavy losses, and the remaining Spanish army ran to the city, through the south gate. The gates were barred, and the French began to rejoice over their victory.

September the 2nd 1800

Dawn came with a sea mist. The greyness covered all of the surrounding hills, seeping into tents and sleeping sacks. Men woke cold and clammy, feeling chilled to the bone.
There were no Spanish on the walls. The French artillery began battering half-heartedly at the gates with cannon. When the gates eventually crumbled to splinters, there was no waiting army. Only two horsemen, leading a bound figure.
‘We wish to speak to your general,’ said one.
After several hours of waiting, the horsemen and their captor were shown into the presence of General Monteil.
The men told him that their prisoner was the Baron of Bilbao, a gift from the people, who surrendered the town peacefully. They asked only that he be taken to the central plaza, so that he could be hanged.
At once, General Monteil agreed. The whole French army marched into the town, heading for the plaza.
Soldiers saw grieving faces at windows, saw wounded being tended in the street. The city was a picture of abject misery, its citizens caught up in a war they did not understand.
The citizens of Bilbao shrank away from the French, as if fearful of catching disease or being struck. The fog hung everywhere, turning retreating figures into obscure ghosts. The French army as a whole felt disturbed by the strange turn of events.
General Monteil rode at the head, with the two horsemen, looking back at the staggering Baron. He felt neither sad nor joyous, merely satisfied that the glory of France should have played out thus.
The gallows in the centre of the plaza stood bleakly. The noose swung a little in a slight breeze.
Monteil called for a seat, and a pavilion of white cloth was erected over it. The French army stood all around the gallows, watching.
The Baron stood on the platform, the Spanish executioner slipping the noose around his neck, tightening the knot.
‘Any last words?’ Monteil called, but the Baron merely looked down in sorrow.
A break in the clouds, a burst of sunshine.
‘Ah,’ said Monteil ‘It seems the sun has come out. Finally.’
The trapdoor fell open, and the Baron hung, spinning. Monteil watched as he turned red.
The executioner whipped off his mask, cut through the noose, and leapt of the platform. Monteil and the French were too surprised to say anything. The Baron leapt up, and drew his saber.
‘A nice little trickery, if I say so myself!’
All over the square, the dejected citizens threw off their cloaks to reveal Spanish uniforms. Those citizens who were not a disguise for the soldiers, produced hammers, pistols and axes. The French army was surrounded.
The fighting was short and fierce. The French hadn’t expected or thought of such ferocity. In moments they broke, running down alleys and lanes, pursued by the citizens armed with whatever they had. Many died, lost in the maze of streets.
General Monteil was captured and lead to the south gate. He was strapped across the mouth of a cannon, before being allowed one last word with the Baron.
‘You French think you are the heirs of the world. You think yourselves so mighty that none can contest you. You will learn your error. Tell your emperor that!’
The Baron lit the blue touch paper. General Monteil flew.
The Battle of Bilbao, and the trickery of the Baron were remembered fondly by the Spanish. Even though the corpses of the French were well treated – a service at the Cathedral was held for Spanish and French alike – much was made of the Baron, and nearly every citizen present on the day had stories to pass on to his and her grandchildren. The French who managed to fight their way out made it back to the French encampment, and then back through the mountains, jeered at by every peasant on the way.
The Spanish and French corpses that were found were cremated and scattered in the harbour. Those that were not, fed the chicks of buzzards and eagles for many days after.

(OOC: Sorry I didn't post sooner. Been busy over the last day or three. Apologies again.)

(ooc: np Dumii, good to have ya back! :D Okay guys, voting will commence in the OOC thread. We need a majority vote. Remember...don't vote for your friends, vote for the honorable victor. And to the competitors (Dumii and moi), do not hold any grudges toward the voters, they are only doing their job. Let it begin. :p )

The wind blew, it always did bringing the scents of Algiers down to the Persian army camped outside. Almost every night Persian soldiers flocked to the city with bags of gold and bought almost anything. It had already been at least a month without Taureg support and the army needed to move quickly or starve.

"A forced march to Tetuan would have us at the heart of the country within a month, provided we moved southwest then north." Around the High command building which had been erected very quickly by local labour, palms waved in the warm Southernly breeze. A cavalry colonel had just spoken the most obvious and possibly dangerous plan. "The armies will most likely be there and one battle could decide it all."

"We would be undefended our flanks left open our forage parties cut down by armies poised to attack us. We must attack from the east and take that part where we shall either be attacked on our terms or press forward with additional troops. The main Spanish city in the east is Melilla, located on a narrowing pennisula. Luckily it is also accesible by sea and we hope for a two pronged attack on the city." Due to the pail light of the setting sun none of the generals could see their counterparts faces.

"Where would we get a flotilla to transport these troops to the city?"

"Mostly from Algiers, it would not be heavily armed or probably willing to fight but enough to transport half our cannon and and 30,000 men to the North of the city. The heavily laden Spanish vessels would never catch them unless it was an ambush....I have total faith in the abilities of my generals. If anyone could suggest a more reasonable plan we shall proceeded to quickly and strike finally." The assembled generals frowned they had no intention of even trying to fight the Spanish navy, but all other faces were shrouded in darkness and doubt was quickly killed by fear.

OOC I don't know if a can buy a mercenary navy, just say and I'll change it but I'm trying: Bought 1 Navy placed of North Africa.

IC The army decamped quietly marching with onely the occasional clank of weapons and the naying of horses. To war the Persians went at last, sliding silently through the foriegn country.

Febuary 2nd Battle of Melilla

General Ferrot looked over his withered division, all week Spanish light infantry had been pestering them diving out near what little water there was and filling it with Persian blood. It was not a war Ferrot was willing to fight but to show initiative he had already burned the town of Nador and had sent out patrols to catch the skirmeshers who seemed to be able to hide for weeks at a time.

"We've got the provisions finally, and are ordered to begin the first phase of the attack. Generals Harad and Mesher, are waiting for your Division to join in they are already taking postion in front of the city." A messenger had walked up behind the pondering general and given him the agrovating news that an attack must happen now.

"Tell Colonel Neshah to hold a rear gaurd here it is one of the only streams in Africa I'm told." The general heaved a sigh and climbed ponderously out of his folding chair. He waved his hand at the signalers who began to yell for the 25,000 Infantry to stand and march to the Persian cannon implacements. If Melilla was any larger of a city it would be impossible to miss with cannon at all. As it was the sprawling white mass started on the bottom of a hill and spread up giving the streets an unstormable upwards slant. Right after the city reached it's upwards limit it almost fell straight down to a heavily fortified harbour with superb anchorage. The entire city was a fortress and could probably contain the entire spanish army.

Ferrot sighed again much more meaninfully and gazed up at it, "From every house you can shoot to the next, every street barricaded and probably crawling with Spanish. We won't be able to storm this city gentlemen, despite what our scouts say."

Harad looked up as Ferrot entered the room and smiled hugely, "Fesil good to see you again it's been far to long."

"I wish we could meet again under happier circumstances but an unwinnable battle will have to do. Your father sends his regards, and invites to the academy at any time of course."

"Indeed yes," Harad spoke covering everything, "but their is something slightly odd about this situation, spies inside the city reported somewhere around 80,000 plus men in the vacintity, after looking over the city for nearly two hours our Signalers only estimate 50,000 mostly infantry and artillery."

Ferrot looked a little disturbed but finally resolved the look into a wane grin, "It is best not to disbute the stupidity of the Spanish, they are at war with the world, and must occasionally hope for luck to win battles."

"I fear that will be our undoing...We have ordered the bombardment of the city if that is acceptable and we shall wait another few days before we discuss this futher."

"Agreed," the two generals were the only ones that had spoken the other man in the tent looked silently over the dunes into the city, if you looked closely enough you could see his lips move silently.

Motars flared sending multiple shot raining into the city. The few 18 pound cannons there were, fired heated shot at the inhabitants trying to start some of the older thatch ceilings a flame. The Spanish also returned fire although the Army was harder to hit and usually didn't start on fire. The bombardment never ceased, but combining poor training and difficult loading procedure the cannons had long periods of silence.


Febuary 7th Battle of Melilla

"The shelling has been particullary sucessful, we think we set the Govenor's palace on fire at one point and we can see the barricades are thining but it will be weeks before we can penetrate into it easily."

"Thank you Major you are dismissed," Ferrot looked now sullen, unshaved even though all Persians were supposed to have beards his was not really worth the effort. "Also the mercenary fleet will arive shortly bringing guns to bear on the north side of the city but we believe that we only work for the shock it provides." The general staff was once again looking over the city from their tent. "Now we have 140,000 Infantry in front of the city, 30,000 on ships intentioned for behind the city, 5,000 in the rear gaurd and another 5,000 dead, sick or deserted. Now if the cannons reposition themselves..." The general was cut off by a low drone coming from the center of the camp.

"Prayers, this can surely wait we must attend to the divine before ourselves," Harad kneeled along with the other staff and begin thier evening devotions. If most of the Persian army had not been down on thier knees they would have noticed the small flashes of light coming from the city of Melilla and surely would have heard the slight clamour as men mounted horses if they had not been chanting thier devotions to Mecca.

12,000 Spanish cavalry crested a hill and started an unstoppable charge on the kneeling and mostly unarmed Persian soldiers. The alarm went up barely in time and the fringes of the army was cut to shreads under the sabre of advancing dragoons. The generals shot to their feet and began shouting conflicting orders at each other. Behind the enemy cavalry came about 30,000 Spanish infantry, who began skirmish firing. Persian infantry through enough casualties could have turned the assualt from the side into a frontal assualt but the rest of the Spanish army started to flow out of Melilla. Battalions were thrown into disarray and what little fire could be marshalled was erratic and without aim. The cannons were the first to fire and rained heavy damage down on the advancing Spanish.

On the left flank, where the cavalry had attacked in had turned into a melee with Persians pulling cavalry of thier horses and baynoting them, every time a line formed to fire in was cut down by the 30,000 Spainards. In the front the Persians succeded in forming ranks and was pouring shot into the cities garrison. After 10 vicious minutes of hand to hand fighting the Persian lancers were ready and began a half mad charge on the Spanish cavalry. Persian infantry were trampled under the galloping feet of the horses. The Spanish without any remaining momentum in thier charge were speared and cut through by the superior Persians.

The battle could have ended badly, with the Persian cavalry mowed down from ahead, if not the rear gaurd under Nashah hadn't taken the moment to charge and catch the 30,000 spanish on the left flank sending the battle order into shambles. the Persian cavalry wouldn't stop and left the remaning infantry to deal with the shattered Spanish cavalry.

The lancers hit the infantry and shatterd them turning them around and setting them off into the scenery with the rear gaurd giving half hearted chase. The Spanish cavalry took it apon themselves to run as well right into the backs of the Persian lancers, both Corps were heavily damaged and mostly out of the fight. Now the battle turned to the front where Spanish infantry were being outflanked slowly. The Alida Corps had been finally arranged and after a volley fixed bayonets and charged mostly into spitting fire. Thier momentum carried them into the unprepared spanish and broke their lines after a certain amount of hacking.

The remaining Spanish ran for it mostly into the city but about 10,000 just ran. It was a complete route of the Spanish and the Alida, gave chase to close in for the Spanish cannons on the wall to discern the difference.The remaining garrison inside also begin to run up hill with the religious fanatics that were the Alida close on their heels.

"Fire damn you fire!" The Spanish who had remained behind popped over the various tops of the city and filled the air with musket smoke. The light fire from the roof tops hardly worried the Arab army as it hacked down retreating Spainards. Finally the prolonged engagement reached the top of the city and the europeans either surrendered or ran into houses for their brave last stand.

On the other end of the city 30,000 Persian light infantry arrived with 100 field guns, and wiped out the token garrison of Spanish over the rear gate. Another mad Persian dash in the dark up the now mysteriously flaming streets of Melilla. The mopping up came down to two hours of hand to hand fighting. Eventually the Garrison surrendered and more men then Ferrot thought possible lined up in the city square.

"If that is victory I'd really hate to see defeat," Ferrot said quietly as he now looked over his camp from the battlements. "Let's see 4,000 cavalry dead, 20,000 troops wounded and another 11,000 dead, oh yes don't forget the rear gaurd that lost 2,000 or the attack of General Hashan at the rear with another 6,000 Casualties. I believe the total is 43,000 casualties on our part...what do you say to that general?"

Harad also stared, "We won though..it boils down to that, most of the wounded will recover, the cavalry was only a deversion which we only beat of through strength of arms. If Nashah hadn't have been in the rear gaurd we would have been completely broken. And even now 30,000 Spanish are roaming around the desert picking off supply wagons no doubt. General, we must face facts here this victory was really one of the largest blunders in military history. Not only did we take enourmous casualties, we let their army get away in an organizied fashion. But that so far is only half my worries, we are in for the most part an impeneterable fortess with no means of supplies, and the spanish navy behind..."

Ferrot smiled at his old family friend, "Perhaps you implie we should burn the city and salt the land?... General we would fight everyone if we listened to half your worries, for the moment let us hope that stupidity walks with us."

Troops began to mass at Ravensburg near the Bavarian/Swiss border. For miles upon miles outside the city, a second town had been erected in tent form. Black coats covered the ground, giving the appearance of many hundreds of thousands of carrion birds upon the ground. Countless pieces of harsh yet elegant metal gleamed brightly in the morning sunlight. Within the confines of Ravensburg, Duke Ravensburg sat idly listening to logistics reports and orders from Prussia.


At the mouth of the English channel, twenty Prussian ships of the line, each baring black sails and the Prussian flag, sailed peacefully. Amongst them were atleast another fifty schooners, frigates and other small vessels. High winds and bright sunshine saw excellent travel of the assorted ships; should such weather hold it might only be a few more days until they reached their destination.


Dozens of maps were spread across the table, the now obese King Dietrich studying them carefully. By now a quarter of a million soldiers should be dug in at Ravensburg and his fleet should be at the mouth of the channel. Not only that, but by now one hundred thousand polish conscripts and two thousand lancers should be well past Prague and be on their way into the depths of Austro-Hungary.


Otto watched the King with intense curiosity, wondering what in the name of the Good Lord he was contemplating now. For some reason, it sent a chill down his spine.

Giuseppe II sat on his throne surrounded by his advisers, many of whom where still breathing heavily from the haste of their arrival.

“Gentlemen”, the King began, “In a matter of moments the French emissary will come through that door. He either brings a request for alliance or a demand for submission. In both cases we are doomed to conflict. Rest assured that Italy will never submit to foreign rule! However we now face an inevitable war…” At this moment the door opened and in came the Legionary Reale, followed by not only the French emissary, but also the representative of Britain.

The Legionary bowed and announced “Presenting Jean de Bonneville, representing his most glorious majesty Emperor Benedict of France; and Sir Andrew Chambers Representative of His Royal Majesty King George III ruler of all Britain.”

De Bonneville stepped forward to explain this obvious irregularity, “France and Britain are allies and while our simultaneous arrivals are quite coincidental, our goals are the same. It seemed only right that we approach you together. My master has instructed me to offer Italy the most generous opportunity of Alliance with France.”

Next Chambers stepped forward and began, “We all face a grave threat to the East. Italy is at the forefront with this threat and her only hope is to join us in resisting the barbarians!”

Giuseppe thought for a moment and then replied, “I had hoped to avoid conflict, but the growing shadow on our northern and eastern boarders forces me to accept your most generous offer gentlemen. I invite you to spend one more night in my home before sending you each on your way with 10 casks of the finest Italian wine and my best wishes for your respective monarchs.

After each representative had extolled Giuseppe on the wisdom of his choice , they followed the Legionary out to enjoy more of the Kings hospitality.

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Sunday, March 9th

His Holiness Pope Virtuous IX stood on the balcony overlooking St. Peter’s Square. The cheering crowd below looked like a tumultuous living sea. Virtuous had finished Mass only a moment ago, but again raised his hands for silence. He would speak on the current state of affairs.

When silence reigned Virtuous began- “My children, I stand before the eyes of God, and the world today to tell you that Holy Mother Church is in grave danger!” A confused and angered cry came up from the crowd. Again Virtuous signaled for quiet. “It has come to my ears that the Eastern European Alliance threatens to march on Italy and the heart of Mother Church! I call on all true Catholics to resist this great evil, I call for a Crusade against the false Holy Roman Empire and it‘s minion states! It is the God given duty of all true believers to fight this great evil! True believers under the rule of the Eastern Evil must rise up and resist it as soldiers of Christ! The Church shall finance two new Crusader armies to defend Italy from the Evil Ones. Go in the Glory of God to cleans the world of Evil!” With that Virtuous IX turned his back to the roaring masses and went inside.
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OOC: Bought 2 new field armies- deploy 1 around Rome, and 1 forming in Croatia.

Also: Maggots, I’ve been thinking on this for a bit and you could form a rival Papacy in Austria? Create a situation similar to the RL Avignon/Rome split? I thought about this when I thought I might fight France. Not trying to copy your RP, its just that religion makes war so much more heated. :D

King Gustav arrived in Stockholm, Christian August, the commander in chief of the Norwegian army, was their awaiting his arrival.

"So how did it go?"

"Fine fine. He was just a little too.... Nevermind, another time, but he will be a good ally. Well how was it here?"

"We have a small problem."

"Really."

"While you were away, a captain and his ship, which were formally privateers, have begun to loot and well claimed themselves, pirates of the north. And with that move, soldiers moral is low. They are cold and could do with more food. And crews from several crews have just up and disapeared, leaving the ships intact. But obvious signs of stuggles. Of the 5 attacked and crews missing, 3 ships have been found."

"Oh god. Damn damn damn damn!! This is a bad omen. Find this captain, get him alive. Then well send him to the gallows. That will show them."

"Right sir. Well someone but be harbouring them along our coastlines."

"Yes, get the armies to give some leave time. In the meanwhile recruit 4 more field armies, and get the docks to work on 20 more vessel for the navy."

"Right away." Gustav walked back out of the hall and back on his horse. He rode out for the local army camp. The fierce winter wind blew in his face, freezing his nose. As he rode further and further the roar of cannon fire and musket cracks increased. Then he came to a hill crest, and down below was the armies city of tents. On the other side of the valley, he could see the artillery batteries firing on a village, long since abandoned. And on the out skirts of the tent city, infantry fired a cut outs of enemy soldiers, meanwhile the rampaging Norseman Calvary practiced runs up and down the gental slopes of the valley. He troted down to the army HQ where Field Marshal Henry Vintiz sat in the tent, eating away at a pork roast.

"Your Majasty!" The english born man got up, dabbing his lips with a napkin tucked into the neck of his uniform. He offered the king his hand. Gustav merely looked at it with distaste. "Oh!" the marshal walk over to a basin and washed his hands. "My apologies. I was not expecting the pleasure of your visit today." Gustav shook the man's hand.

"Well, i wanted to come by and see the men first hand. Learning through someone's voice never...let me fully grasp a concept."

"I understand. And what do you seek?"

"I presume you have heard about the pirate."

"Rumors."

"Well lets try to discourage them amoungg the men."

"Of course sir."

The King gave the gester to follow, and Henry followed him out, grabing his coat at the entrance of the tent. "And why is it i was able to ride right into the middle of the camp, with out being questioned by guards?"

"Well you are the king."

"I know that! But i did not see one patrol on my way here!"

"Well sir, i mean most menare training, i found little need for patrols or guards on the base perimeters, expect in some of the...unknown spots were people might hide."

"And you don't think the men need to learn to patrol? Paticullarly the calvary? What about marches?"

"In the morning and after dusk. Usally one or twwo commpanies are away on long marches. Well actully the two that are out should be coming back soon, the forward picket line has arrived. Probaly a hour or so my lord. Will you stay?"

"No i have places to go. I want more guards and patrols."

"Of course my majasty."

"And when i come back in a few days, i want that village your firing on, to no longer be standing. I want the buildings burned, blown, destroyed! Got it Marshal?"

"Of course my majasty. May i send a escourt with you back to the city?"

"No, i am quite capable to ride alone in my own country."

"Of course." Gustav walked away briskly back to his horse. he was fairly pleased with this camp, but he had work to do back in the city. A pirate needed to be caught and killed.

**To Russia**
King Gustav IV Adolf of Sweden would like you to join him in Stockholm to discuss a possible trade agreement and training option.

**To Italy**
King Gustav IV Adolf of Sweden would like for you to come to Stockholm to discuss current matters and options.

OOC:Purchased 4 armies and 20 vessels.

OOC: Sorry Persia for not responding earlier! It can be assumed that you had logistical support and such, and I'm going to write an IC post right now. Sorry!

OOC: Sorry Persia for not responding earlier! It can be assumed that you had logistical support and such, and I'm going to write an IC post right now. Sorry!

August 10, Battle Of Casablanca, Day 1

General Farhik of The Tuareg army had lead his forces out of their positions in the western Sahara on the 2nd of August, and had marched for eight days to the outskirts of El Jedidiah, a reasonable sized town that was not far from Casablanca, the major Spanish stronghold in Morocco. With the exception of the local nobility, made powerful by the Spanish, many of the civilians where elated to be liberated of Spanish control. Because of this, the Tuaregs had very little trouble with the smaller towns and provinces, unlike their Persian brothers to the north who had to burn villages to enforce their control.

When the Tuaregs entered El Jedidiah, they common people welcomed them as liberators, come to kick the catholic influence out of north Africa, while the nobles attempted to flee they retribution of the people. Any nobles caught where charges as Spanish sympathizers and heathens and beheaded in the town square.

Farhik watched the executions with a slight smile on his face. It reminded him of when he was just a junior officer, back when Amud rose to power. When Amud became ruler, he abolished the nobles, having them and their families eradication and the wealth put towards public work projects. The Tuaregs hoped to enforce the same policy in Spanish Morocco. After the execution of captured nobles, Farhik retired to his tent for the staff meeting with his generals. When he entered the tent, his generals stood to attention, then began the meeting.

"Well General Farhik, our men have assumed defensive positions around the town for now, until they are rested enough for the march on Casablanca. Trenches outside the town are in progress, along with some makeshift walls made of logs. Not the best defense I know but they should hold against irregulars and cavalry fine."

"Excellent, now that our current position is taken care of, let us direct our attention to Casablanca. What intelligence do we have?"

"Well, the garrison is manned and has cannon, and that is about all we know. According to reports, there is about 80,000 infantry, 2,000 Cavalry, and 100 cannon in all of Spanish Morocco, not including Spanish mercenaries. Now from what we here from the Persians a large number of the Spanish engaged them near Melilla to the north, which means any garrison in Casablanca would be diminished. And with our navy constantly raiding and bombarding the city, their moral would be low. The bottom line is we do not know how many Spaniards are in Casablanca, but we believe we out number them about 4:1."

"Excellent. How is our navy fairing?"

"Well, the forts in Casablanca where returning a great deal of fire, but over the months their ammunition supplies have been diminished and fire from the coast has been reduced. Although several ships have sustained severe damage and have been forced to return to Algiers for repairs."

"Well as long as they keep relief from reaching the Spanish I am not concerned. We shall not delay, however. I want all preparations made for us to march to Casablanca tomorrow."

"Yes sir!"

August 11, Battle Of Casablanca, Day 2

The Tuaregs left El Jedidiah the next day after a night of standing guard for a raid that never came. The speed at witch they came and went was great, General Farhik did not wish for word to reach Casablanca of their progress in time for them to launch a counter attack. The Tuaregs marched in a guarded fashion, making sure their wagons carrying their precious food and water did not fall prey to guerrilla attacks. After a days march, many expected to set camp out in the wilderness and rest, but General Farhik ordered the army to march threw the night. "You can rest in the morning." he squawked and anyone who questioned his order.

When morning came, the men slept, with plenty of them on watch. Farhik took this time to meet with his staff to plot the attack on Casablanca.

"My generals, I wish to take Casablanca with as little loss of Tuareg blood as possible. However, I have no such worries when it comes to slaughtering the enemy. It is for this reason that I have elected to use incendiary shells and burn the innards of the city to the ground. This will also be done with the help of the fleet anchored near Casablanca. We will simply set the place ablaze and march into the ruins in we have to. It is my hope, however, that the Spanish King will surrender his forces before this becomes necessary. Now, tonight we will march through the darkness until we are in cannon range of the city. There are a some rocky hills a bit to the south will we will deploy the artillery. The infantry will entrench themselves at the foot of these hills in order to protect the guns. We do not know how many troops are inside the walls and how many are outside, so the cavalry will make patrols through out the area in order to prevent a surprise attack. Is that clear?"

The generals nodded in agreement as they took down notes."Deploy your men as best fits the terrain. We march and sundown."

That night

That night, in the Casablanca harbor, an armada of 40 Tuareg ships engaged the spanish fleet that was 1/4 the size. The Tuareg navy was made up of former pirates that where given formal military training by the new government. As such they where partial to close quarters combat, maneuvering there ships in close to the Spanish and unleashing there grape shot on the enemy crews, horrible mangling them. After a brief exchange of fire, the Tuaregs deployed grappling hooks and boarded the Spanish, engaging them in brutal melees. The average Tuareg sailor carried a scimitar, a knife, and at least three pistols with witch to kill the enemy. The usual chaos off battle was made worse by the darkness, and the coastal batteries where useless, for they could not distinguish the Tuaregs from the Spanish.

The brutal melee was not the only aspect of the fight. Tuareg marksmen took sniper positions amongst there rigging and delivered precision fire with there rifles, picking of officers and particularly dangerous melee fighters. All of this could have gone worse for the Tuaregs if they hadn't out numbered the Spanish, with two or three Tuaregs ships ganging up on one Spanish ship.

One by one, the Spanish ships fell to the Tuaregs as they hoisted their swords and pistols in triumph. The victory had been costly, about 1,000 sailors where dead, and another 2,000 where wounded. Along with that, three ships where battle damaged, one had to be scuttled. Despite this, the Tuaregs acted quickly to complete their plan. After the battle and before the sun rose, they lowered their flags and hoisted Spanish colors in order to confuse the spaniards manning the coastal batteries, they then had several ships withdraw to make their numbers appear as the former Spanish fleet. It worked and when the sun rose on the 12th, the Spanish held their fire long enough for the Tuareg army to begin there attack...

August 12, Battle Of Casablanca, Day 3

On the morning of the 12th, the Tuareg cannons began firing on Casablanca with their incendiary bombs. The Tuareg fleet rose their actual colors, shedding their disguise, and joined the bombardment. The Cannons of the army, 400 in total, focused on the housing and palace areas of the city, while the fleet focused most of their (not incendiary) shells on the fortress and garrisons. The barrage would last 20 minutes, and resumed one hour later. Both the army and navy would continue this bombardment until either the Spanish King surrendered, or the city was nothing but ash and ruble.

August 20, Battle Of Casablanca, Day 11

After 8 days of near constant bombardment, many thousands of civilians where dead within the city, and disease would start to take it's toll, as would starvation, eventually/ But Farik would have it end before either became a major problem for the Spanish. His men had dug deep trenches, and each day had dug them closer to the Spanish defensive. The Spanish garrison had been returning fire, and the digging had become dangerous work. About 2,000 men had been lost to enemy fire, along with a few dozen dead from guerilla attacks on supply lines.

"I wonder why King Juan has not surrendered. He is compassionate man, I would think he'd want to end the slaughter of his men and his subjects." he turned to his aid. "I want a terms of surrender drafted. The King and his men are to be aloud to evacuate under the condition that they surrender this province."

The Next Day

The King had agreed to Farhiks conditions, and the blockade was lifted. The Tuareg troops entered the city, but it was not a very satisfying victory. The Majority of troops did not even get to fire a shot, they just dug, marched, and where shot at. On top of that, they where not very proud of the fact that they nearly burned all of Casablanca to the ground. But in the end, it was a victory non the less.

Campo had become a permanent fixture by the Kings side since the Popes somewhat rash declaration. With a constant flurry of report about current events and projections of possible future events, Campo had kept the King constantly busy.

Finally the King said, “I must have a moments rest.” Giuseppe sat on his throne and bid a servant, “Bring wine and bread.” The servant retrieved the food-stuffs as quickly as he was able. The King ordered a table and chairs brought into the throne, so that he could more comfortably converse with Compo and his various other advisors. As the group discussed various affairs of state, a Legionary Reale came before the table and proffered a letter after making a short bow. An aide took the letter and examined the seal, it was from the Swedish King.

Giuseppe rubbing his tired eyes and said, “Read the letter to me Campo.”

Campo took the letter and broke the seal. Aloud he read:

“To his Highness Giuseppe II of Italy,

King Gustav IV Adolf of Sweden formally invites you to come to Stockholm to discuss current matters and options.”

The King thought for a moment and then said, “Opinions Gentlemen?”

“Sire, I think you should refuse. With the heated state of affairs it would not be prudent to have you abroad.”, General Montagna of the Latina garrison stated flatly.

Campo quickly spoke up, “While I agree with the good General that you should not go personally, we can not refuse a possible friend out-right.”

“Agreed Campo.”, stated the King. “You will go.”

“Me!” exclaimed Campo.

“Yes, I trust you and know that you will act in our best interest. Now go prepare, you leave at sunrise.”, the King said with a slight smile a Compos surprise.

At sunrise Campo, along with a small staff and escort, set sail for Sweden.

January 23, 1801
Land ho...!

After a six day journey that covered over four hundred miles, the large invasion fleet of the United Kingdom arrived just twenty miles off the coast of northwest Spain. The peninsula was in sight as was there target: Vigo. The port city seemed to be lightly defended, though reports would be coming in soon on the approximate numbers and locations of the different forces.

This battle was expected to be a short and victorious one...

[ooc: @Dumii: I need information (we can talk via TG, MSN, or OOC Posts) about where your defenses are and how large they are (i.e. Do you have any ships protecting Galacia (or Vigo). Are there cannons facing out from the harbor. Where is your half army placed, etc.) Thanks.]

The lukewarm fall of Barcelona was refreshing to the celebrating men who had just spent days in the previous assault. Wine and beer flooded the streets, women-folk ran about, trying to avoid the huge influx of 'eager' Frenchmen who had not so much as witnessed a woman in more than fifteen months.

"These, my friends," Said a heavy-set French Sergeant with a bottle of Mataro in his hand, "These are the finest women Spain has to offer!" The young boy-soldiers cheered with glee. They had just completed their first real rite of passage, their first battle! The Sergeant downed the bottle and wiped his face with his coatsleave, promptly throwing the bottle on the street, shattering it into thousands of tiny pieces. "Welcome to Barcelona!"

It had been a fierce fight, but in the end the French troops's superior discipline and stronger morale won the day. The whole of Aragon had been captured with rather light losses, but heavy resistance nonetheless. The land was at last secure and the major combat was over. "Celebrate men! The war is almost over! Spain will soon surrender, and we will keep all of their wine...and women!" There were more cheers from the zealous men who soon later entered a tavern that was already overflowing with thirsty Frenchmen.

Music played loudly, officers and soldiers alike all drank as equals, officers bought drinks for the Privates, corporals bought drinks for the Colonels, and the men were content with their victory. The crowded tavern could seat five hundred, but nearly a thousand men graced the grounds. The kegs were running dry, the cigar smoke was enough to choke a man to death, but the soldiers didn't care, now was the time to celebrate their great feat! A man, or rather, a Lieutenant, stood up on the stage where the musicians were playing their fiddles and violins.

"Attention men! Attention!" He shouted at the top of his lungs, the crowd in the tavern steadily began to calm like a beast being tamed. "I would like to raise a toast!" There were cheers, the Lieutenant waited for the cheers to die down before he spoke again. "I would like to raise a toast for the boys of the 1st Army, for their heroics at Bilbao!" Loud cheers. "The 5th and 6th for their piecemeal neutralization of Zaragossa!" Hearty laughter. "And the 8th and 9th's great heroics for the battle of Barcelona!!" The crowd made a deafening roar at the mere mention of their army's accomplishment. "Drink men! Drink!"
_________________________________________________________________

"Sir." The 8th army General addressed the Grand General Petit, who had just arrived in the city on horseback from Andorra.

"Ah, General Dorat. I expect nothing went wrong with the invasion on your part?" Petit smiled as he dismounted from his horse, his bodyguards did the same.

"Absolutely nothing sir! Everything went according to plan, and panned out like clockwork. Our boys did good here." General Dorat grinned widely. He knew that this news would please Petit, who already had so much stress layered upon him. Petit smirked and breathed deeply.

"Excellent. This fight could've been another Bilbao...those poor bastards in the 1st Army..." Petit shook his head in dismay.

"Right sir. I hope none of us ever have to experience what those brave men did." Dorat lied. He desperately wanted the glory that General Monteil had established almost overnight. He was jealous of Monteil's success and his glory hoggedness.

"But General Monteil made the best of it. We won a glorious victory there, he destroyed about half of the Spanish garrison there, a great accomplishment since most of the other Spanish armies either fled to Castile or Corduba." Petit started to walk towards the command center, conveniently established at the Barcelonian palace. Dumont walked with him, almost as if he was a minion.

"Yes, sir. He is a real hero now." Dumont grumbled, Petit could sense the sarcasm in his voice, but did not turn to look.

"Indeed. Which brings me to my next point." Petit walked through the utterly massive courtyard of the palace, the leaves on the trees were starting to turn colors, the October air was refreshing, especially since the sea was so close. He suddenly stopped.

"Basile." He looked at General Dorat. Dorat looked back intently. "I want your army and Monteil's to take on Corduba." Dumont looked surprised, but he had to ask the question that was bothering him ever so much.

"What of Castile? King Fernando?"

"I've been informed by our lord Emperor that we are to withdraw the 5th, 6th, and 9th armies from Aragon and deploy them in Southern France. The 2nd army will stay in this newly conquered land and garrison it from Spanish attack. He has given me orders NOT to attack Castile. The Emperor has not told me why as of yet, but I think it has something to do with the English attacking Galacia." Petit continued to walk through the court. Dorat looked confused, but the Emperor's will was divine law.

"Very well. When shall we begin?" Dorat asked about the Corduba situation.

"When the Emperor gives us the word. We march." Petit looked exhausted, such management was difficult, even for the most keen of administrators.
_________________________________________________________________

General Monteil stood at the Governor's house in Bilbao, he surveyed a set of maps layed before him. "Aragon is secure now is it?" He queried to his staff.

"Yes sir. General Petit rode into Barcelona just three days past, he sent a rider to us with this message." A strapping lad handed the General a note, carefully enclosed in a cigar box.

General Monteil,

Congratulations on your stunning victory over the Spanish at Bilbao. Emperor Benedicte himself was overjoyed to hear the news of your eradication of Spanish troops who were so close to the French border. He tells you that you have done a great service to the security of the Empire, and one less army to the detriment of the aggressive and cowardly Spanish now burdens us. His lordship gives you his thanks. The Emperor also wishes for us to establish a French provincinial government in Corduba. I personally suggested to his grace that the 1st Army in conjunction with the 8th take charge and secure it for the Empire. He undoubtedly agreed to my proposition. Though reinforcements will be rather light, I know that you and your men can pull it off. If you must, initiate Directive 21, and replenish your numbers. March to Barcelona as soon as possible.

Sincerely,
General Lucien Petit

Monteil folded the note again and placed it in the cigar box. "Alright." He sighed. "Officers. We march for Barcelona at sunrise in two days. Initiate Directive 21. We need 5,000 Spanish men of age before we can march." The officers looked shocked. The Directive was something they feared would bring the downfall of their army, an influx of non-Frenchmen would obviously be a bad thing. Nevertheless, the men saluted and left the lavishly decorated room to their corresponding units.

"I hope I'm doing the right thing..." Monteil thought before he rubbed his forehead. "Oh I do..."

(OOC: Purchases made- bought 2 replacement armies for my 20,443 losses, moved 3 armies to S. France, 3 armies are in Aragon.)

A small man was wildly through the streets of Stockholm. His heart ready to jump out of his chest. His horse had given up on the out skirts of the city and just layed down. The messenger could not wait for his horse to get its butt in gear and dismounted and continued his journey on foot. About ofter 15 minutes or so, his feet were killing him, but it was his duty to get to the king. After another 15 minutes, he finally arrived at the steps of the palace. Without saying a word to the people at the front door, he walked right into the dinning hall, where King Gustav sat at the head of the table with his wife at the other. The childern must be in the yard, he thought yo himselve.

"Sir..."the man tired to catch his breath.

"Take our time, just dont die on that carpet. Its new." He placed a small peice of pork in his mouth. The messenger looked as though he was going to die. "Christ would someone please get this man some water before he dies on my carpet?!" A butler came walking calmly out of the kitchen with a goblet on a silver plater. The messanger quickly grabbed and selfiously gluped it all down, the sound disturbing the queen. "Speak messenger. What is so bloody important that you must sto my peaceful dinner with my wife?"

"News my majesty."

"Of what? The war? A new war? HAS SOMEONE INVADED US?! GUARDS FETCH MY HORSE AND DISPATCH THE EMERGANCY MESSANGERS!!"

"No my lord, nothing to that degree."

"Guards, get back here. Then what?"

"We have a letter fromthe English government."

"And that is important why?"

"Well its a trade agreement."

"....waiting for a reason..." the king tapped his fingers baside his plate.

"Well, its several months old."

"Well thats the british for you." the queen said as she slipped another peice of pork in her mouth.

"Dear, there will be no talk of them like that. And you, why is it so late?"

"Was held up in the post masters office in olso-denmark. The english ship was not permitted to land, to the british messanger was not allowed to land, but he did get his letter off. It went to the post masters office, wherethe old man put it in the wrong bin. It stayed there for a while, cause the baltics post ship was due for a month, then when it did, it had to go to the docks to repair damage sustained on the bad voyage to denmark. Then the letter when to the baltics, where the post master there put it inthe bin for the sea voyage back to sweden, instead of the sonner land horse post service."

Well then, lets not delay any further, give it here." the king wipped his hands on a napkin and held out his hand. The man walked over and placed it in his hand. He opened it quickly and read it over even faster. "Send a reply, this time, you make sure it gets there. We the baltic states agree to a trade agreement with britain, for a 5 year contract. After those 5 years we can discuss a new one. Got it? Good. Go." The man remained still. "Yes?"

"My horse is practiclly dead, and truth be honest i left it on the our skirts cause it was so tired, and i ran here, so i am terribly sore and tired. May i ask to borrow a horse?"

"Yes, follow Hans out to the barn. Also he will give you money to stay at the best hotel in town. But in the morining, you'd better be gone. I'll be sending some soldiers over and they will arrest if you are still there."

"Thank you, thank you!" He turned around and followed hans to the door, then looked back "Terribly sorry my lady for disturbing your dinner." and he walked out.

After 20 days at sea the Italian delegation disembarked at Stockholm. The journey had gone well until they had entered the North Sea. The ship had skirted at least three storms in Compos estimation, of course, he is no sailor.

Compo stood with the Captain of the vessel, a stout man and one of the finest captains in the Italian navy.

“Captain Onda, my party and I shall proceed to the Palace. If we are accepted, I will send for my things.” said Compo.

“And if not Sir?” replied Onda.

Compo looked at the bobbing ship and stated with some distaste, “If not, the next 20 days are going to be unpleasant…for the both of us.”

Compo, as a soldier, preferred to have his feet planted on firm ground. He had spent much of the voyage seasick. His discomfort had made him quite irritable during the journey, and the Captain was in no mood to hear the Colonels constant complaints about how his “damn ship just won’t be still”.

The Italian delegation rode on, happy to be on land once again and hoping this journey would be worth the trouble.

OOC: you can take it from here Delesa.

Madrid

Princess Ximena reclined gracefully. Her mother, after attending the French Emperors wedding, had decided to stay in Paris for several months.

The message that Aragon had been taken had rankled with her somewhat, but being of a philosophical disposition she had decided that it might have been fated. The news of the treatment of the locals by the invading French had moved her first to anger, then to tears of sorrow for her subjects.

The news that a British fleet was also making for Galicia was also a concern, but sending the remainder of the Bilbao army and that of the standing army in Aragon should stem the tide. The Lerida army had been vanquished completely.

She would decide upon matters later. For now, she was assured she had the peoples undying support, and knew that the French would face severe hostility in Aragon. This thought at least cheered her.

A Strike at Spain

January 21, 1801
Parliament

A Royal British messenger came walking calmly through the corridors of the grand Parliament building and stopped outside of the Prime Minister's office. The door was simple, undecorated, and if not for the quality of the wood and the label Prime Minister, it could have been mistaken for a closet. The messenger rapped neatly on the door and then proceeded to enter after the required amount of time.

"Sir, I bring news from the north. The Baltic States, led by King Gustav of Sweden, have accepted our proposal for mutual trade beginning this year and ending in 1806. After which time further negotiations on the trade agreement can be concluded."

"Thank you very much for the news," Pitt said as he took the letter and in its place slipped a coin into the messenger's hand. "Now our powerful industrial economy is trading with the entire world; the former and current colonies, the French, Italians, Austrians, Baltics, Russians, Prussians, Persians, Tauregs, and Ottomans." Pitt smiled happily at their economic success, which would in turn lead to great military victories. "Thank you, that is all."


January 23, 1801
Off the Coast of Vigo

During the night, whilst the soldiers and citizens of Vigo slept, each wondering what of the future, the spies from the peninsula slipped onto small paddleboats and rode out from the harbor to meet the grand fleet of the Royal Kingdom. They were few in number, but there power was greater than armies themselves.

As they approached the Admiral's boat, the few deckhands that were still awake helped them onboard and tied their boats to the ship. Lord Nelson was still awake in his room as he waited for the reports... now they came. There was a gentle knocking on the door and one of the sailor's opened it to let the seven spies enter. "Thank you, that is all Gordon," Nelson dispatched as the sailor dutifully closed the door and stood guard on the secret meeting. "Well, of what news do you bring?"

"My Lord, we bring great news," one of the men in the middle of the line of seven said.

"Indeed. Done our duties well, have we," another reported as he unrolled a map of the peninsula.

"Yes... this our current position," a third man said as he pointed to Vigo, which was on the water and just north of the Portuguese border. "And the Spanish Armada is here engrossed in fighting with the Muslims," he noted as he pointed to North Africa. "There is no chance of them interfering in time, nor would they be able to put up a decent fight with the condition and size of their navy after their battles with the Muslims. They don't have a single ship in the Atlantic."

"Yes," the second man continued. "You can sail right into the port without any confrontation. And better yet, they have no defenses in the city. They have no cannons facing the port that could attack you and best of all... no garrison. Not a single soldier lies inside the city gates of Vigo. It will fall when the first British man steps foot on Spanish soil."

Obviously very happy with the news he had just received, Lord Nelson inquired as to where the Spanish army was if not in Vigo.

"Sir, they guard the capitol of Galacia... Santiago. It is about fifty miles north-northeast of the port. However, the terrain has been slightly muddy with the recent rainfalls... I would hazard a guess that it would take six or seven days to march your armies north out of Vigo and to Santiago - at a reasonable rate of course. You could force march there in probably half the time, but I wouldn't recommend it... there is no need."

"And did we mention there is but half an army there?" One of the spies asked rhetorically with an apparent grin on his face. "I counted no more than forty thousand infantry, one thousand cavalry, and nearly 100 cannons... probably closer to 80. They have penned themselves up in the cit-"

"Excellent," Lord Nelson interrupted. "Santiago is a small city; forty plus thousand men in it will drain its resources in no time. We will surround the city, pelt them with cannon fire, and let them starve to death..." he schemed, planning out the course of the war in his head. "What of reinforcements?"

"The closest garrison is possibly in Madrid or Saragossa, though there is also an army in Bilbao that fought against the French. It is quite weary, disheveled, and half wiped out. Either way, they are many weeks travel away and could not make it in time to force you to lift the siege of Santiago. I would say that from Bilbao it could take five weeks to march the rest of their army, and then when they arrived they would be worse off then when they started. They won't arrive in time... there is no need to worry," one of the unspoken spies offered.

"Good work... all of you. Jobs well done," Lord Nelson said as he slipped a gold coin into each of their hands and then dismissed them.

"For King and Country!" They saluted as each left the room and was escorted back to his small boat by a sailor.


"It would seem that the Spanish Empire will be toppled," a new voice said from the back corner of the dark room. It was the Duke of Wellington who had remained silent throughout the spies' report. "The Muslims will soon take Morocco, the French have already taken Aragon and will soon march on Corduba, and Galacia will fall in less than a month. All that will be left will be a bloody battle in Castile for the seat of power."

The two commanders grinned as they foresaw the glorious future for their kingdom. "Tomorrow... we march."


January 24, 1801
Dawn - Port of Vigo

At the first sight of dawn, the crew was aroused by the simultaneous sounding of hundreds of bugles across the vast fleet of ships. The sun was arising and with it a new day for Britain. Wasting no time at all, the crews quickly hoisted sails and made a bee-line to the harbor. With no naval ships or cannons to pester the unloading process, the transport ships sailed up to dock and began unloading the soldiers. No doubt the unloading process would take all day, what with over three hundred thousand soldiers and all, but their stern discipline and practice would make it a clean and quick procedure.

After a small contingent of troops had unloaded from the first docked ship, they quickly made their away around the harbor and ordered all non-British ships out to sea so that their docks could be used for the British Navy. Once they finished clearing the boats from the harbor, they wandered the empty streets of Vigo until they found the city's center. In one triumphant move, the British flag was raised and the city fell...


January 25, 1801
Morning - Vigo

The unloading of troops and supplies continued all through the night and into the next morning until all four armies had disembarked. The streets were lined with soldiers, making sure no upset citizens tried anything stupid... not that they appeared to even want to leave their homes. Most were frightened about the occupation, but the Duke of Wellington did not plan to stay long. As quickly as possible, he would move his troops out of the city and let their daily lives go on as normal. A gift to the Spanish people... one he would certainly rip out of their hands if there were disturbances.

Once all of the soldiers had been unloaded, the Duke of Wellington and Lord Nelson met for a brief meeting before parting ways.

"We will leave the city in less than two hours and arrive at Santiago in the evening of the 31st," Wellesley said as his armies were preparing to move at a moment's notice.

"Very good. I will be leaving twenty ships here to blockade the port and remind the Spanish that their precious city could be destroyed with the snap of my finger," Lord Nelson replied. "When Santiago falls, send a runner back to the ships and tell them that we hold Galacia. They then have orders to sail to the tip of North Africa and hold the straight of Gibraltar for the next step in our strategy. Meanwhile, I will be taking thirty ships up to the port city of Santander in Castile. We will be attacking them on the seas as we cripple their trade while you take out their armies."

"Brilliant plan my good man. As you leave a guard of twenty ships, so too will I be leaving a force of one thousand men to control the city and remind them who they are dealing with," the Duke responded as he stood up.

The two saluted each other in unison as they would be parting way for awhile and then. "May God shine his eternal glory upon you."

"And to you, friend."

With that, they parted ways; Lord Nelson to his ship and the Duke to his waiting armies. Within the hour, Lord Nelson and thirty ships had left for Santander while the Duke and his four armies marched through the northern city gates on their way to victory...


January 26, 1801
Evening - Port of Santander

Following the coast up the face of Spain and around, had led the thirty ship fleet of Lord Nelson directly to the port town of Santander in Castile. Like Galacia, there were no naval ships to be found guarding the port; they were all busy elsewhere fighting against the dubious Muslims. With white sails raised and the British flag flapping in the winds of the high seas, Lord Nelson had his ships surround the harbor and cut off any route to the sea. It was officially blockaded from trade. Any ships caught trying to enter or leave would be turned around and/or fired upon by the British Navy.

Now was the waiting game... The ships would remain here until Castile fell to the British in a few months, unless of course they were desperately needed elsewhere.


January 31, 1801
Midnight - Outskirts of Santiago

Under the cover of darkness, the armies of Britain arrived at the capital city of Santiago. Having trekked fifty miles in a little over six days, they were still relatively fresh and ready to fight. However, the Spanish seemed content to stay inside of the city as the British marched closer.

A couple hours earlier, just a few miles from the city, the Duke of Wellington had made the decision to split his force up into the four armies that they were and surround the city from all directions. The 1st Army remained with him and took the southern edge, while the 2nd Army followed their leader, General Robert Crauford, around the western side of the city and to their place in the north. The 3rd and 4th Army went west and east respectively under their respective commanders General John Moore and General Henry William Paget. By midnight, all four armies were in place surrounding the city. The infantry had taken up positions along the exits and entrances to the city as artillery set up to fire barrages from the high ground into the city.

From the south, the Duke had sent a lone, unarmed messenger into the city carrying a simple note: Surrender and end this or their deaths will be on your head at the Last Judgment. Entering the city at two in the morning, it was deathly quite, except for the guards that stood ready to sound the alarm. Showing that he was not armed, the messenger told them he had a message in his best Spanish accent and then handed the rolled up parchment to the men. After doing his duty, he scampered out of town and returned to the south camp. As he arrived, he heard their fearless commander giving a stirring speech.

"Men... the moment you set foot on land, you were deemed enemies of the Spanish Kingdom. There is no turning back now... There is no running... and there is no end to this except death itself. We are here for King and Country - Never forget this. Today we show the world that we are more powerful than ever before. We are not to be defied or rebuked. Our will is law and our mighty armies will be the hand that enforces them. Do not let your people down... Do not let your King down... Do not let your country down... Do not let Me down... but most of all, do not let yourselves down. Remember Brothers, what we do in life... echoes in eternity!"


February 1, 1801
First Light - Santiago

As the sun rose over the eastern hills, lightning the city and warming the air with its rays, the British Armies stood ready and awaiting the order. Turned away from the city, the Duke of Wellington stared out at the grassy fields. A young officer approached from behind, "Si-"

"Unleash Hell."

One cannon, farther back then the rest, just to the left of the Duke, fired and launched a cannonball as high as possible. Then a minute later, four hundred artillery pieces began simultaneously firing from all directions, pouring their loads onto the waking citizens of Santiago. They would know death that morning...

A burly man, roughly six feet tall and a good 230 pounds, stood before a large group of frightened boys, their clothes, ragged, their bodies, famished. The man, who donned the all blue uniform of a French Grenadier, shouted at the top of his lungs to the boys who had the look of peasantry about them.

"You are the saddest bunch of stray dogs if I ever saw them! Stand up straight and look forward! DON'T YOU LOOK AT ME! I know you can understand me, you whore's son!" The Sergeant spat at the group of Spanish conscripts, drafted right out of the streets of Bilbao and the surrounding villages. The men mostly didn't understand, but a translator was viciously spitting the Sergeant's words at the men with such speed and haste that the officers watching the group could hardly believe this language could be learned. A cold looking man grinned at the other officers, he bore the rank of a commissioned officer.

"You will stand at attention for the Colonel Ypres! He will be your father, your mother, your god now!If you fail to respect him I will personally execute every last one of you! And your families!" The Sergeant was not kidding. When the Spanish conscripts finally recieved the message, their eyes widened and they stood up even straighter. The rough Sergeant glanced over to the group of officers. One of the men, arms crossed, sighed and stepped forward, very arrogantly. He stood next to the Sergeant and didn't say a word.

"Stand up straighter!" The Sergeant shouted, but the men could hardly comply. Their backs couldn't get any straighter without breaking any bones. The Colonel still stood silent. His hands moved to behind his back as he started to make his way through the ranks, inspecting these 'soldiers' he was to forge out of mere rabble. He stopped suddenly and inspected a boy, no more than fifteen. The boy stood, quivering. His lips were twitching out of mixed emotions, mostly fear and sadness.

"What is your name, boy?" The Colonel asked in Spanish, though his words were a bit accented. The boy shifted his eyes and looked at the officer.

"Carlito, sir." He stuttered as the French Colonel itched his chin.

"Ah. Carlito...quite original." The Colonel smiled, his tuft of hair on his chin whipped in the wind. He walked past Carlito and started to speak to the entire regiment with the loudest voice he could muster. "You men, will be our helpful addition to the French 1st Army. The helpful addition that YOUR people managed to destroy." He paused. "Now I know that this is all a doing of your bastard of a King, but nevertheless, your people will have to suffer because of his workings." The man paused again. Looking both ways. Everyone was dead silent.

"You are all members of the French Army now, as much as the Imperial house wishes to deny it. You will carry spades, hammers, and saws. None of you will carry a weapon of any kind. Under this jurisdiction, the Imperial house strives to undermine your existance in our armed forces. BUT, you are my soldiers. You will suffer the same evils that the French Fusilier must face, and worse. Why? Because you are in MY regiment. The penalty for fleeing my regiment will be known far and wide, much to the dismay of the Imperials." Colonel Ypres suddenly pulled a pistol from his holdster and walked up to the scared boy Carlito. "You, Carlito." The boy looked frightened. He couldn't help but to look down at the pistol that was in the Colonel's hand. "Run away. Now."

The boy looked bewildered at the Colonel. He couldn't believe his ears. "Run god damn it. That's an order!" Ypres grinned and lifted the pistol up to face level with the young man. Tears started to roll down his cheeks. "Run or I will kill you." The other officers looked on this display with mild chuckles. Carlito looked both ways and decided to run to the forest to his rear. He sprinted half-heartedly and reached the edge of the forest.

There was a loud explosion from Ypres' gun. Horses neighed. And Carlito fell down in his tracks. The men were astonished. "Sergeant. Gather up four others."

"Yes sir." The beastly man grunted as he pointed to four other men standing in the front of the regiment. "You, you, you, and you. Get up to the front." The men sheepishly complied, they had no other choice and they were still quite shocked at the Colonel's actions. "All set sir."

"Tell them to line up and face to the right...and to stand close together." Ypres said as he signalled for an Imperial Guardsmen to hand him his rifle. The Sergeant ordered the men to do what Ypres said. "Good." Almost without aiming, Ypres fired into the back of one soldier and it went through two others. Three men dropped to the ground. The fourth still stood, he had soiled himself and was crying uncontrollably.

"Such is the penalty for deserting, men." He smiled as he tossed the rifle to the guardsman. The other men stood in horror, wondering what else this Colonel Ypres was capable of. Deserting was the last thing on their minds, especially now. "This man was luck that the rifle only had 20 grains of powder in it. Next time, the sacraficial lambs will not be so lucky." The Colonel grinned sadistically. The men continued to stand up straight. "Carry on Sergeant." Ypres took off his gloves and wiped a fleck of blood off from his face.

Several swedish warships fallowed the Italian ship from a distance. Watching its every move. The swedish governement was very touchy in times like these.

As the Italian vessel neared the port, the dick master had a bunch of soldiers to prepare to board the vessel and tie her down on the docks. And standing beside him was Captain Fernando Pissanio, a italian man, recruited into the swedish army. He was the only no in a distance that could speak italian, swedish, finnish, and danish.

The ship eased it way to the dock. And the men on the ship through down lines and the swedish soldiers tied them off. Then a plank was established bewteen the dock and ship, and 25 soldiers ruched aboard and stood at attention. to the side. Fernando took his time walking over to the plank and making his way up. Then he looked up at the helm were obiously the highest officers would be. He slowly made his way around the ship to the helm.

In italian with a perfect accent ha said, "My men here will search your ship, then we will leave. Which one, if any is the man from italy to see the king?"

"I am Captain. The name is Campo."

"Exellent. Lets us get off the ship and let my noys do there work. And Captain, you and you men may stay as long as you want aslong as there is nothing aboard that is against regulations. But you look like a respectible officer and i doubt if we will have any problems."

"Of course. So your an italian?"

"Yes. I moved here with my family when i was 16. My father was asked to join the Swedish navy as a high offical. So here i am. Good day Captain" Fernando saluted and lead Campo off, and gave a flick of his hand and the soldiers began to scurry around the top deck. "So Campo, if you will follow me he have a room set up inthe palace for you. If you would get into the carrage." Fernando opened the small door. Campo quickly got in and Fernando shut it and walked back tot he dock master.

"Nothing so far captain."

"Good. I wouldn't expect anything. Well i'll be off. Give the captain some fine locations in the city of pubs, hotels, you know."

"Of course sir."

"Good day." Fernando saluted and walked back to the carrage and got on to his horse and flicked his hand and the carrage and the 3 escorts from the local cavlary unit moved forward, following his through the streets and soon they arrived at the palace and Fernado got down and opened the carrage down and Campo got down. "The king will see you tomarrow, but for now i will take you to your room, from there you can go any where. Any where your not allowed, there will be guards, so you will know were not to go. Other then that, I hope you enjoy your stay."


OOC:i'l Rp you meeting the king in like a day or something. until then you can like RP your visit and explore some stuff.

The Grand Amenokal was sitting on his palace balcony along with some of his advisers, one of them was General Balkhu, the man in charge of the recruitment and training of the army.

"How goes the progress of the latest batch of recruits?" Asked Amud. There had been little news coming from the front, which had worried the Amenokal. It was after sleepless night that he had ordered the formation of a new army to reinforce the men already in Spanish Morocco.

"Well," Began Balkhu,"It is going as one would expect. We are training them the best we can with our limited resources, and our training instructors do not have much experience themselves, so it has been difficult, but I think that in two or three months we can march them to Spanish Morocco if necessary."

"It won't be!" Yelled a messenger who had just burst onto the balcony,"Our forces have defeated the Spanish! The King of Spain is dead!" I can hardly believe it. Thought The Grand Amenokal Amud. After months of preparation and countless delays, along with a rather nasty siege at Casablanca, the Tuareg army had defeated the Spanish forces in Africa.

Amud quickly gathered his thoughts,"We must acted quickly to consolidate. I am making General Farhik the governor of our newly acquired province and granting him the title of Lord. I want two armies stationed there to maintain order..." Amud rose from his seat and walked off the balcony back into his war room, with a train of aides following him.

Amud moved to his maps and continued to give orders."I want two armies here in Tunis, two armies and the newly formed eighth army in north Africa, and I want the bulk of the navy guarding the waters between us and Spain." He moved from the map and walked back onto his balcony,"Inform the new Governor Lord Farhik that he is to arrest all Spanish citizens and seize their land. The same applies to any natives who worked for or cooperated with the Spanish. If Spain wants their people back, they will have to pay a ransom.

"Yes sir."

"And construct for our forces three fortresses in our main provinces. I also want some emissaries sent off to the continent to form some trade agreements. I want agreements forged with Russia, Sweden, and the Baltic states."

Finally finished, he turned to his aides,"Go! Now! Chop Chop!"

OOC: 3 forts and 1 army purchased. One fort in Tunis, one in North Africa, and one in SM. Look to my fact book for troop and fleet positions. Russia, Sweden, BS, feel free to roll play your encounters with my emissaries, but if you want I'll rp them arriving.

And Spain, if you want your citizens back, pay me 3 credits :)

ooc:are the Spanish and people still at war.


The Sultan was pleased at how things were going. He had just recruited mercenaries from local regions for an important duty.

"ok, you mercenaries will be paid fine if you do exactly, EXACTLY as I say. No mess ups."

After the debriefing the Mercenaries were given camels and began to go to their destination.


ooc2:im a bit sick so I wont be able to post for a while:(

Madrid.

Bong...bong...bong...
Princess Ximena looked up at the Palace Clocktower.
Bong...bong...bong...
A wind stirred the leaves of the trees in the Royal Garden. The sky was clouded, forbidding. The princess wiped her eyes with her black lace handkerchief.
She had just returned from her father's state funeral. He had been laid in the Madrid Cathedral, alongside his noble ancestors. The Tuaregs had, despite Ximena's expectations, returned his body to Cadiz, once they had found his body beside his horse. She was glad for this.

She knew now that she was Queen. Her mother was confined to her bed, delierious and distraught with grief. The doctors did not expect her to last - she refused to eat, or take drink, or even the medicines which they prescribed.

The thought lay heavy on her heart. For a moment, she very nearly despaired of life. Her dear father dead, her mother maddened with sorrow - how could anyone bear such pain?

She had seen his body confined to his coffin, and laid with great solemnity into the Cathedral. She had spoken with Christian of their love for their father, and of his end. Things looked bleak for Spain.

Aragon taken and Spanish Morocco overrun, the least she could do was pay the Tuaregs to transport the refugees that had not been killed in the fighting. It was her responsibility as Queen. Only in name though, not yet in title. She thought of the choices and risks she would have to take, and remembered to be brave.

Today was ending. Tomorrow would bring more pain, more death. It was inescapable.

She watched as the leaves swirled in the wind, making patterns on the tiled path. Then, she got up, and left to her bedroom, determined not to cry until she got there.

OOC: 3 credits paid to Aiti on condition that Tuaregs transport refugees to Gibraltar.

Lord Farhik supervised the loading of the prisoners onto transports bound for Spain. The refugees where a sad sight to behold, complete disheveled and distraught. There worldly property and wealth had been seized by The Grand Amenokal, and they had been arrested and sent to the newly established prison inside Fort Hinan, near the city of Ceuta. They had been held there for months after the Spanish defeat, waiting for word on whether or not the new Spanish queen would pay there ransom. Lord Farhik was fully prepared to execute the lot of them if they price had gone unpaid.

Fortunately for the Spaniards, the queen was has warm hearted as her father and could not refuse to pay. They where being herded onto large prison ships by the marines for transport to Gibraltar. The journey would be a short one, but the Tuaregs had no intentions of going out of their way to make them comfortable.

OOC: Refugees transported, credits received. Establishing a marine corps. Pruchased 200,000 Infantry and 800 cannon.

"What do you want?" Benedicte asked abruptly as he sat by the fire, the snowy showers still brought nips of cold air to the interior of the palace, despite the warm atmosphere. The Emperor's lady, Jeanne Benedicte, stood beside his chair, her elegant gown kept her warm even through the cold nights.

"My lord..." She started, her voice was gentle. "General Petit has arrived from Barcelona...he wishes to speak with you..." She said softly, her hands tried to keep the night gown tight to her body to keep in the warmth. Benedicte sighed and stood up, placing his book on the history of North Africa on the desk next to him.

"Go to bed, Jeanne. I will see you within the hour. I expect you to be ready." He didn't show emotion as she lowered her head in acknowlegement.

"Yes...my lord." She said as he started to walk out of his study, where he was rumored to have read most of the classical literature written. Jeanne dragged her feet as she sat in her husband's chair. She then proceeded to cry her eyes out in front of the crackling fire, where many had met their destiny and doom.

Benedicte walked casually through the palace corridors with his usual armed escort of two men, both were clad in the dark uniforms of the Imperial Guards. They walked for what seemed to be a quarter mile to the planning room, where sure as stone, stood General Petit, snow still visible on his hat, shoulders, and garments. "My lord Emperor!" He bowed his head.

"Ah! Hello my General Petit!" The two men embraced for a moment and he spoke wildly to his comrade. "It is good to see you! Come! Sit, sit." The Emperor begged of the General, who obliged gratefully. The two men sat at a table off to the side of the planning room, several guards and officers stood in the room, talking and drinking. It was New Years eve.

"First off, my Emperor, I wish you a happy New Year." Petit smiled as he looked over to a young private. "You! Get us some wine!" Petit smiled and the Private nervously complied.

"Thank you Petit...how long has it been now? A year?" Benedicte smiled.

"About sire, just about a year and two months." He grinned back.

"Well then, tell me how are you? How are your children in Toulouse?" The Emperor started small talk and almost pretended to act concerned. What he really wanted was a status report on Aragon and Spain.

"They are excellent sire, I left them last Wednesday for Paris, after spending Christmas with them. The wife send you her reguards and congrats on Jeanne and you finally being wed...oh, and how is the lady of the court?" Petit queried, his eyes brightened as the youthful Private brought over a bottle of France's finest. "Thank you son."

"Oh she is alright, I suppose. She has been acting poorly recently, her attitude toward me has been troubling..." He rubbed his chin, now developing some hair. Petit looked really concerned for the Emperor. He had had at least ten wives in the past twelve years of his reign, more than double the late King of France's wife count, and he had ruled for over thirty years.

"I am truly sorry my lord." Petit started, noticing the impatient look on Benedicte's face. "And now we will get to the point of this conversation." He grinned almost disgustedly. Benedicte gave a smug glare back. "Well, sire, we have been experiencing some minor resistance in Aragon, not enough to hinder us in any way at all of course, but enough to cause some minor micromanagement problems with the town governors. It is nothing of our concern though." Petit started to debrief with his only commander.

"Go on."

"Yes sire. The 1st and 8th armies are fully prepared to strike at Corduba, in fact, we are more than prepared. We issued your order to conscript any Spanish men necessary to fill in the ranks. And so we did. We did not issue them many important duties though, they will simply preform as engineers and do the hard work our Fusiliers can't be wasted doing. Fresh fighters are the key to victory, as you know." Petit nodded as Benedicte listened intently over a glass of wine. "Our men are fresh and ready, they are somewhat impetuous for a fight sir. With Monteil and his boys from the 1st leading the charge, what could go wrong? Their heroics at Bilbao sure showed our enemy a lesson on trying to defend against French troops. The only way to defend against us is to run away or surrender!" There were cackles at the table, Benedicte was in the middle of drinking his wine.

"So, tell me of the other battles in Spain." Benedict was still smiling.

"Our allies the English landed at Galacia, as you know, and conquered that place in a great hurry, the battle didn't last a week before they starved out the enemy." Petit started.

"Ha ha! It is only a matter of time before Ferdinand is begging before me for mercy on his people. This war will be over very soon with the English at our side, too bad some of the glory must go to them." Benedicte said bittersweetly. Petit looked like he had something to say. The Emperor noticed it. "What is it?"

"I also have some distressing news of Spanish Morocco...King Ferdinand was slain in battle there not a month ago, his funeral was just last week." Benedicte looked stunned. Petit sat there and looked even more concerned for the Emperor's response on the next subject. "The Tuaregs also held the populace for ransom. Europeans for ransom." Benedicte looked almost unconcerned.

"Really now? How many people?"

"Millions sir...herded like cattle and shipped to Corduba." Petit had never heard of such an atrocity in his time as a General.

"The Tuaregs are barbarians and are expected to act as such..." Benedicte started. "...However, holding even enemy Europeans for ransom is an insult to my people and lands. All of the nations of the world should feel the same of these...Tuareg nations..." Benedicte held some false contempt against the Tuareg kings. He couldn't care less, in fact.

"What do you want to do, sire?" Petit asked.

"Well, nothing for now. We may use this as 'incentive' one day, this 'atrocity' could play very well into our hands. Let us just keep this incident in our bag of tricks, in case we need it some time in the future." Benedicte grinned, Petit could not believe his ears. His own leader, totally uncaring of an atrocity of this magnitude, is willing to use this horrible incident as leverage on rivals!? It was absurd, but Petit refused to speak his mind.

"Very...good sire." General Petit sighed. "...shall we commence our gift to the English for the ongoing war effort?"

"Absolutely. And while you are at it, I want five infantry armies trained here in Paris and one in Aragon. We shall continue to secure our place amongst the world as the strongest military machine in the world. I don't care what the cost is." Benedicte grinned. The General could hardly believe his ears. This would boost French numbers up by as much as 20%, such a purchase was unheard of in French history. This would truly put France on the map, if it wasn't already.

"Right away...sir. I shall also dispatch an emissary to Prussia to secure a renewal to our peace pact, should they desire it. If they don't...well then we know what they plan to do." Petit sat quietly as Benedicte rubbed his forehead and nodded.

"Good night General. I will give you new orders in the morning...oh, and you have my blessing to attack Corduba and Saragossa at your will. We will be victorious no matter what the cost of victory may be." Benedicte stood from the table and saluted the General, who saluted back. Both men parted ways, the General went to his private quarters in the Palace. Benedicte walked off to his chambers, where his willing wife awaited...

(ooc: 6 Infantry Armies purchased next year, 14 credits donated to UK, Emissary sent to Prussia to renew Peace pact for 3 more years...1803-1806..., and trade rights offered for three years.)

February 8, 1801
Early Morning - Santiago

It had taken but a week. The capital city of Santiago de Compostela had fallen to the British. A sustained artillery barrage for seven days, in which thousands of shots were fired from the surrounding armies into the town, had taken its toll. The town was beginning to run low on food and supplies as all of its exits and means of transportation were blocked. The people practically begged the army to give in, though they would not admit it for their honor. The horrors of war were too much... buildings destroyed, bodies in the street, children starving... they wanted no more of it.

At first light on the eighth of February, a meager looking messenger carrying a white flag of surrender walked from the southern entrance to the town up to the hill on which the commander of the British Armies lay encamped. He carried a note from the Spanish commander issuing their unconditional surrender and that of the territory of Galicia.

Needless to say, the Duke of Wellington accepted.


February 9, 1801
Afternoon - Santiago

When the Spanish Army of Santiago had placed their weapons in a large pile at the town center, the British marched into the town victoriously with their four commanders in the lead. Parading through the streets, the four armies met at the town center where they officially accepted the surrender of the Spanish Army and the province of Galacia to the United Kingdom.

However, they would not stay long in Santiago. It was the Duke's intention to allow the Spanish people of the province to go on with their daily lives as if nothing had happened. The four armies moved out of Santiago and made camp near the border of Galacia in Castile. Meanwhile, the Duke had sent a messenger to Lord Nelson who was anchored in the Port of Santander to the north. The letter spoke of the speed in which Galacia had fallen and instructed him to remove his ships from the port of Vigo so that trade and life could go on. What to do with them was up to the Admiral.

Another messenger was sent to Vigo itself and instructed the one thousand man force there under the control of Captain Smith to begin marching to Santiago where they would be stationed for the coming few months. When they arrived the townsfolk were instructed to put them and maintain civil order or else there would be serious repercussions. The forty-one plus thousand former members of the Spanish Army that had been taken prisoner by the British were taken into the military of the United Kingdom. They wouldn't have guns or any weapons, but rather they would help setting up camp and with supplies such as food. The penalty for desertion was death... as demonstrated by one poor Spanish fellow who attempted to run during the announcement. However, in the meantime while there was no fighting to be had, the Duke had allowed the forty-one plus thousand men to return to Santiago and help in its reconstruction under the watchful eye of Captain Smith and his men.


March 15, 1801
Straight of Gibraltar

Under the auspices of a reconnaissance mission, forty ships of the Royal British Navy sailed to the straight of Gibraltar from their former moorings in the Port of Vigo and the Port of Santander. There were still ten ships left behind in Santander until Castile fell, but it was evident that there would be no need for a larger force to blockade the port. The Spanish had no chance of erecting a navy to match that the British.


Sometime in May, 1801
Camp on the Galician-Castilian Border

Four more armies from Britain via the port of Vigo had arrived and set up camp and with them they brought a new load of supplies... especially cannonballs. The British had taken measures to loot the Spanish armory in Santiago, but it still wasn't enough to replenish the pounding the artillery had doled out on the poor city. Now, however, there were eight armies in Castile poised to strike at Madrid in less than two weeks time.

Time would pass before the strike though... soon however, all of Spain would fall.



[ooc: All of this occurring last year - purchased 7 territory upgrades for N/S Ireland and Scotland for 34 Credits.]

The Final Plunge

January 1, 1802
Camp on the Galician-Castilian Border

Near Valladolid on the border of the new British Province of Galicia and Castile, the camp of six hundred forty thousand [640,000] infantry, sixteen thousand [16,000] cavalry, and eight hundred [800] cannons lay less than one hundred miles from the Spanish capital city of Madrid. It was to be a fortnight of marching to cover the ground. And it all begun on New Year's Day...

A new year, a new opportunity. Enough time had been wasted already. Now was the time to strike.

As darkness covered the lands and the partying over the new year had died down, the Duke of Wellington ordered his men to pull up camp and begin marching. In actuality, it would be the forty-one plus thousand former members of the Spanish Army of Santiago that would be doing the work, but it all meant the same thing... victory was at hand.

Spies from around the country had been flocking to their camp over the past weeks and months. With them they brought news of the military locations of the Spanish; One army in Saragossa, - even farther from Madrid then their own vamp - a couple of armies in Corduba, which the French would strike, and perhaps another army in Castile... maybe even in Spain. Nonetheless, wherever the Spanish stood, they would stand no chance against the combined might of the United Kingdom and France...


January 15, 1802
Morning - Outskirts of Madrid

After two weeks of walking at a nice pace - not to fast or hard on the body - the combined armies of the United Kingdom under command of the Duke of Wellington arrived on the outskirts of Madrid. Any opposing force would not yet have arrived to intercept the invasion force and so the siege would begin without delay.

Madrid... Castile... Spain... they would all fall.



[ooc: Dumii, your factbook isn't quite clear where everybody is, so if you could update that or surrender your armies and territories. Also, returned 14 credits to France (60.5 - 14 = 46.5), purchased Naval Cost Upgrade (46.5 - 15 = 31.5), spent 7 credits on attacking Castile with the eighth coming from France (31.5 - 7 = 24.5), and bought four field armies and four navies (24.5 - 12 -12 = .5 credits remaining).]

OOC:what bloody year is it???

It was a chilly morning and the palace seemed dead. No one stired, yet. But Captain Fernando Pissanio was in the kitchen, finding some breakfast for Compo. He knocked on the room door and barged in, and Compo was sitting in a chair at the desk.

"I have brought you some bread and water, but we must hurry. The King is awake and waiting for you and you do not what to keep him waiting." Fernando lead him out and down the hall, though several passages and door ways until they reached a pair of huge oak doors. Fernando signed to the two guards on either side and they opened the doors.

"Presenting Compo of Italy, speaker of the king of italy."

"Yes yes, so," Gustav ploped a grape into his mouth,"I, the sole ruler of the Baltic States would like to propose two things, one to your alliance and ane to your nation. First for italy, a trade agreement for the most allowed years possible. And for your alliance, a peace treatie with me. I can not garrentee the peace amoung the many other nations of the Eastern Alliance. But the sole nation of the Baltic States shall not fire a shot at the countries of France, England, and Italy for 8 years. Now you may depart from here. I have already informed your ship's Captain, that you shall be departing tomarrow. Pleasebe hast in the return of my offer."

OOC: Also i am creating 4 field armies, and 1 base in Denmark.

Later that day a messanger was dispatched, on a donkey, the king was in no hurry. The location it was heading for was France.

But when the letter did arrive, it was given to a near by soldier to deliver and the messenger stole a cow in hopes of it going faster as he had no intention of staying in Paris for long.

The letter read;

Dear Ruler of France,
King Adolf Gustov of Sweden would like to propose to set up a trade agreement for how ever long you think is acceptable.

Campo was mildly annoyed as he boarded the ship for the journey home. Through out the trip he had been treated as a commoner. Bread and water before an, all to brief, audience with the Swedish “King”. He hadn’t even been aloud to speak, aside from accepting the offer of trade in the name of Italy and assuring that the message would be delivered to the allies with haste.

“GET US OUT OF HERE!”, bellowed Campo as soon as his boots hit the deck.
“Right away” replied Captain Onda.

They sailed out of the harbor escorted by Swedish warships.

“That’s another thing!”, shouted Campo, “they have soldiers board our ship, guards follow us around, and that turn-coat captain. It’s all one insult after another. You’d think we where criminals and not representatives of a peer kingdom!”
-
“Aye the bastards crawled all over my ship!” said the Captain.

“It’s like asking a man to be friends while pointing a gun at his head!” said Campo exasperated.

“Then why accept sir?” asked Onda.

Campo looked at the Captain and said in a tired voice, “because it is best for Italy.”
With that Campo turned and went to his cabin to consider how the King would receive all of this.

OOC: accepted trade deal. will leave the alliance response to VA.
-Skipping the voyage, Campo's home & Allies got the message.

The Shah looked over the report Furi brought him and put down his small tea cake. "They surrendered, Furi, just like that?"

"Their king is dead and armies approch them from every side, it is no suprise they surrendered we have the proposal I drew up ready for shipment to Tunis for the army and the Taureg." Furi drew out a slender folder and placed it gently in front of the Shah's devan. "You may not know but this statement suggests that we hold Spanish Morroco jointly Persia does not need the income but it does need a naval base. Our armies will also occupy the territory and protect another strategic point in Africa."

"Yes Yes, of course it will there signed," he looked up happily and handed the paper back.

"Oh and this not important but must be done." Another handful of papers were signed blindly by the Shah, if this system didn't work the entire government would collapse.

This paper was far more important and would cause much bloodshed but it would be done and Persia would prosper. It read:

"On this day through the Grace of Allah the Spanish Kingdom shall become a protectorate of Persia and the Islamic Alliance." It continued another few pages describing how no religions would be forced on the Spanish and the profit of the Spanish kingdom would remain untouched. The document promised peace and protection from the English and French. It would be sent directly to Spain without autherization from the Tauregs.

"And the army will be raised my retainer Persia grows from this day." the Shah yelled through the door of the throne room at the departing back of Kellaz Furi.

OOC Ok, as for Spain becoming a protectorate heres's the offer, Only 1 credit is given to the Islamic League they are offered complete protection and Spanish armies will eventually reconquer Galacia Argon. this way Spain can continue to exsist with a good amount of money.

Military pact with Tauregs means Persia can use Morroco for a military base but the Tauregs retain the harvest of credits.

Bought 2 cavalry corps 200,000 infantry and placed all on spanish Morroco if deal goes through, if not then the troops are placed in Iran.

4x4=16: 87-16=71

OOC Ok, as for Spain becoming a protectorate heres's the offer, Only 1 credit is given to the Islamic League they are offered complete protection and Spanish armies will eventually reconquer Galacia Argon. this way Spain can continue to exsist with a good amount of money.

Military pact with Tauregs means Persia can use Morroco for a military base but the taturegs retain the harvest of credits.

Bought 2 cavalry corps 200,000 infantry and placed all on spanish Morroco if deal goes through, if not then the troops are placed in Iran.

The Grand Amenokal Amud reviewed the proposals send to him by the Shah of Persia personally."So they just want a naval base. I will give this to them." I rose from his desk and examined a map of what was formerly Spanish Morocco."They can have this strip of land up here for a ship yard and supply center. Their troops can occupy the near by territory."

"As for this proposal to the Spanish, I will not allow it. Even combined with the persians and Ottomans, we could not hope to protect them from Great Britain, Italy, and France. I doubt we could even hold against France. Tell the shah that he should worry about helping us plan an invasion on the continent rather than making peace with a doomed enemy along with promises we can not be sure to keep."

OOC: I'm not going along with the vassalage plan. You can position troops and start a naval base in Khamzata (Former SM), but my Governor shall remain the authority there.

Madrid

The new Queen Ximena of Spain surveyed her court serenely. Much had happened since the death of her father. The capture of Galicia, and a proposal from the Persians were both suprises.

"Prince Christian? A moment please."

Christian and Ximena withdrew into an anteroom behind the throneroom.

Ximena undid the clasps which help her hair up and shook out her long shimmering tresses.

"There," she said "That feels better."

"Now. How would you feel to be the husband of the French Emperors daughter?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Would you like to marry her, brother?"

Christian looked at the ground, bewildered. "I-I don't know why you propose this."

Ximena turned to a desk, and poured two glasses of Rioja. "We would make it a condition that the war stops. France may keep Aragon, but encourage the British to halt its advancement - for the moment at least."

Christian stared at her.

"Please brother. It would give us breathing space. And if you marry her, all the better! You would be entitled to a claim of France. Wouldn't you like that?"

A pause.

"You would still be under my command of course, as subject and relative."

Christian closed his eyes and sighed. "Very well, sister."

Ximena clapped her hands. "Excellent. Thank you dear, kind, selfless brother. It is a burden I know...but..."

"We must think of Spain."

"Exactly. Now, I must kindly thank the Shah of Persia for his offer, and say I see that it is made in our best interests, but that not only is it too great an honour and we feel it is unfair to expose the Islamic Alliance to the wrath of France and Britain combined."

Christian left, as Ximena sat down to write her letter.

OOC: Two field armies purchased and placed in Castille.

OOC I have decide not to mindlessly push forward, Aiti this is more your war, and I'm retreating. Also I'm counting the casualties that I took in my previous battle I wrote.

OOC: Because of my stupidity, I broke the rules. I am revising this as a deployment stage, and then follow the rules from here. I would suggest Persia does the same.

I am setting aside 5 credits to spend on attacking the territory, because I don't know if Persia really wants it or not. Send me a telegram Waldenburg so we can work this out.

IC:

General Azreil observed his infantry march along the road. One month ago, the Tuareg marine expeditionary force, consisting of 200,000 infantry and 800 cannon, landed on the Iberian peninsula along with the Persians. Azreil didn't know which way the Persian general planned on going, but he march his men down the road leading straight to Granada. He didn't have the time or patience to take one city at a time, or a large enough force to leave behind garrisons in every town. Hell, he wasn't even provided with any cavalry units. "They're to fussy when it comes to boats. Horses don't take well to sea travel." He had been told. What he give a damn about the comfort of horses?

Despite their lack of cavalry, Azreil had moved his men as fast as they would go up the road. The whole way, their advanced was harassed by partisans on horse back. Some how they learned that the partisans learned that the Tauregs had no cavalry, thus they could not pursue them. As a result, they where ambushed by parties of horsemen quite often, especially at night when they had set up camp. The ghost like attacks of the partisans where bad enough for moral, but having to burn every town they went through was terrible for the consciences of the soldiers. The Grand Amenkal had grand visions of integrating Cordoba into his empire, but the destruction of towns and villages would only make those visions harder to fulfill.

And so, after a month of partisans, burnings, and near endless marching, General Azreil found himself just two hours march from Granada, and quite possible, a very significant Spanish force. He marched his armies up to within sight of the city, then had them hold up and rest.

"Let us stop hear. I want to see if these Spanish, catholic, bastards decide to hide behind their walls or march out to face us like men."

(Posted under duress.)

Granada, Corduba 4th April 1802

(Since other people seem to battle me in entirely random places, so shall I.)

The two Spanish field armies in Granada were stationed on the flat plain before the city. Lines of infantrymen in bright red and white stood to attention under the blue sky. The mountains and town to their back, they stood proudly against the marching armies of the Tuaregs. The Spanish cannon were ranged to their left, covering the one southern gate into the city. The cavalry were concealed in the scrubland woods to the west.

The Tuareg advance halted, and a small group of riders detached itself from the main column. General Juan Paolos shifted in his seat. The riders cantered across the parched grass. No rain had fallen in weeks, despite this being April.

The riders halted a few hundred yards from the first line of men. General Paolos nodded to his guard, and they trotted out to them.
The Tuaregs, wearing European uniform and Arab headgear to shade them from the sun, looked coldly at their Spanish counterparts. They had with them another Arab, who looked at the Spanish a little fearfully.

'Speak, those of you who face us upon this field.' said General Paolos.
The leading Tuareg turned his head to this last, who said a few words. The Tuareg General answered.
'We come to bring Spain to its knees, to punish those who defy the might of the Tuareg Empire, and the Islamic Alliance.' said the interpretor.
'Are you from Spanish Morocco?' enquired the General.
'Khamzata it is now, Lord.'
'Oh. Indeed.'
'What is your answer, Lord?'
'We shall fight you. With the honour of all good Catholics!'
The interpretor relayed this to the General, who raised an eyebrow. General Paolos stared him down.
With a quick command, the horses were pulled round, and the Tuareg band returned to their army.
General Paolos watched the settling dust.
'Sound the bugles. Fly the banners. Death or glory, for our Queen! For Spain!'
It had begun.

The Tuareg army began its advance. The General and one hundred and sixty soldiers watched the dry dust of the plains thrown up by the marching armies.
Spanish bugles sounded right along the lines. Banners were raised, rifles cocked and hands were on sabres.

The Tuaregs marched slowly, evidently tired from the heat of the sun, although the General had to admit, even the Catholic Soldiers of the Spanish Army wasn't in too good a shape.

'Give them a volley of cannon fire.' he ordered.

A different banner was raised, and it's bearer performed a complicated semaphore-like gesture. The gunners turned their artillery towards the advancing Arabs.

'First Cannon, fire!'

Forty loud booms shook the earth. The superheated lead smashed into the unfortunates in their way, ripping through flesh and bone and into those behind. Those hurt screamed in pain, but the rest took no notice, but began to more faster towards the Spanish. Almost running now, their cavalry galloping along beside them, they seemed to drift quickly across the field like ghosts of war.

Cannon fired again. More fell, but others moved seamlessly into position to fill their spaces. The Spanish front line took aim.

A cascade of rifle fire devasted the Tuareg soldiers, but all to quickly they were among the Spanish, yelling fearful war cries and slashing with scimitars and emptying shot after shot into their adversaries.

The Tuareg Cavalry, swift and light, tore into the Spanish, to slash and shoot, and withdrew just as quickly to get out of the way of those steel bayonets. The Spanish fought back, jabbing at the linen swathed soldiers with bayonets and fighting hand to hand with sabres. Shot after shot was emptied into Tuareg and Spanish alike. The Spanish stood their ground, but the Tuaregs furious charge ate away at them like a dog gnawing a bone.

The Tuareg cavalry had by now found the Spanish artillery, and although the gunners fought bravely, hurling cannon balls and swinging the poles with which they pushed the ammunition deep into the cannon, they were overrun. The Tuareg cavalry could begin to advance along the Spanish left flank.

Meanwhile, General Paolos rode through the mass of men, slashing, stabbing with his sabre left and right. All around him, men screamed in agony, were shot in the face, heads were cut off, men stabbed in the back. But he did not see this now. All he thought of was Spains glory, to be defended at all costs.

Suddenly, the Spanish cavalry appeared out of the scrub. They charged, every man of them, towards the undefended rear of the Tuaregs. Men were sent flying, and in fear, some turned to meet the shining blade of a sword, or a discharge of powder. They drove right through the Tuaregs, hacking, slashing, sending many running in terror.

The Tuareg cavalry left the Spanish flank, and rode round, to rally the troops. But the Tuaregs were past caring. They ran, back to the safety of the middle of the plain.

Soon, most of the Tuaregs before the walls had been dispatched. Some had tried to beg mercy, but were cut down. The few that had gathered in the plain were chased down by the Spanish cavalry.

The Tuareg General was caught, he and his guard. They were ransomed back to the Tuaregs, for a hefty price. The Battle of the Granada Plain was won.

“So, the Spanish Queen wants to marry off her brother to my daughter…” Benedicte read the scroll aloud drearily to the men of the planning room. Benedicte looked up at the officers and cracked a smile, the smiled turned to a hearty laugh. “They can’t be serious! He is willing to marry that whore Josephine for a peace of some sort!?” He burst out in laughter, the officers tried to force smiles and a chuckle, but the Emperor’s sense of humor was quite pathetic.

“Scribe!” He shouted. “Write this as a message to Spain, I admire their new leader’s wisdom.”

Dearest Queen Ximena,

Greetings honorable foe! I have come to understand you wish to marry my daughter to your brother. We are willing to offer you our terms should this wedding proceed. Prince Christian marries Josephine Benedicte, my daughter of sorts, and France will cease hostilities against the Spanish. We cannot however, stop our ally the British from his campaign against you. I suggest you merely offer him the port and a small piece of land from Castile. I rightly believe that will tide him over. The reason I offer these terms is because of our common enemy, the barbaric and brutish Islamics. These horrendous creatures must be smashed immediately. I would like Spain to help.

The British have already begun to attack you, so I suggest you work with haste. My terms for you are simple, I keep Aragon, the British keep Galacia, and you remain under the French-Anglo-Italian Alliance, our so-called ‘Western Alliance’. Prince Christian will marry my daughter and you, my honorable Queen, will make the Spanish Empire something of a client kingdom to our alliance, until you have proven your worth to us.

I understand that a massive force of the barbarians from the south has recently attacked Cordoba, and I truly wish to eradicate this threat. We shall talk more of this matter at another date, perhaps when or if you agree to these terms in the first place.

I await your cunning response, for Spain’s sake,
Emperor Jacques Benedicte

(ooc: Terms offered to Spain from France, not from UK. Alliance and temporary Protectorate status offered to Spain. 1 Field army purchased and placed under General Monteil's supervision.)

Communication from: Major General Fesil Ferrot
To: His Most Serene Highness Shah of Persia and her Empires

The invasion in proceeding to plan although cooaperation between Persian and Taureg amries are not satisfactory. As we have achieved our original goal of gaining a foothold into Nothern Africa and eventually it's neighbor Western Europe, I suggest we Withdraw to our naval base in allied territory and prepare for the next step of our invasion. If all is with us you shall receive another letter from far North of here in time.

Signed:
Your Servant and General Fesil Ferrot

All of the Persian forces were crammed onto the small mercenary fleet and withdrawn after a series of runs on the fast hulled ships. The Persian generals didn't particularly care about the militiristic actions in Spain they only needed to wait untill spain was desperate enough. 290,000 total Infantry, 27,000 cavalry, and 200 cannons were withdrawn back to the newly constructed Persian base where they would wait for their reassignment.

Communication To: Her Most catholic Majesty By the grace of the Gods Queen Ximena of Spain
From:His Serene Highness

Perhaps our last letter was a bit demanding and now we relieze that an honourable nation such as Spain shall never bow to any foriegn emperor. We have revised our offer suitingly and now belieze the following shall be accepted by Spain.

I. All hostilities between Persia and Spain end immediately. Hopefully the rest of the islamic alliance shall follow suit in time.

II. Spain shall become an ally of the Persia, and by proxy of the Islamic Alliance. Spain shall enjoy full benifets of alliance with, military protection and trade rights.

III. All forces of the Islamic Aliance and Spain shall cooaperate in fighting their common enemies.

IV. Spain shall be given an Idemnity of (4 Credits) if they join in this alliance

V. As an act of faith all Persian forces have been removed from Spanish lands.

We hope this is satisfactory and this entire mess can be put behind us, and a bright new future awaits the nations of the south.

Communication To: His Majesty King of United Italy
From: His Serene Highness Shah Of Perisa

Greetings it this time of trouble we wish to propose a non agression pact between our two nations. This will hopefully secure peace in the region before any more travesties can occur. this pact would last for 6 years and include trading rights from Persia and hopefully the rest of the Islamic Alliance. We await your response keenly.

Kellaz Furi:
Minister of Internal Affairs


OOC Purchased 2 navies and a fort and placed in Khamzata, and purchasing the half support cost thing

74 Credits-31 credits = 43 Credits

Queen Ximena looked at both letters in her fathers study. She was uncertain.

'What to do?' she wondered aloud 'France's acceptance of a marriage between Christian and the French princess is welcome certainly. But if I accept the proposal, does that mean that I cannot ally with Persia?'

'A difficult situation certainly. One that must be rectified. Maybe we can have peace with Britain and the Tuaregs also?'

She wrote a reply to the French Emperor.

My Most Gracious Emperor Benedicte,

I do not consider us foes. The war began with my father, and his daughter shall put it to an end. We have lost too much with the British conquest of Galicia in recent months, to continue.

We are happy that you agree to a possible marriage. This will bring closer ties with us to our good neighbours.

I wonder though, that in your inestimable wisdom, whether or not an alliance with Persia would be in accord to you. If Spain allies with Persia, France is also in a state of semi-alliance as a result.

I would wish to know your mind on this matter. My greetings to your Empress, and to your daughter.

Best Wishes

Her Catholic Majesty Queen Ximena I

The Grand Amenokal reviewed the news he had recently received. General Azreil had yet to engage the Spanish 4th in a decisive battle after quite sometime. It was during out to be the exact opposite of their war for Khamzata, which had been a blistering campaign of field battles and a final siege resulting in the death of their catholic king. The war in Spain was not nearly as successful, and it was beginning to look like they would never get a decisive battle.

But that was not the news that currently concerned him. What concerned him was that France had extended an offer of military protection to Spain, and that his allies the Persians had done the same. An evacuation of Persian troops was to begin as soon as the orders reached them. If Spain accepted either, the war would get much harder, if not impossible to continue.

Eventually, Amud determined it was best to show solidarity in amongst the Islamic Nations, and decided to back Persia's offer. With this in mind he penned this letter to his General in Spain:

Communication to General Azreil of The Tuareg Expeditionary force in Cordoba from The Grand Amenokal Amud of The United Tuareg Kingdom:

It is my decry that you with draw your self and your entire command from Spain and return to Ceuta in Khamzata. March your forces to the Persian controlled ports where they too are conducting a withdrawal. A fleet will be awaiting your men.

Two Weeks Later, in Cordoba

"Bloody hell!", Exclaimed Azreil. He forces had trudged through Spain for the better part of two months, burning villages, scrounging for food, and fighting skirmish battles against the Spanish 4th, whom the had yet to properly face. And now that The Grand Amenokal had ordered his with drawl, it would all be to waste."Dammit, I came here for a battle! I came here for glory! And what do I get? Two months of marching looking for a fight then a letter saying get your ass home."

OOC: Same offer as Persia extended to Spain. I'll throw in 5 credits to the offer.

(ooc: Notice, that whoever Spain decides to join with will be caught up in a war with the other side. War is inevitable for both factions should Spain agree to either proposition.)

January 22, 1802
Siege of Madrid

The siege of the capital, Madrid, continued through lightning and thunder, rain and shine, night and day. There would be no letting up. The eight armies of the United Kingdom had surrounded the cities, making sure to send out scouts to their rears to alert them of any inbound forces. Artillery had blared for a week straight as the cannons pounded the city and the military forces that resided there within.

There was a clear message in all of this: "Surrender Castile and nobody further will be hurt."


[ooc: *wink*]

My Most Gracious Emperor Benedicte,

I do not consider us foes. The war began with my father, and his daughter shall put it to an end. We have lost too much with the British conquest of Galicia in recent months, to continue.

We are happy that you agree to a possible marriage. This will bring closer ties with us to our good neighbours.

I wonder though, that in your inestimable wisdom, whether or not an alliance with Persia would be in accord to you. If Spain allies with Persia, France is also in a state of semi-alliance as a result.

I would wish to know your mind on this matter. My greetings to your Empress, and to your daughter.

Best Wishes

Her Catholic Majesty Queen Ximena I

Benedicte read the note aloud and rubbed his forehead. He thought deeply for a moment, questioning his own motives and that of the Spanish queen. "She is desperate, I'll give her that...but she may be trying too hard to stop what she cannot, conflict."

Lambert, Benedicte's aide, grinned as he spoke softly. "Your lordship, if you drop out of our ally's plans for extending our empires...it could compromise the relationships within the Western Alliance. We don't want that, now do we sire?"

"Absolutely not, Lambert. You are correct. Spain must choose a side! Join us and earn back its dignity and freedom, or join the barbarians and meet their certain doom. I find it rather disturbing that Spain, as foolishly pious as it is, would join in an alliance with Islam against France, Britain, and Italy...the Vatican. I'm sure that Spain's populace would greatly appreciate being under the control of a Catholic or even a Protestant nation rather than a government who openly supports Islam." Benedicte schemed. "Write Spain a letter, Lambert."

Spanish Queen Ximena,

We cannot bring ourselves to be in even a partial alliance with the Islamic hordes. You must choose a side if you are to accept any agreement. Britain has besieged your great city of Madrid and your defeat is inevitable. Join us, give Britain access to your port, and become one with our Western Alliance, with support from the Vatican and the Pope. Join the Islamics and this war will not only continue, but your immortal souls will burn in hell. The Western Alliance and the Catholic church await your response. The walls are closing in, Ximena. Choose your side or pay the price ten-fold.

Sincerely,
Emperor Benedicte of France

(ooc: We refuse you to ally with both us and the Moslems. You are either with us or against us. :eek: Whoever Spain chooses, if Spain chooses at all, will automatically be at war with the other since everyone is still at war with Spain.)

OOC Damn, we need an active Ottoman Empire....

IC

Communication To: Her Most catholic Majesty By the grace of the Gods Queen Ximena of Spain
From: His Most Serene Highness Shah of Persia

It has come to our attention that France is offering you a similar offer, in which Spain does not become an ally but instead a Protectorate slave state. Spain will not be able to hold it's own against, the Western alliance who seeks only futher power. England, an ally of Spain turned on it and now even as the French offer their proposal English cannons hammer at your city. Are these the masters you wish for Spain and it's dying people?

Persia and the Islamic Alliance offers it protection the the Spanish while the French offer only the death their troops bring onto the cities and fields of Spain. We offer peace from all Islamics while the best the French can offer is peace through rule by themselves. Your husband died a hero for your country, let us hope that your wisdom shall allow a better fate for her Majesty. Their is no Honour amognst them they seek only your metaphorical head.


Royal Palace, Samarquand

The Shah now had given up most of the pleasures that decorated his throne room for tactical books and maps which he struggled to read.

"We will be at war with France?" The Shah spoke almost sadly.

"If Spain allies with us yes...If spain allies with France, yes..."

"What do we intend to do then?" The Shah turned around and looked at the white faced man who had spoken to him.

A smile formed on the red lips of the pale mans face,"Sometimes military might is not the solution...I believe that there is a Spanish Prince who could possibly marry a royal member of the French Empire. Such a marrige would create an alliance easily. If such a marrige could not take place it would only help our cause."

The Shah drew his fat into a more regal position and looked down on the pale man who seemed to have something wrong with his eyes as they were always darting from side to side. "You Suggest we kill a Spanish prince on the eve we offer them an alliance? We are not barbarians...Anyway the Tauregs are closer pass it onto them as a viable option. Pass it on when the new field army arrives In...Um, well Morroco

OOC Don't now if that scheme would work but just setting the field for some personal Rp should anyone feel like it.

43 credits-4=39

1 field army placed in Khamzata

OOC: Ack. This new format bites.

IC:

Amud and his generals sat gathered around a large table, with a map of the mediterranean theatre of war laid out before them. The faces of the generals where grave, as was the face of Amud."Gentle men," he began,"War with The United Kingdom, France, and most possibly the Italians is inevitable. We need to devise an overall strategy for our forces now. We will begin with an increased draft. I want six more field armies trained and ready for action." The room, which was already quite quiet, was shocked into still further silence. A draft of that size had never taken place before, the last time anything like that had been conducted was when the army had been formed into a European format.

Amud continued his directives,"It will be necessary to get our people behind this war. We got them behind the conquest of Khamzata because we marketed it as a war of liberation. For this war, we shall put it into their heads that it is about religion rather than expansion. Italy is the home of the Vatican, and France and England are both christian states. It won't be to difficult to brand them the new generation of crusaders come to wipe out Islam."

"Moving on. We know we will be at war with the Western Alliance, but I am not entirely sure what the Eastern Alliance will do. Persia is on good terms with Russia, but that will not guarantee their entry into the war on our side. If they remain neutral it will not hurt us, nessessarily, but if they take a side it could either be our doom or our salvation."

"Now for our strategy. An offensive would be disastrous for us at this point, so until later stages in the war, we will dig in. Our navies will disperse and attack enemy supply ships, and our armies will remain in Africa."

OOC: Purchases 6 field armies. 29.5-24=5.5 credits remaining.

2 armies placed in Khamzata, 1 placed in North Africa, 3 placed in Tunis.

Madrid

Queen Ximena thought.

I shall throw my lot in with the French and British. Spain must look to its own interests now, and the way forward is to be in partnership with France and Britain.

I am sorry to have to marry Christian off, but he knows my position. He will marry Josephine, and France and Spain shall be united in kind. This is progress. By association, Britain will not attack us further. Hopefully.

A marriage will be arranged then. I am sorry to turn away from Persia, but we must stay with those we know. A Christian mind is much easier to predict if one is oneself Christian.

She sat to compose her letter.

Dear Emperor Benedicte,

I have made my decision. The marriage is acceptable. I look to you, as the bride's father, to set a date.

You may also choose where they marry. I leave it up to you, Emperor. I hope a new era of friendship is forthcoming from this marriage.

Yours sincerely,

Queen Ximena of Spain.

Benedicte read the ceasefire the Spanish offered aloud."So they actually agreed to us...I guess this means war with Islam. Ha! War with sword carrying, turban wearing, sand dwellers!" Benedicte cackled to the staff of Generals before him, Armand Labrousse stood among them, being the senior commander in the group.

"Well sire," Labrousse started. "France alone has nearly the same manpower that the Tuareg and Persian kingdoms can muster, if we do fight this war, it will be quick. I suggest we move some men down to Aragon to keep the Tuaregs and Persians at bay should they be foolish enough to attack us."

"Indeed, Armand. This movement will keep all of our enemies in check. Everyone, including the Tuaregs and Persians, know that a real European power could easily subdue any Moslem force attempting to mock our style of warfare. The Tuaregs, especially the Tuaregs, are very inexperienced in our style of battle...they have no military advisors from any European power that we know of, they possibly have poorer equipment, pathetic training, and low morale...our men could walk circles around theirs. Just the sound of our unified footsteps would make them tremble in their boots or turbans or whatever they wear...if they wear anything." There were some minor chuckles at the Emperor's distaste for people of Islam.

"That sounds excellent sire." Labrousse was still sniggering. "How many men shall we march to Aragon?" He asked.

"We have the men and resources to defend against an attack from the east, should it come. Paris is especially well defended from invasion, and even if we were to be attacked, we would be able to respond with the utmost haste, due to our exceptional roadway system. Therefore, I am commissioning the movement of 1,000,000 men into Aragon. This will bring our active forces in Aragon to 1,240,000 troops and even more supplies." Benedicte started. A million men was just about half of the French Military. "The 19th through the 23rd will do just fine. Move them from Orleans...yes...that will do just fine."

"Very well, my lord. It will be done. Our troops are itching for a fight, sire. They won't disappoint, should anything happen." The General grinned.

"Yes...they better not. France is depending on them..."

"What of Britain?" Labrousse questioned, his facial features discerned anxiety.

"Well...we must give word to both the British and the Spanish of our acceptance...The Spanish must be willing to give up their port in Northern Castile should the need arise."

"Very well sir. We shall send an emissary to both of the nations."

Dearest Queen Ximena,

We graciously accept your compliance with our terms, and we hope Spain will flourish under, or within, the ranks of the Western Alliance. With time, I'm sure that we can work out giving Spanish lands back to the Spanish, but this is with time...do not expect the restoration of Spain any time too soon.

We realize that Britain needs terms as well. France is done fighting you. Our British allies need use of your port, I suggest you give its use to them, at least temporarily. We will await your terms to Britain should they agree. If they don't agree, I'm afraid this war must continue. The Moslems will not take kindly to your disapproval of their treaties, therefor, with the acceptance of Britain, we will deliver to you protection from Moslem attack, as is their backstabbing ways.

The wedding will occur in the coming months, I must inform my daughter of her marrige to Prince Christian. I look forward to your place in our alliance.

Sincerely,
Emperor Benedicte of France

(ooc: Moved 1,000,000 Infantry to Aragon from Orleans. They will arrive tomorrow. Troops are on high alert, so surprise attacks are rightly impossible. and Waldenburg, I'm willing to play along with your assassination plot. Sounds kewl. :D )

OOC: I'm not though. So there.

OOC: I'm not though. So there.
[ooc: Siege of Madrid is on Day 9 of not having a response...]

monday is the next time i can put up a good post.

Men sang and drank happily in the most popular spot in Paris, Bordel Heureux. The Cheery Brothel. Yes, it was an unbearable temperature in there, and the smell was beyond description. On the floor was vomit, rats, whiskey and wine; but the men didn’t mind that as much as they minded the women folk wandering around with barely a stitch of clothing on their bodies. The 1st Army was home on leave, and they were willing to leave their mark on Paris.

Smoke choked the off-duty soldiers, large imported Cigars were brought in to celebrate the surrender of the Spanish to the power of the west. It was a happy time, celebrations were going on all throughout the Empire, but not all were pleased with this surrender of sorts. In a dark room behind all the ruckus of the brothel’s barroom, sat ten men at a long table. All of them had massive celebratory cigars.

“Gentlemen.” A shadowed man puffed a cigar between his lips. The men listened intently. “I am a patriot. You know this from our experience in the field. I’ve done nothing but serve France and her best interests. I’ve killed Spaniards. I’ve killed Moslems. I’ve killed British, Prussians, and Italians. All for France…preserving her lands from parasitic warlords from other lands. I am a patriot.” The man lowered his cigar. The other men nodded enthusiastically, knowing of the truth the man spoke. “And now, I am asking you men to be patriots too…I know many of you have fought in the previous war for independence against the royalists and the numerous other factions throughout our beautiful land, and now I tell you, we are experiencing another invasion.” The man again inhaled his cigar; the lit end glowed eerily and illuminated his face.

“What would you have us do, General Ypres?” A young cavalry colonel asked eagerly. General Ypres, recently promoted to brigadier General, finished off his massive cigar and grounded it into a nearby ashtray.

“The problem is not from the outside. It is from within.” Ypres looked off into the darkness; he could make out the silhouette of a scarcely dressed woman nearing the doorway. “Get her out of here.” A burly man stood and whispered something to her and she left with haste.

“What are you suggesting, General?” Another General inquired, he also sounded young compared to the old Ypres.

“I believe you know who I speak of.”

There were numerous gasps in the room. One man stood up and shouted at Ypres. “Even suggesting this is treason! We’ll all be killed for even feeling this way! Ypres, please don’t do this! We wouldn’t even stand a chance with the first and tenth armies on guard.”

“Major Colbert…we have done much fighting together. I remember your heroics at Agincourt. I was there leading men to their certain death, as were you. The same with Bilbao. We both fought and killed men together.” Ypres started. “I chose each one of you carefully. I know every one of you either personally or through your actions and beliefs. I know that every one of you believe in France and her greatness. She was meant to be the ruler of the west.” Ypres calmed the Major and the other men who were disgruntled at the suggestion. Major Colbert sat slowly and crossed his arms, not wanting to hear this, but listening nonetheless.

“Yes…the ruler of the west.” Ypres continued. “But our mock Emperor has turned on his word. He promised our power and greatness…instead he has turned France into a whore, a damned prostitute. We sell ourselves for cheaper than a streetwalker. I say fuck him, fuck the whore we call France, fuck his staff of pets.” The General stood up and raised his voice. “Emperor Benedicte must die. General Monteil, General Petit, Labrousse, Svensk, Talbot, all of them. They all must die!” He slammed his fist on the table. The men were discontented about this whole idea, but nodded nonetheless. Ypres was making a sound point.

“…You suggest a massive coup de tat? Against the whole of France?” A young General by the name of Vivace asked.

“The French army is the strongest of the world. Two million men at least, with even more home guards and support personnel. A coup would be rightly impossible with our mere 10,000 men we command altogether. I suggest something more subtle…” Ypres started.

“An assassination?” Major Colbert scoffed.

“No. The Emperor is no use to us dead. If we kill him the entire nation will be thrown into disarray, and factions would again rise to challenge for the seat.” Said the General in a logical voice. “Instead, we storm the Imperial Palace, demand Benedicte to name me the heir, and then we execute him. Once in power, our faction will execute the Generals to prevent loyalty issues. Then I make you men, my loyal followers, the new Generals of the armies of New France.” The men opened their eyes wide, such a plan was probable, and rewarding if it were carried out successfully.

“…How do you suggest we convince the Emperor to name you heir?” General Vivace asked timidly.

“That is easy. Who does the Emperor care about more than anyone?” Ypres had a grin on his face. The men looked blankly. They knew the Emperor pretty much despised all life, even his own kin and wife. “In my years under his service, I have heard him make nothing but good comments about his mother. This is quite rare from someone such as Benedicte. I suggest we take his mother hostage and threaten to kill her if Benedicte doesn’t heir me.” The men gasped, yet some nodded.

“Your plan sounds probable…I feel much the same about France, General. Benedicte promised much when he raised armies years ago, he hasn’t fulfilled many of them. We need a leader who will fulfill what we bargained for, what we fought for…what we died for. I know I didn’t fight the English in the Norman lands, losing more than half of my men just to make an alliance with them. Benedicte has not kept his word, and must be ousted!” Colonel Drouin said as he pounded his fist on the table. Ypres smiled. The other men agreed one by one, until Major Colbert was the last man. He sat with his face in his hands. Drouin was overwhelmed by all of the pressure.

“Colbert? What do you have to say about this? Yay or nay.” The General asked. He was grasping his pistol under the table. Colbert sat motionless, he was sweating profusely; his mind was racing between the possible outcomes and the negative effects. He knew of the atrocities Ypres had done upon the Spanish and the French loyalists alike...torture, executions, slaughter, killing for pleasure. If this man was to become Emperor, sadism would be the theme of his regime. This was something Colbert couldn't work under. Mongering was one thing, but slaughter just for slaughter was clearly another. He lowered his hands into his lap and looked at Ypres intently.

“General…you are a mad man. You will be the death of France!” He shouted as he stood up quickly, a pistol in his hand, aimed directly at Ypres’ chest. There were two loud blasts and two large flashes of light and smoke. The brothel was suddenly quiet except for the screams of the women. Men rushed to the scene in the back room to see what had just happened.

Major Colbert landed on the ground, a grapefruit sized exit wound in the back of his head. Ypres groaned as he landed on the ground from his chair. The men at the table rushed to the aid of both men, Colbert was dead instantly, that much was certain. The General lay on the floor, the ball had effectively shattered his upper arm, and blood was gushing on the floor and soaking the officers’ shoes. “Damn it all to hell!” Ypres shouted as he clamped his teeth together tightly. The men all shouted for a hospital team to retrieve the two men. It would be several minutes before anyone would come.
________________________________________________________________

“We had to take the left arm…Colbert was dead when we got there…but the General will recover. He lost a lot of blood and will be prone to infection for a while…but he should be in tip top shape within the next few months.” The surgeon informed a few of the officers who sat at his table earlier.

“Will he ever fight again?” General Vivace asked, worriedly. His eyes showed concern for this patriot of France.

“Sir, if he ever gets wounded again, I doubt we will be able to save him. He will never be the same again, I’m afraid.” The surgeon stated grimly. The officers looked down at their feet, dismayed by the loss of their General. “But sirs…I have to ask…how did this happen?” Colonel Drouin stepped forward to explain.

“Major Colbert was horrendously drunk, the General ordered him to leave the tavern, but he refused repeatedly. We all saw it.” The officers all nodded in unison. “After the third request, Major Colbert pulled a pistol on the General, but the General was faster. He shot Colbert just as Colbert shot him, and now here we are. One of the finest Generals now out of commission.” Drouin explained. The surgeon glared suspiciously but agreed to the alibi, at least for now. “…May we see the General?”

“He is in a lot of pain, but he’s a hard ass, I already know that. He didn’t even wince during the amputation…quite frightening if I do say so myself.” The surgeon said unsettledly. “But yes, I think you may visit him.”

The men smiled and walked into the ward, a few sickly people sat in the beds, one man had no limbs and looked lifelessly up at the ceiling, possibly a result of Bilbao a long while back. They had finally found the General’s bed; he looked pale and tired, a bit of blood still spewed from his bandaged wound.

“General.” Vivace exclaimed along with the other seven or so officers standing around him. “How are you feeling?”

The General looked up at the ceiling. “Just fine.” He said. “I never…thought I’d lose a limb to a French round.” The men chuckled half-heartedly. “The plans aren’t going to end here, men. I’ll be out of here in a week, at the most. The surgeon is full of shit if he thinks I’ll lay in this bed for any longer.” The men really chuckled this time. They knew that their General was as charismatic as ever.

“What will you have us do, sir?” Another Captain asked, he had been previously silent for the meeting hours earlier.

“…Word of this incident will spread like wildfire, a Major shooting a General…I suggest we lay low until I recover, but the plans are relatively simple. The day we storm the Palace, we brief the men under your command in a secret meeting that the Emperor has been taken hostage by his Imperial Guards under orders from Monteil. Inform them that the other armies are under strict orders from Monteil to keep the Emperor in his place until Monteil arrives in Paris the next week. Lie to them about another Coup. Then we storm the palace, killing all the Imperial Guards and preventing the Emperor’s escape. We then offer him our terms before reinforcements from the tenth and first armies arrive. The day before the plan carries through; we kidnap his mother at the Estate Benedicte north of Paris. The plan is flawless.” Ypres grinned weakly, his arm was throbbing madly.

“Yes sir. It will be done. We shall wait for your return to duty within the coming weeks.” The soldiers saluted simultaneously. “For New France and the new Emperor, Emperor Octavien Ypres.” The men grinned widely. History was in the making, and Ypres’ seeds of deceit had been sewn.

[ooc: I'm bored...so I'll mix stuff up a bit.]

OOC Alr ight let's see if we can't have a double killing I'll go after the French Princess to spare Dumii another headache

IC

"You are the best, the best trained, the best armed. You are the arm of Islam, sworn to fight it's enemies, now is your time....You are the best. Since time itself began We were there. Strike now for your Shah, strike for your Faith, with one plunge your salvation is assured." The words coursed through the assassin's mind as the coach pulled ever closer to his destination. Now he would test his skills against a European monarch, instead of the rebellious Pasha's and Russians he had smoothed out earlier.

"You are death it's self, the death of Christians. One Plunge and your slavation is secure."

"Your Excellency, welcome to Paris...I expect you are eagerly awaited at the palace." A French soldier had just looked over Yallad Mustafi's papers and waved, Fredrico Pioroni in to a coach park near the Imperial palace.

"Thank you," Yallad looked down through his somber coach and in a thick but understandable Italian accent asked directions to the looming bulk of the Imperial palace. After some looking around with the face off 'Is he really that stupid?' the Frenchmen pointed down a grand avenue to the magnificent Palace of the French people.

After some scuffling on where the horses could be stabled Yallad stepped out of his coach. Strangely for a Persian he was white, although heavily tanned from his life in the Mideast. His father had been Russian, his mother a persian innkeeper, and he a bastard child, through the rape of his mother on the Russian Invasion. Now if looked at he resembled an Italian, or at least would to someone who wasn't Italian. After that his mother had taught him to hate Christians and his real Paternal had taught him how to kill them. At the age of 18 he was accepted into a very secrative school inside a Mosque, for 15 years he learned, from the best teachers in the world. Now he was the arm of the Shah, the wielder of the divine sword.

His accent was perfect his papers gave him a glowing recomendation as Sir Pioroni Honourary Knight of Malta, even though the Island and probaly the Order was In French hands. His papers stated that he was an offical emissary to the Count of Brittany who had personal dealings with merchant banks in Italy, as almost every noble did. He also had orders from the Italian crown, with a somewhat suspicous seal on it that said he was to inspect the progress of France's military campaign and report to the Italian nobles.

He walked to the magnificent front steps of the building where there were hundreds of French Imperial Guards standing stiff and proud before their Emperor's home. Yallad suddenly forgot his mission quickly and started to hope his cover would hold, if not he had two pistols, his obvious rapier, a knife and his driver was holding another bag which contained hours of fun for the bloody minded. Pioroni walked to the highest ranking officer he could find and shoved papers at him while babbling In French hopefully by tonight he would have a room and the loaction of the Princess Josaphine's as well.

ooc:wtf the assassin was my idea on post 126 or something in that area. loook at it

Madrid

Queen Ximena threw off the covers of her bed. This really was too much! She stalked to her door, threw on a dressing gown and rang for an aide. She could still hear the cannon shots on the walls of Madrid, even through her anger.

Almost a year since the British had been shelling her capital, but finally, she had decided to do something about it.

'Send a message to the British commander! Ask him for an immediate ceasefire! Her Majesty wishes to discuss terms with him.'

A messenger was dispatched, and Queen Ximena made sure her horse was saddled and ready. She would ride out to the British, and negotiate. To protect her people and country, she would have to sacrifice the honour of her house. She seethed with hate for the British and French, and also in disgust with herself. That she had failed her father, and had to bargain for peace.

But, her foremost concern was to her people and lands (what remained of them). And if nothing else, she would do that.

I Guiseppe II, King of a United Italy, do hereby accept the terms of Non-Aggession and Trade offered by the Shah of the mighty Persian Empire.


May this aggreement lead us both to prosperity.

Signed,

Guiseppe II
King of Italy
Royal Seal- http://vicmart.com/ext/items/d4d3078b_ita1930agatewaxsealr.jpg

December 17, 1801
Madrid

A messenger rode out from the once great city of Madrid, dodging cannon fire as his horsed sprinted down the dirt road and up to the encampment in which Field Marshal Arthur Wellesley was stationed. A squad of soldiers prepared a defensive line of rifles as the rider came closer, but it was apparent he was not suicidal... just a messenger. As he hopped off his horse and strode closer, the soldiers stopped him with a gruff rifle to the face and then searched him for a hidden blade or gun; they weren't going to let some act of treachery end this siege. They led him slowly to the commander's tent and even walked inside with him, so as to make sure he would not try anything stupid.

"Sir, I come bearing a message from Queen Ximena..." the messenger began. He took the Duke's silence as a cue to go on, "She wishes you to cease this bombardment so that she may speak to you about a deal."

"A deal eh..." Arthur responded. I have no need of a deal. "Tell her than the bombardment will continue so long as we are at war." The messenger was about to interrupt when he was given a sharp stare and a prod from the bayonet of one of the soldiers' rifles. "However.... I will redirect the fire so that she has a safe passage out of the city to make her way here. Remind her though that any attempt to flee will be in vain as we have the city surrounded with over half a million men, not to mention a considerable cavalry regiment." The messenger nodded and bowed his head before turning to go. "And messenger..." The man stopped and awaited the Duke's words. "Tell her she has one week before her city falls..."


December 18, 1801
Madrid

Hearing the message of the Duke, Queen Ximena wasted no time in making her way to the encampment in order to discuss her issues. The Field Marshal had stayed true to his word and cleared a safe path between the palace of Madrid and his current location. She rode up to the camp where the soldiers searched her - even if she was royalty, she was most certainly capable of treachery - before leading her to the Commander's tent.

"Ximena..." the Duke said with a curt bow. "And to what do I owe this honor."

Queen Ximena inclined her head respectfully.

'Your Grace.'

'I have come to complain of my objection to this attack. I and my family have not been able to sleep these last months with the constant attacks upon our city. It is most inconvenient and impolite. I understand that our two countries are officially at war since you invaded Galicia, but I wish to be able to end hostilities. My brother is marrying the French princess, which brings us into an alliance. The Persians have also made a peace of a sort. And the Tuaregs are not pushing us further at the moment. So I ask for a ceasefire first, and a deal second. Is this acceptable?'

ooc:yes. Did you want me? You I just got back from a trip. Has anything new happenned concerning me or the fighting.

(ooc: you're out, Maldorians)

“Please mother, why do I have to marry a man my estranged father wants me to marry?” Josephine Benedicte asked defiantly, her maid was fixing her hair and dress for the morning’s walk.

“Because you are his blood…and he is the Emperor of France.” Louise Berube, the Emperor’s second wife, said grimly. It was the whole truth and nothing more. “He knows he can manipulate anything and anyone into doing his will, he would even sacrafice his own kin for his political ambitions. That’s why I left him, Josephine.”

“I know, mother, but I’m not a bargaining chip! I love Gabriel, not this…Prince Christian! Gabriel and I were to be married!” She shouted to her mother, who was also getting prepared for the morning’s walk that would commence throughout the morning well into the afternoon.

“You have to forget Gabriel now, Josephine. If you so much as mention his name, Jacques will assuredly have him executed by a death squad. I know how that man works.” Louise put on a layer of lipstick. “You have to marry Prince Christian, for the sake of peace…this war as you know has killed many French. All thanks to the ‘Gracious Emperor’ Benedicte.” Louise smacked her lips together as the maid tightened her dress.

“I know, but…”

“Josephine. If you won’t do this for him, do this for the lives of French soldiers. Jacques will march them to the ends of the Earth just to be slaughtered if he isn’t halted. I don’t know, but I don’t really want to see two million of our nation’s young men to be slaughtered pointlessly.” Louise reasoned with her, but her heart still lay with Gabriel.

“Mother…” She said as she stood up and started for the door with Louise. They would talk while performing their daily schedule of mid-morning walks.

ooc: what do you mean?

A small group of black-clad men jumped over the south wall of the Estate Benedicte and began their operation. Armed with dark polished knives, the men moved stealthily through the hedgerows of the garden. When they met opposition in the form of Imperial Guardsmen, they slit his throat and advanced with the utmost speed and caution.

There were five of them total, all of them approaching the same target…Emperor Benedicte’s mother. The leader of the pack hid with his men behind various trees and shrubbery as a blue clad Imperial Guard was marching by. As he moved, the squad leader sneaked behind him and stood up quickly, grasping the man’s mouth, preventing a scream. He jabbed a knife into the man’s lower back twelve times before he stopped struggling for his life. The ordeal was done, and the leader pulled the body behind a hedgerow, concealing the body skillfully. The group advanced.

The Estate was only a few yards from where they stood, and the way in was not the double doors in front but a window on the right side of the house. Two soldiers sitting quietly inside, of course, guarded this. The men had studied the blueprints of the house and the positions of the guards for weeks before the operation had come to begin…they knew exactly what to do.

A younger black-clad man sported two knives and knocked on the windowsill while the others stood in the quiet darkness, waiting for the deed to be done. The men could hear the footsteps of one soldier coming to the window; the two soldiers had stopped conversing momentarily. As soon as he opened the window, the silent assassin slashed his neck open. There was no scream or struggle, and the man went limp. The other soldier didn’t know what was happening. He stood up quickly, surprised to see a black clad man standing in the window, blood covering his entire attire. Before he could shout for help, the assailant threw a knife directly toward his head. The problem in the room was ended as he also fell limp in the chair.

The death squad jumped through the window and effectively sat the bodies in the chairs in upright positions. The mission was ready to commence. No alarms had been set off and as far as the squad knew, Mother Benedicte was still sleeping comfortably in her bed.

The men moved even quicker throughout the house, and soon found that there were more soldiers patrolling inside than outside…much to their dismay. They eventually slaughtered at least ten more guards before they had reached the master bedroom, and their target. The men sneaked in with the utmost care, two men walked to a nearby linen closet to begin construction of a rope by which they meant to escape through the three-story window. The other three men approached the bed ever so silently. In the bed were a large dog, Benedicte’s mother, and her second husband.

The dog was killed before he could bark and the husband’s throat was cut before he could do anything. Mother Benedicte was still sound asleep as the three men performed the task. Using a metal club the leader brought along, one of the men hit Mother Benedicte in the forehead…she didn’t budge and was effectively knocked out before she was awakened. The two of the three men picked up the largely overweight woman as the two men came back from the linen closet with a 24 ft. long makeshift rope.

The opened the window and tossed it out, it was a long and difficult task bringing the mother down from the room, but the men managed it. After they hit the ground, the rope was pulled loose and effectively taken from the scene of the mass murder. The men escaped in the same manner they arrived, unseen, unheard, unexpected. At least twenty people at the Estate Benedicte had perished by means unseen, and Benedicte's mother was a hostage to forces unknown.

ooc: what do you mean?

[ooc: He means he kicked you out.]

"So I ask for a ceasefire first, and a deal second. Is this acceptable?"

"No, with all due respect, it is not acceptable," The Duke responded coldly. "We have given you an entire year to surrender, to ask for a ceasefire, to make a deal... and now here, on the eve of your destruction, you come begging for one."

He paused for several moments and stared into her eyes. "We've coming knocking on your doorstep. I am afraid it is too late..."

Ximena looked back into his, steadily.

'I only wish for peace Your Grace. It is important to me that I do not lose any more men or land than is necessary.'

'I would give up Madrid itself so that my people could live in peace, safe from invaders. Is this not possible? And if so, why not? I maintain, Spain needs peace. And, as you are representative of His Majesty, I implore you to find some way to make peace it so. You are correct, I have chosen unwisely my time to ask for mercy. But I do so only out of fear for my people.'

The Conversation Continues...
Terms of Surrender

The Duke smiled wryly, "Then you are naught but a pedestrian leader if you wait until now to sue for peace. For fear of your people... the thousands that have already died in the street because you have hesitated for months, cooped up in your palace while they suffered without food."

He walked around the tent, circling the Queen as she stood in the middle. "It was never my intention for your people to die in such vastness, but that is what happens when you hesitate again the United Kingdom." He paused before continuing, "I shall give you your peace.... for the price of Castile. Your people will be welcome to live in the lands and we will begin immediately to help them reconstruct their lives and homes. I will even let you remain in Madrid where it safe from the barbarians.... These are my terms, nothing less."

'Speak plainly my lord, not in such medieval nonsense!' answered Ximena curtly.

'Very well. Castille is to be united with Great Britain. But, you may have Madrid. I shall move my court to Granada and reign there instead. All six armies of Spain shall also be moved there. And we retain our colonies in the Americas and Caribbean also. Is our parley concluded?'

Castile Falls

The Duke smiled widely. He had captured half of spain without losing a man.

"It certainly is. We will end the siege and escort you back to your palace where you will make the announcement."

"Good day."

[ooc: Castile ceded to the UK]

not sure where to post it but i would like to get the Half support costs for duration of game, for 15 credits. i'll be posting in the next week, sorry guys my move (from one place to another) has been horrible. Too me for ever to get unpacked.

Delesa;11637860']not sure where to post it but i would like to get the Half support costs for duration of game, for 15 credits. i'll be posting in the next week, sorry guys my move (from one place to another) has been horrible. Too me for ever to get unpacked.

[ooc: Posting here and the OOC thread is great. I will add it later.]

Castile Falls

The Duke smiled widely. He had captured half of spain without losing a man.

"It certainly is. We will end the siege and escort you back to your palace where you will make the announcement."

"Good day."

[ooc: Castile ceded to the UK]


Shouldn't it be me who says that!

I know, a little pissy, but it was mine. And I am handing control over to you. So there

-Castile-ceded-to-the-UK-

Ha! There we go. It is official.

Shouldn't it be me who says that!

I know, a little pissy, but it was mine. And I am handing control over to you. So there

-Castile-ceded-to-the-UK-

Ha! There we go. It is official.

[ooc: Ho hum... whatever.]

King Gustav sat atop his throne and pondered about the current world affairs. There was some serious stuff happening in the south, and he wanted his massive army to get a piece of the little action left. A small man, known to him only has a finance guy, came walking up to him and handed him a sheet.

"Sir, the armies spending." He read over it quickly.

"JESUS!! What the hell kind of trick is this?"

"None your majasty."

"Jesus what am i too do, even with the suport costs at half?? Im ordering that 30 ships be released from service. Thats plenty for now. Meanwhile ask Persia, Russia, and Austria for a little extra money, just to get us over the up coming hump."

OOC: 30 ships released, and asking my alliance to help me out with a little spending, well mostly russia with his huge stock pile of money.

Selim, the Divine, was in his usual spot. Overlooking one of his "pomp" armies, one that did nothing more than march around an inspire the citizens of the Sublime Ottoman Empire he was carefully dictating orders and hearing over reviews from several of his closer aides.

First up: one from the Economic Ministry

"Caliph, as you may or may not know I am here to update your holiness on our beloved state of Allah's. Industry is still limited to and around our major cities, there are few private businesses, the vast majority is owned by the Imperial Services, or by one of the royal family. The few that are out there are not competing in industry but instead content themselves with services like inns, pubs, and stables and rural activities like farming."

Very well, next....

Anxious to deliver his report and leave the second courier came in: one from Transportation Services.

"Caliph, just so you can acquaint yourself with this month’s situation. Transportation works with Internal Affairs as the main problems affecting travel it seems is bandits and other such low life. They raid and kill whoever they think they can get away with it and for the most part they do. Roads are relatively well maintained and certain ears have been raised on the construction of a massive building project in which one massive road; with the best quality materials, could be maintained and used for all parts of our country."

I'm breathless in anticipation; send the next one in.....

The third: from Internal Affairs.

"Allah's beloved Caliph, our security measures are adequate and most bandits seem to only strike at the few un-wary travelers by themselves in remote areas; specially in the desert where few travelers are in abundance to help their fellow. Security within the cities is high, certain ethnic groups are getting more displeased by certain policies by I hope we can rectify the situation before it becomes a real problem.

At your leave Caliph."

Thank you... I fear this will be the last little messenger for today....


OOC: I just tried starting it off this way.

OOC: Com'on my alliance! I nees a little extra money! This is way i joined a alliance, to spend there MONEY! i promise to cut back a little!! BUT I CAN USE MY ARMY!!

[ooc: Slowly lulling/dying... (my part of which I take responsibility for)]

ooc:well it seems im in no alliance no more by the OOC post, so im a free agent, with ,my huge ass army. Now i can do something.


Letters were dispatched from the Palace to all the armies, ordering to increase training and prepare for overseas deployment.

(lame i know but i got soccer championships)

[ooc: Slowly lulling/dying... (my part of which I take responsibility for)]

Nah, it is just because of school, I am sorry but I didn't realize how intense high school was going to be when I signed up. So that is contributing in a major role.

If someone more activ comes along I will happily leave the Sublime State for something else but for right now I think I am going to have a little war and alliance before hand.