BirdNES: 1500 AD: A New World

Is anyone interested in opening trade relations with the nation of Gujarat?

To: Gujarat
From: Persia

We welcome trade! We Persians loooove trading!

OOC: Did you two ignore the whole trade rule infighting in the While We Wait thread?

i havnt checked any thread on here except this for weeks.

I suppose you people don't read While We Wait. In short, the economy rules are being revised, and while the final shape is uncertain, bilateral trade agreements will no longer be included.

Blasted crosspost.

well i'll check it out then.

Preliminary Update 13: 1560 ​

Otto-Henry, the Count Palatine of the Rhine, died, without heir and without fanfare, in late 1559 and as the title was about to pass to Fredrick of the house of Wittelsbach, a devout Calvinist, Augustine Bellinus of the Order of St Stephen, stepped in and took the title in the name of Rome and Germany. None opposed him and his 1,000 knights. To help him celebrate, he planned to entertain the Pope himself in early January. They would meet in Frankfurt shortly after Kings Day 1560. Many were invited to partake in the festivities including several Electors. Grand preparations were underway and proclamations prepared. Germany was adjusting to the new order imposed by the Order of St. Stephen.

January 10, 1560: Somewhere in Vienna

Helmut had been hanging by his arms for almost two days now. He rarely made any efforts to show life, not that he had much to show. Below the waist he was burned and bruised and missing a few toes. His upper torso was about a third flayed in thin strips that hung down over his midsection. It had been a very careful job to make sure that death did not override the pain. He didn’t remember exactly what he had told his captors, but he was sure it was the truth. He was never good with names, but his employers had been from Strasburg. He was sure of that.

He recalled firing his gun at the Archduke and even remembered seeing him fall, but his escape failed when a washer woman kept him from getting out the back door of the house where he had been hiding. By the time he was in the street, soldiers were already there. He was a stranger and everyone let the soldiers know. After that it was a blur of pain and more pain. He could tell them little more than he had, so was mostly left alone for now. From the talk her heard, his end would come soon by either by fire or impaling. He just wished it would come.

The hills are alive with the sound of music…

The Pope’s Christmas at Ulm was festive and restful as he prepared for the last leg of his journey to Frankfurt. His plans for a united, Catholic Germany were taking shape. Much of Europe was on his side in this matter: Spain and Portugal, but especially pleased that Poland and the Order of St. Stephen were such a bulwark for the true faith. Bavaria would come around eventually and maybe Austria; Brandenburg he would send to hell. He was sure good news awaited him in Frankfurt. The Pope endured the bumpy “carriage” ride into the wooded hills north of Ulm with thoughts of the coming night’s stay at one of his favorite abbeys. Warm fires and good food awaited him. He looked forward the singing the monks would perform during his dinner.

The Pope was sleeping peacefully when the warning alarm rose and roused him and all the others from their beds. “Brigands” was on the nervous lips of those who served his Holiness. It was noon the next day when travelers found the smoldering ruins and dead bodies. All 120 members of the Pope’s party had been massacred, killed in any number of disrespectful ways. The Pope was found naked in a doorway with one hand nailed to the jamb and his throat cut. The monks had been herded into a barn and burn en masse.

Ferdinand, the Archduke of Austria and Holy Roman Emperor left the palace just before noon on the Monday following Kings Day 1560. He was off with his entourage for his hunting lodge in Moravia. He would return in a fortnight. The streets were crowded and marshals were required to clear a path. They approached the bridge crossed the Danube to Tabor island, and thence the Marchfeld, at a trot. The Archduke and his favorite huntsman were in a gestured conversation about deer antlers. Others rode close to catch the words as they mixed with the noise of the street.

The gunshot was unexpected and it ripped through the head of the huntsman on its way to the Archduke. Both fell into a now seething mass of horses, panicked riders and fleeing bystanders. Riotous shouting ensued as some strove to protect and serve the fallen Emperor and others pursued the smoke and noise of the gunshot.

The Verner Trading House: January 22, 1560

The confusion of the past few weeks had gotten worse as the news came in from all over Western Europe to the Verner’s enclave in Berlin. They had gathered to try and make sense of all that had transpired. The list was a long one:

1. The Pope butchered at the hands of brigands on his way from Rome to Frankfurt
2. The Emperor himself shot dead in the street
3. Depending upon who was telling the story, he was slain either by Polish agents paid by the Pope or by Bavarians in the pay of St. Stephen. And other culprits were certainly possible and talked about.
4. The maybe, now not so natural death of Otto-Henry
5. The failed conclave of Electors in Augustine Bellinus’ attempt to grasp the Emperor’s crown through murder and intimidation of the electors.
6. The ongoing conclave of Cardinals in Rome
7. French armies on Germany’s border
8. Brandenburg mobilizing for war with Poland
9. Bavaria calling for restraint and a reformist Pope

Things were looking grim and Berlin was not a place the Verners wanted to be. They made their plans. The next few weeks would tell the tale and they would be ready.

OOC: Not wholly unexpected, but I didn't quite anticipate the scope. Well, you Europeans have fun. I'll be busy building roads and bridges

OOC: Very interesting, I can feel the hand of the Reactionary Catholics at work with the recent events and I'm sure everyone in Europe who aren't a reactionary Catholic can feel it too

On another note bird, how exactly did this update come to be? Did the players who were responsible for the said actions PM you what they wanted to do or what?

Barbaric Europeans all involved should take their own lives in the name of civilization....................

alex994 said:

OOC: Very interesting, I can feel the hand of the Reactionary Catholics at work with the recent events and I'm sure everyone in Europe who aren't a reactionary Catholic can feel it too

On another note bird, how exactly did this update come to be? Did the players who were responsible for the said actions PM you what they wanted to do or what?

Click to expand...

I was contacted about posting an update around specific events that would take place prior to the next sceduled update. I felt the events were worthy of such an intervention and for them to happen, I had to put orders on hold so players could respond to the new events in their orders.

OOC: You know, I've been wondering. How exactly do we establish forts and cities as opposed to trade posts in other areas? I've seen the Portuguese, Spanish and Aztecs establish those but I'm not sure how one does that.

Do we just point at an area and say "Build ____ there?"

alex994 said:

OOC: You know, I've been wondering. How exactly do we establish forts and cities as opposed to trade posts in other areas? I've seen the Portuguese, Spanish and Aztecs establish those but I'm not sure how one does that.

Do we just point at an area and say "Build ____ there?"

Click to expand...

In unclaimed areas (grey) you can just build a fort with a small military expedition to fight off natives. In owned lands (colored) you need either permission or have to go in fighting. To get settlements, you need colonists and a port which is what a trading post is. Settlements enventually grow into cities.

Military control of Africa, like Portugal has on the east coast is of little economic value and is only held because of his garrison troops there. Should they leave, their influence would quickly disappear.


Get crackin' on those orders folks. I'd like to have them all by Wednesday.

Bird, I noticed some minor omissions in my orders and will be resending them (I know you prefer not to recieve addendums).

wow. interesting month there.

Greece urges its allies not to change their plans because of the unhappy events in central Europe. Your position relative to those changes in circumstance will be furthered best by sticking to our original plans rather than in a last minute scramble to get into this mess.

Konstantinos, King of Greece, Defender of the Orthodox, Defender of Orthodoxy

Andreas, King's Cousin, First Viceroy

Justinian, Crown Prince of Greece, Second Viceroy.

Ah crap....can I still send orders?

silver 2039 said:

Ah crap....can I still send orders?

Click to expand...

Of course you can.

I was running as fast as I could. Even though I was only ten, this was plenty fast. As the eldest son of the eldest son of Soco, who himself was the oldest son of Torno, I sprang from a proud lineage of warriors. In order to live up to that lineage, I had constantly had both his body and mind trained almost since birth. And now this training was being utilized to its fullest, as I poured everything I had into going faster, always faster.

Behind me I could still hear the dull roar of the muskets, their miniature thunder rolling across the landscape. Less clearly, so low that perhaps I was only imagining it, I heard the screams of the wounded and dying. Everything in my training screamed for me to stop running, to grab a gun from the nearest dead soldier and to fight alongside of my comrades. Everything, that is, except the one part of my training that superseded all others. No matter what, one must always obey the commander. To do so might mean death, but to fail to do so meant worse, it meant loss of honor, disgrace, and rejection by ones ancestors in the Afterworld.

And so, I was running, running as fast as I could away from the battle I had trained my whole, short life to fight. After the first few minutes of adrenaline inspired sprinting, I settled into a loping pace which I could continue indefinitely, weaving through the trees without breaking stride. Eventually, the trees started to thin, the forest opening up to reveal a clearing.

In the exact center of the clearing, raised slightly on a mound made of shells, lay a large house built in the old-style, hugging the ground closely as it sprawled outward, made of thatch and palm branches. Huddling around this central house like bear cubs to their mother, stood other, smaller houses, though all built in the same style. As I got closer, I could see men, women, and children bustling about hurriedly, as if they were part of an anthill that had just been kicked by a child. Even closer, what appeared at first as random rushing about took on form and meaning. Directly in front of me, men I recognized as house slaves mingled in with a few braves were quickly digging, the earth flying behind them as if they were moles, not men. Behind these were the women and children who rushed about, some vainly attempting to herd the children together, others attempting to organize their valued possessions, still others, carrying water, food, bandages, and other essentials to the digging men.

On the central mound, observing these hurried preparations as calmly as the Sun looks down upon the Earth was an old, even ancient, man. On his head, appearing so heavy as to make one wonder how his neck didn’t break, was a head-dressing, bright red feathers sticking from it, causing it to seem as if it would soon take flight. Around his neck he wore a simple necklace made from shark’s teeth, standing out sharply against his bare torso. White, thigh length pants were held up by a belt covered with blood-red seashells.[1] Across his wizened body ran lines of paint, forming a colorful mosaic which might have been more intimidating on a young warrior instead of this wrinkled, husk of a man.

Standing at a respectful distance from this man were five warriors, their occupation obvious not only from the single red shell on their belts, but also from the swords hanging from their belt, accompanied by a handle of a pistol slightly peeking out. Each was noticeably tall, even if the old man wasn’t bent over from age, each of his companions would probably have been a good head taller. Though from this distance I could not quite make it out, I knew that each had on their right arm several scars spelling out the name “Soco.” Above these scars was fresh paint tracing the contours of the scars, further highlighting the name. The message was clear. These men were bodyguards of the man Soco, but not just any bodyguards. These were the elite, and had shown their loyalty by having their patron carve his own name on their sword arms.

It was to this group that I directed my steps, the men digging the ditch barely having time to reach for their weapons before recognizing me and going back to their work. As I reached my goal, the old man held up his hand, forestalling the words that were already starting to trip out of my panting mouth. As I waited for permission to speak, my breath, which only moments before had been gasping heaves, returned to a more normal tone. Finally, the hand came down, allowing me to speak.

“War Chief, the Aztecs have landed two miles north. Right now, they are marching south, the commander thinks their goal is to try and capture you before turning south. He urges you in the strongest terms to flee to the fort’s safety.”

Penetrating eyes peered at me from behind a stoic face. Gesturing around him, Soco spoke. “As you can see, boy, I am not so old or so far removed from battle that I can not distinguish between thunder and the roar of guns. Now tell me something these ears can not discern, how goes the scouts posted to keep watch for the enemy, and what steps are the fleet taking?”

I hung my head, acknowledging the implied rebuke of wasting time speaking of inessentials while leaving out what the War Chief would consider the more weighty matters. “The scouts are harassing the enemy, attempting to slow them down, but expect to be overrun shortly. I know not how the fleet is doing, as I was running, I saw them engaging the enemy, but did not stop to count how many ships we faced nor how many of ours were lost.”

Soco waved his hand dismissively. “It does not matter. Gaspar is Almirante of that fleet, he is not one of us by blood, but he is a member of our family both by marriage and adoption. He will not shame us, he will come back either victorious or dead.” At these words, Soco started walking down the mound, not, as I had hoped, south, in the direction of the fort, but north, to where the men were still frantically preparing some sort of protection against the oncoming human wave.

“Granfather!” I spoke, momentarily forgetting my place. “The fort is this way, please go there, we cannot afford to lose you here.”

At my words, the wizened man stopped, waving to one of his bodyguards who were still trailing him. At his sign, one of the warriors brought forth an old blade, one carrying the marks of many battles on it. As he grasped the hilt, Soco seemed to straighten, growing taller, as if he had long ago in his youth stored strength in that sword which he now drew from it. “Enempa,” he said, for the first time using my name. “I received this sword from my father, Torno, the god of War who walked among men. After he returned to his proper realm, I took it, bearing it in many battles. I have lived a warrior’s life. I do not intend now to change.”

Like the morning’s dawn dissipating darkness, his words enlightened my previously darkened understanding. “You seek the honor of a warrior’s death?”

Soco only nodded, gazing ahead of him as if he could already see the enemy we both knew would momentarily appear. “Enempa, run west until you can no longer hear the sounds of war. Then turn north. Our divisions up north, we may need them to defend the capital. Order them south, this will be your authority.” Soco’s hands reached down to his waist, clasping his belt which he unbuckled. “Come, take your heritage.” he said as he held it out to me.

I nodded, my throat becoming dry at the import of his words and actions. “I understand.” I replied. Reaching down at my own waist, I unbuckled by belt, letting it fall to the ground. With hands that I proudly noticed did not display the slightest tremor, I took the belt my grandfather proffered. I noticed a faint smile appearing for the first time on his face as I buckled it around my waist.

“Take a look around War Chief.” He said, his hand in one sweeping motion taking in not only the warriors beside him, but also the enemy, the land itself, perhaps even his own future. “This is your heritage.” Grasping the handle of his sword with both hands, he lifted it up, as if he intended to stab the sun itself. “This is what it means to be a Calusan warrior. This is what it means to have the blood of Torno flow through your veins. No go, fly to the north, and when I next see you in the Afterlife, make sure I am looking, not at a warrior, but at a Calusan warrior.”

That was the last time I saw my grandfather alive on this earth. One week later, in the capital I stood by, dry-eyed as befitting a man, as around me the women of my clan wailed, shaking the very heavens with their cry. Before me was the body of my grandfather, almost made unrecognizable by the noble scars which covered his body. Laid around him in death, as they had in life were his loyal bodyguards, who had proven their loyalty in the greatest way they knew how. With slow, measured steps, I walked up to the funeral pyre. Reaching out my hand, I grasped the sword which lay beside Soco, still covered in blood, though of the enemy or his own, I knew not.

“Forgive me Grandfather, but I will take my inheritance now.” I motioned to a slave behind me who brought forth a wrapped bundle. “This is a replacement blade, newly forged by the finest smiths in the land. It cannot replace a fine blade such as this, but it should do in the Afterlife.”

Grasping my Grandfather’s, no, my blade, I lifted it up, watching as the dying sun cast across it, making it seem as if it were on fire. This is my heritage. This is what it means to be a Calusan warrior. This is what it means to have the blood of Torno flow through my veins. I will not forget. Ever.




[1] In Calusan society, social rank is often (though not always) shown by the decorations on one’s belt. This practice was adopted by the army in order to show the relative rank of various war chiefs and braves. Any warrior who has seen combat is allowed a belt with one blood-red seashell. After that, the more seashells one has on their belt, the higher the military rank. As the belt of this one is completely covered in seashells, he is obviously the supreme War Chief.

@Birdjaguar: did you recieve my orders?
I think i had the wrong date in the post...

otherwise i'll make up some new ones