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Topics - Andalus

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Stories and AARs / In the Spirit of Perfection
« on: June 26, 2010, 03:44:13 PM »
As the first light of dawn slowly began to seep through the crack in the curtains, he curled the pen around the last flick of his signature, and placed it upon the desk. Carefully, he stood, making sure with his movement not to disturb the leaves of paper that he left to blanket the desk. He crossed to the far wall and flicked the light switch off. Since he was still awake at this hour, he would appreciate the dawn properly as the rising sun slowly granted him more of its favour, and shone down to inspect the inked words that graced his pages. Pulling open the thick curtains, he gazed momentarily at a scene that was nothing new, save perhaps for the emptiness of the early morning, which he rarely saw. It was the same garden, and the same road, the same light of the same star that had streamed in all the years of his life. Yet that did not mean it held no beauty, and he therefore gazed. For a moment. He'd been writing all night, and he needed a moment's rest. One can't rush a letter.

He returned to his writing desk, and selected an envelope from the neat bundles that were sorted by size and shape and colour. The tidy writing desk was, it seemed, a little contrary to the rest of the house. He had never found himself to be a particularly organised man, but writing was different. If he was going to write a letter, then he was damned well going to do it properly. Perhaps the one extra thing he might have done to really go the extra mile would have been to use a fountain pen rather than his ballpoint, but he had never been able to abide the things. He found that they all too often lived up to their name. And so he used a ballpoint, but at least it wasn't any ballpoint, not some cheap plastic ballpoint that came in packs of twenty four, and ran out so quickly it seemed as though they were eager the other twenty three should have their fair share of the action. Oh no, it was a nice ballpoint, one of the ones that is exactly the same as its cheap plastic kindred, but has a shiny casing, and makes you feel respectable. A letter is all the better for being written with a pen that makes you feel like it shows your depth of care.

Laying the envelope on the table and raising the pen in his hand once more, he slowly printed the address on its fore. He was perhaps overly modest on the quality of his handwriting, and wouldn't want some beleaguered postal worker struggling to decipher the intended destination of this missive. Printing for the address, handwriting for the addressee. After all, surely the bond of friendship is enough to unravel the most tangled scrawl? He then turned to where the leaves of freshly ink-decorated paper lay, slightly curling at the edges where they'd been resting. He led himself along the paper line, bringing each new leaf to a pile. He straightened the pile, and stroked them flat, then, moistening the tip of his finger, counted the pages. He wouldn't bother reading them again - he knew what he'd written, and if he'd made a mistake it was too late to change it now. Better a crime against grammar or spelling than the shameful scribble of correction; even the slightly abashed ruled line that was still undeniably an admission of guilt. If there was an error among the many pages, he would let it be despatched with proud ignorance of any failing. But he counted them, because he knew what he'd written and how much, and he had to be sure it was all there. One... two... three... he frowned where the corner of a page had sustained a mild tear, but in the spirit of perfection, pretended he had not seen it. Seven... eight... it was all there.

He inspected his signature once more on the last page. He liked to judge the quality of his signature, as one can never reproduce the exact same design. This was about average, he decided, not his most elegant example, but certainly no scrawl to blush at. He realigned the pages, then folded them and placed them inside the addressed envelope. He ran the two sides of the seal over his tongue, then firmly pressed them down, imprisoning and protecting his night's work until its new owner set the words free. From a shelf on the writing desk, he pulled a stamp book, and affixed the relevant little square precisely in the corner. The masterpiece that was the letter complete, he took up his keys from the chest of drawers, dropping them into his pocket, and left the room with the envelope in hand, quickly hurrying down the stairs.

His hand grasped the handle of the front door, a thought playing with his mind, not so much that he'd forgotten anything, but that there was something else he should do while he was out on his way to post the letter. As he stood there for a moment, just a moment, wondering, he realised that actually, he really was rather tired from his sleepless night of writing. And after all, there was no collection from the post-box for some hours. Perhaps a rest would suit him, and he might even recall that other task on his mind. He placed the letter by the front door, ready to be taken up, then headed back upstairs and climbed into bed without a thought for a change of clothes. Soon he was asleep, as one hand slipped from the bed to hang down, fingers splaying to show the dark blue of ink stains.

By the door, the letter sat, undelivered. But not alone. Because it shared its new home with a thousand more envelopes, all well sealed and neatly addressed, all waiting to be posted once their author found the moment. It’s a wonder he couldn’t hear the heartfelt words trapped within, pleading for their freedom. It's a wonder he didn't notice or trip over the mound every time he crossed his hallway, but of course, he wasn't a very organised man, away from his writing desk. His mind tended to be oblivious of any other mess, for there was nothing more important to him than being certain his work was perfect. He was an excellent letter writer, and he’d never written a letter he was ashamed to have sent. Then again, he’d never sent a letter.

Humans do have a certain knack to forget what matters most.

Mount and Blade Discussion - Sargoth Town Square / Books
« on: August 29, 2009, 11:45:42 AM »
I had two small questions, but I can't recall what the other was. If I remember it I will post it here.

This is something I'venever been entirely sure of. When you have a book in your inventory, and you have finished reading it, is there any point in keeping it, or should you just sell it back to the book merchant?

Stories and AARs / All That Glitters
« on: August 15, 2009, 05:23:37 PM »
This was a piece I wrote for a competition at Mod Realms, where you had to write a short story based on, or at least inspired by, a given screenshot. I thought I would share it with you. It's not my best work, and the ending is quite rushed (I finished and posted it pretty much right before the deadline), but whatever. Anyhow:

All That Glitters

Rain poured from the dark night sky, falling across hill and valley, drenching the land that was quiet but for the splash of rainwater, and the hooves of a single horse beating across the sodden grass. The rider came on through the mist of the night, a young man, his features obscured by the thick hood of his cloak, urging his grey pony onwards. The black clouds hid the moon from view and there was no light to guide his path, only the grey smudge in the distance that was the Swadian city of Uxhal. Seeing the shape of buildings as he crested a rise in the ground, the horseman’s face showed relief beneath his hood. “At last,” he breathed, pausing but a moment as he rode on.

Leaning back in his oaken chair in the corner of an Uxhal inn, Bhorovda closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of the inn through his old ears, one of the few things about him that had not dulled in his old age. An inn is all about sound. It is the sound of people, full of singing and gossip, the scrape of chairs and the clack of beer mugs. He grew tired of seeing the same walls each day, the same tables, the same smoky haze and drunken dancing. The tankard before him was long empty, and he sat back to rest. His mind was full of memories still and it was only these that kept him from going insane, living such a dull life. He listened to the voices around him. Some of these men he had bounced on his knees as children, or enjoyed the awe of their wide eyes as he showed them his old pitted and notched blade. They had gathered around to hear tales of his past. Now they ignored him, an old relic himself, and shouted their own boastful tales of their future, all the while drinking themselves into senselessness. Where did it all go wrong?

There was no heroism or bravery in these times, Bhorovda thought. Armies were made of drafted levies, criminals and unwilling volunteers, with a select few professional soldiers who fought for gold, not glory. He remembered the blare of trumpets and the stirrings of hope at the Siege of Dhirim, when he had sallied out with the rest to fight or die against the Khergit cavalry and their Rhodok allies. Many had fallen on that grim day, collapsing to the battlefield like gruesome pincushions from some nightmare. But yet more had lived to take the battle to the foe. The Rhodok infantry in the centre had broken at the charge of a thousand knights and heavy cavalry, lances splintering against shields, maces pounding at fleeing skulls. His own lance had taken a crossbowman full in the chest, and stuck, so that he had been thrown from the saddle. It was told that a total of fewer than three hundred of the enemy alliance had escaped that bloody clash, the demoralised Khergits withering beneath the Swadian assault. Such memories, they floated through the mind of the old veteran now. The heroic souls had gone in these times, wasted in old age or lost unto death.

Where had been the bravery the year before, when the constable of Rindyar castle had surrendered the keep to a Khergit invasion? Where had been the bravery in the cold-blooded murderer who had struck down King Varl in the dead of night? What brave deeds would be sung of lords and kings who danced and feasted in gilded halls, while their weary armies trudged on through blood and bogs? Bhorovda shook his head slightly, as if to cast out the thoughts his mind always seemed to drift toward. It would not do to work himself up over this. Spilt milk, after all, cannot be un-spilt.

Turning his attention back to the tavern, he heard one voice rising above the others, one he did not recognise. A stranger, then. He opened his eyes. The voice belonged to a dark man at the far end of the room, his skin near black in shade, his long hair tied back in a tail, and his handsome face draped in a wide grin. Bhorovda did not fail to notice the curved scimitar hanging from the belt around his coat, nor the way he walked, as one used to riding. Then he remembered. He had seen the man ride into town at about midday, seated upon a fine white stallion. It surprised him that he had forgotten the incident so soon, for it had been no small commotion at the gatehouse earlier. It was not a common occurrence to have a Khergit ride to the gate, bold as brass, and demand entry. Bhorovda had not been able to catch all the details, nor the man’s name, from the typical game of Geroian Whispers that had flowed through the watching crowd, but he was certainly no hostile soldier, or he would not have gained entry.

Nor would he have been so readily accepted by the townspeople, who gathered around him now in admiration as he frolicked amongst them, relating some poetic saga of his adventures with weapon and women. A boastful fellow, it seemed, but if his words were truth, perhaps there was the bravery in this land, in freelancers like these. As he mused on this, Bhorovda sensed someone standing beside his table, and he turned. Before him stood a tall shaven-headed man, not long since a boy, cloak draped tightly around him, and hood thrown back. He was drenched from head to foot.

“Heavens, lad, don’t tell me you’ve been out in that?!” Bhorovda exclaimed, gesturing at the doorway, which was creaking shut. The stranger smiled, as a drop of rainwater gathered on the tip of his nose, falling in a drip to splash on the table. “I take it you have, then.”

“Aye.” The newcomer turned his gaze to the man Bhorovda had been watching, and his eyebrows visibly arched as he observed.

“An interesting specimen, that one,” said Bhorovda, as the specimen in question headed towards the stairs with a pale young woman leaning on his shoulder.

“Aye,” came the answer once more. “I must confess, I would not have expected such a man to be so educated. He speaks in Old Calradic verse, not the crude rhymes of most roaming poets. But then, he looks to be more than any poet.” From his former silence the rush of words came like a flood from the newcomer’s lips.

“Old? Calradic?” Bhorovda replied, “You need look no further than myself, for that.” He laughed, and the younger man joined him, eyes still bright beneath his damp visage. “For my own part, I have never had a care for such things as poetry in my life. But you look like someone who has grown in a noble’s court or other such life. Or perhaps you are of lineage yourself?”

“Not in the normal sense. But we are all of us of lineage, are we not? The difference is simply that some do not carry their own banner before them, but the banner of another”

“Ah, indeed,” Bhorovda agreed. “But I am forgetting my manners. They call me Bhorovda.”

“I am Rufus,” the man replied amicably, taking a seat opposite his new acquaintance. He threw off his waterlogged cloak, revealing his liveried tunic beneath, of azure with an argent fesse, topped by the unmistakable double-headed eagle Bhorovda knew so well.

He blinked in recognition. “Why!” he said in surprise, “you did not say you were de Voulier’s man!” He had already decided he liked this confident young stranger, but to know he served the same lord as he himself once had pleased him immensely.

Rufus nodded. “Aye, Lord de Voulier is my master. It is an errand of his that brings me south from Derchios. I have a message for Lord Herfor, at Tevarin. But no sane man could continue in weather like this, I tell you. I was hardly sure I would make it this far, truth be told. Ah well, you never get anywhere if you’re afraid of a few dangers.” He tossed forth these remarks as if they were but idle chatter, though Bhorovda knew that Rufus could well have been killed riding in such conditions, had fortune not ridden at his side.

“So then, how fares old de Voulier? I served him in my youth, from younger than even you, I’d say, and fought beside him at Dhirim. My, if ever there was a lion among men, he was the one.” He chuckled. Rufus smiled grimly.

“You had not heard? The old lord passed from us a full four months ago, struck suddenly by an illness. I wonder that the news has not travelled this far yet. It is his son I now serve, though all say he is the spitting image of the lord you knew.”

The news came as a shock, though it was not truly surprising. De Voulier must have been approaching eighty winters, Bhorovda realised, well on in years. And yet he had not considered that he might have died, remembering the man as he had been in his prime, not as a grizzled elder such as himself. Another passes, he thought. Soon there would be none who remained from the Calradia he knew. And it was not just the people who were changing. Years ago, such news would have arrived in mere weeks, if not less. Perhaps it had simply slipped his notice, but it was unlikely. It seemed to him the whole order of the land was breaking down.

“So you were at Dhirim?” Rufus asked, breaking Bhorovda from his reverie. “The Siege of Dhirim? My grandfather fought and died at that battle.”

“I am sorry.” Rufus passed off the condolence, accepting it with a smile, but waving his hand to show he did not need sympathy for a man he never knew. Bhorovda nodded and spoke again. “Your grandfather, you say? By the hills, that makes me feel old! Strange how time passes. I remember that broken field better than the breakfast I ate this morning. Threescore and eight years it has been, since I was born in Hanun to a blacksmith and a merchant’s daughter. In all those years since I entered this bloody world and my body was wrapped in a rough woollen blanket, that one day at Dhirim stands out in my mind.”


The Vaegir stood trembling among a field of Calradian dead, his blade crimson with a slick of blood and dirt. His limbs ached from the wounds he had received, though his thick mail had protected him for the most part from any grievous harm. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for those lying slain upon the ground. Skulls had been pounded beneath the hooves of charging horses. Vulnerable flesh had been ripped to the bone by the barbed arrows of the deadly Khergit archers. Everywhere the earth was thick with arrows and crossbow bolts, tattered banners lifting weakly in the light wind. Bhorovda breathed deeply, trying to rid himself of the battle urge as the heat of combat still coursed through his veins.

This was it, then. Victory. At six and twenty years old, this was Bhorovda’s first taste of full scale battle, beyond small skirmishes and raiding parties on unprotected caravans. He had expected to feel something more, though he wasn’t sure what exactly. Pride, perhaps. Exhilaration. But all he felt now was a weary longing to collapse to his knees and lie amongst his fallen brothers and enemies, and a feeling of intense relief. There was no sadness, yet nor was there joy, for the numbness of the blood-soaked melee delayed any such emotions.

Slowly, Bhorovda made his way to join the remainder of the victorious Swadians. He wondered what his father would have thought, had he still lived, to see his bastard son, a Vaegir by blood, in such a place, and as he was. His fellows were cheering, and raising loud chants in honour of their triumph. Was it all a show? Did they feel the same as he did within? Bhorovda had no inkling, but joined in the celebration nonetheless. He was celebrating his own survival, if nothing else.

The cheers grew louder as Lord de Voulier himself approached. Their commander was huzzaed and praised with shouts of acclamation, which he accepted with a modest smile, holding his great war helm under his arm. He displayed not an inch of pain at the wound that gashed his side, chain links hanging loose at the tear. It must have been a beast of a man who had swung the blade, but he was more than matched by the young lord’s iron will. Without a single grimace, he addressed his men, speaking to many by name, extolling their feats of arms. Bhorovda’s dull demeanour swelled with pride as de Voulier commended him for his brave fighting after being unhorsed, surrounded as he had been. Bhorovda subconsciously massaged a small wound high in his back at reminder of this. He looked back; de Voulier was still speaking. His arm was raised to point at a saddled destrier some yards off, and Bhorovda realised it was own. There were jibes from other soldiers at Bhorovda’s lack of care, though all in good humour. He smiled weakly, his own humour returning but slowly, surrounded so with destruction.

“Men cried out that we were doomed,” de Voulier shouted, throwing his voice so that the furthest soldier might hear him. “They cowered and hid, they looked to the blue skies for help. But today, let them see what you have done. Let them count the foe’s dead, and then let them say again that you had not the strength for this fight! Before you lies the shattered remnants of the greatest threat to face Swadia in over a hundred years.” De Voulier’s voice rose to a yell, the army cheering at his words. He held his hands high. “Raise high your banners and cheer, noble soldiers, for this glory shall be yours forever! You may tell your children, and your grandchildren, of this day, and all will know of your bravery and courage! Come with me, and we shall tell all of what you have done today. Of your victory! Of your bravery! Of your honour, and your glory!”

The sound of the army was a roar across the battlefield, thousands of voices screaming their assent. Bhorovda’s heart billowed as his voice joined the multitude, cheering for all it was worth, with all the strength that remained, red in the face as the army of Swadia proclaimed their glorious victory.


“Aye, it stands out,” Bhorovda continued. It was a glorious day, Rufus,” Bhorovda near sang, as well as his aged voice might. “And for what? For cowards to throw it all away at the creeping of a mouse. What true man fears battle, when only glory awaits him?” Before Rufus could answer, another voice joined them.

“There is no such thing as a glorious death.” Both men, young and old, turned to see another, the dark Khergit from earlier, but now with a certain quietness in place of the frivolous air. “Forgive me for interrupting; it is not my place. But I tell you, there is no glory in death. My own father died in battle, fighting your people. I hold no grudge against Swadians for that, but against my foolish father in leaving to seek glory and leaving his newborn babe at home, and a young wife with no help or hand to raise me. Glory is for the living, for those who by freak of fortune survive. Many men go to war. Few return home glorious. In the depths of their jubilant falsehood, their hearts weep for their losses.”

Rufus spoke quietly, his voice an audible whisper. “Where did your father die?”

“At Dhirim. Why?” The man was oblivious to the rest of the conversation and could not understand the sudden tension in Bhorovda, his knuckles tightening. Rufus too was ill at ease, but his face was calm. He held out a hand to grasp the old man’s arms as he rose to his feet, trying to restrain him. He watched in horror as he saw the old blade at Bhorovda’s side, his eyes swimming with memory. Before he knew it the two men stood facing one another, sword and scimitar drawn, the Khergit pulling his weapon to guard at this crazed old man who took such offence. The inn stood still, no man or woman daring to move.

“No!” cried Rufus. “You risk your life once more, for a debt long settled by the blood of all our brothers and fathers. Listen to his words; there is no glory in death. You live in your memories, old man, you are bitter in your false glory." His hand shook as Bhorovda stood with sword before him, eyes biting into the Khergit’s face. “Where is the bravery in bitter revenge? Where is the bravery in a sword drawn in anger? Will they sing of brave Bhorovda, who took up his rusty sword and brawled in a smoky tavern? Far braver to put aside the past, to put aside your weapon and know that the debts are done."

Bhorovda’s shoulders sank in resignation, his grip on the sword hilt slipping, until it clattered on the cold flagstones, a harsh metallic clang that broke the tension. Grief overrode him and he collapsed to his knees. He wept. He wept for his lost brothers and comrades. He wept for the hollow victory so full of death. He wept for the false glory he had held to for so long.

In the streets and in the hills, the rain fell.

Poetry and Artistic Writing / Andalus' poetry
« on: August 12, 2009, 02:17:57 PM »
Since a few others have posted poems, I will post some of mine.

Here is one I wrote for a good friend:

A Reason for Tears

Without loss, there could be no relief;
Joy would be hollow, if there were no grief;
Could we know how to mourn, if we could not be glad?
So rejoice, that you have a cause to be sad.

From waking hours to the depths of night,
We face our sorrows as we take delight.
We must take our hopes as we take our fears,
And rejoice, that we have a reason for tears.

Does anyone have any idea where the murderer is hiding in Tshibtin? I have never been able to find one there, despite searching all over the village and surrounding hills. It's bizarre.

Total War Mods - The Engineer's Shed / Armoured Wardogs
« on: April 15, 2009, 09:44:47 AM »
So you thought K9 was tough? I made these armoured wardogs partly by request, partly for the sheer hell of it.

Yes, I know they aren't realistic or historical. But someone might have a use for them. And they were fun to make...


And if you think they look possessed, have a look at these evil doggies...

 Don't have nightmares, now.  :)


Download Link

Has anyone else found themselves reacting in RL to events on screen? I ask this because I was just pitted as a swordsman against a a lancer in a one on one tournament round. As he charged towards me, I realised that I physically ducked slightly. I don't know how often I do this but if it is frequent I must cut quite a sene when playing M&B!

General Chatter - The Boozer / Andalus
« on: January 23, 2009, 04:26:55 PM »

I realize that everyone is entitled to his opinion, and I respect this. I also hope that you will all respect mine as you read this letter. Let me start by stressing that I am not attempting to suppress anyone's opinions, nor do I intend to demean Andalus personally for his beliefs or worldviews. But I do feel that I must find more constructive contexts in which to work toward resolving conflicts. He recently stated that the world is crying out to labor beneath his firm but benevolent heel. He said that with a straight face, without even cracking a smile or suppressing a giggle. He said it as if he meant it. That's scary because by provoking his opponents to irrational rage, he makes them look like the most disdainful lunkheads I've ever seen. But what, you may ask, does any of that have to do with the theme of this letter, viz., that the ripples of reaction to his anecdotes have spread, giving rise to universal calls to halt the destructive process that is carrying our civilization toward extinction? This is an important question because he wants to move pea-brained heathenism from the gormless fringe into a realm of respectability. It gets better: He actually believes that the average working-class person can't see through his chicanery. I guess no one's ever told him that his grand plan is to provide financial support to backwards banana republics and their meddlesome dictators. I'm sure Mao Tse Tung would approve. In any case, if we don't do something soon, Andalus's infantile reports will rise like a golem with a million hands on a million throats to choke the honor out of decent, hardworking people.

The fact is, if you can make any sense out Andalus's obdurate goals then you must have gotten higher marks in school than I did. Andalus fully intends to palliate and excuse the atrocities of his fans. But that's not enough, not for him. Andalus will additionally sound the standard "they're out to get us" call and rally his lickspittles to purge the land of every non-cuckoo person, gene, idea, and influence, which is why I allege that a central point of his belief systems is the notion that children don't need as much psychological attentiveness, protection, and obedience training as the treasured household pet. Perhaps Andalus should take some new data into account and revisit that notion. I think he'd find that I do not propose a supernatural solution to the problems we're having with him. Instead, I propose a practical, realistic, down-to-earth approach that requires only that I act as a positive role model for younger people.

Andalus has already been able to fight with spiritual weapons that are as demonic as they are predaceous. What worries me more than that, however, is that if Andalus ever manages to institutionalize masochism through systematic violence, distorted religion, and dubious science, that's when the defecation will really hit the air conditioning. He should just face the facts. Let's remember that. Every time Andalus tries, he gets increasingly successful in his attempts to mete out harsh and arbitrary punishment against his adversaries until they're intimidated into a benumbed, neutralized, impotent, and non-functioning mass. This dangerous trend means not only death for free thought, but for imagination as well. Though I am not a proponent of conflict, I intend to clarify and correct some of the inaccuracies present in his announcements. That's the path that I have chosen. It's doubtlessly not an easy path but then again, if Andalus had his way, schools would teach students that anyone who resists him deserves to be crushed. This is not education but indoctrination. It prevents students from learning about how in Andalus's modes of thought, emotionalism is witting and unremitting, pharisaical and cantankerous. He revels in it, rolls in it, and uses it to abrogate some of our most fundamental freedoms.

Andalus uses big words like "ultrastandardization" to make himself sound important. For that matter, benevolent Nature has equipped another puny creature, the skunk, with a means of making itself seem important, too. Although Andalus's views may reek like a skunk, Andalus justifies his ornery sound bites with fallacious logical arguments based on argumentum ad baculum. In case you're unfamiliar with the term, it means that if we don't accept Andalus's claim that one can understand the elements of a scientific theory only by reference to the social condition and personal histories of the scientists involved then he will dominate the whole earth and take possession of all its riches.

In light of what I just stated, it's hard to avoid the conclusion that Andalus sometimes puts himself in charge of leading to the destruction of the human race. At other times, one of his stooges is deputed for the job. In either case, Andalus's lies come in many forms. Some of his lies are in the form of manuscripts. Others are in the form of vaporings. Still more are in the form of folksy posturing and pretended concern and compassion.

We will have to become much more vigilant to ensure that Andalus doesn't agitate for indoctrination programs in local schools. Let us now join hands, hearts, and minds to love the Earth and everything that flowers and crawls upon it. He says that we should derive moral guidance from his glitzy, multi-culti, hip-hop, consumption-oriented crusades. This is at best wrong. At worst, it is a lie. I find that some of Andalus's choices of words in his screeds would not have been mine. For example, I would have substituted "oppressive" for "premisrepresentation" and "censorious" for "interdestructiveness."

Andalus's new definition of "unconstitutionality" is clearly in disagreement with his grungy, primitive memoranda, but given the way things are these days we must remember that I cannot believe how many actual, physical, breathing, thinking people have fallen for Andalus's subterfuge. I'm completely stunned. Andalus's eccentricity is surpassed only by his vanity and his vanity is surpassed only by his empty theorizing. (Remember his theory that his opinions represent the opinions of the majority

General Chatter - The Boozer / The Birthday Thread
« on: December 21, 2008, 01:30:10 PM »
Here, then, is the thread where we shall wish one another many happy returns of the day.

Today is CN2's birthday, so Happy Birthday CN2!

I thought it might be useful if we built up a list of the varying relationships between all the characters you can recruit to your party. I don't know what use it will be, but its something to do in this lonely M&B forum.

This is only based on those I have come across, and that I can remember.


Alayen (Vaegir)
Likes: Ymira
Dislikes: Nizar, Marnid

Artimenner (Rhodok)
Likes: Lezalit
Dislikes: Jeremus

Bahestur (Khergit)
Likes: Rolf
Dislikes: Katrin

Borcha (Khergit)
Likes: Marnid
Dislikes: Klethi, Deshavi

Bunduk (Rhodok)
Likes: Katrin

Firentis (Swadian)
Likes: Jeremus
Dislikes: Katrin, Nizar

Jeremus (Rhodok)
Likes: Firentis
Dislikes: Artimenner, Rolf

Lezalit (Geroian)
Likes: Artimenner
Dislikes: Ymira

Marnid (Geroian)
Likes: Borcha
Dislikes: Alayen, Baheshtur,

Nizar (Khergit?)
Likes: Matheld
Dislikes: Alayen, Firentis

Rolf (Foreign)
Likes: Baheshtur
Dislikes: Jeremus, Deshavi


Deshavi (Unspecified/Nord)
Likes: Klethi
Dislikes: Rolf, Borcha

Katrin (Swadian)
Likes: Bunduk
Dislikes: Baheshtur, Firentis

Klethi (?)
Likes: Deshavi
Dislikes: Borcha

Matheld (Nord)
Likes: Nizar

Ymira (Swadian?)
Likes: Alayen
Dislikes: Nizar, Lezalit

I have probably missed someone out, and I know for certain not all the relationships are here. I will add more if I remember, and the same to you people. Fill the gaps! ;)

Mount and Blade Discussion - Sargoth Town Square / Taxes
« on: October 03, 2008, 02:57:35 AM »
What would happen if I were to keep taxes after collecting them?

Because it occurred to me, after gathering the taxes from Reydavan, that I had about 7000 denar in my hand. Not only did that mean I had to be extra careful of outlaws, but I realised I could, if I wanted to be unscrupulous, spend it on a nice new bit of armour. King Yaro-whatsit wouldn't be too happy, I imagine, but what would actually happen?

Total War Mods - The Engineer's Shed / The Additional Unit Pack
« on: August 09, 2008, 12:31:52 PM »
I bring greeting from the heavens, my brethren.
I also brought my little friend...

That's right, the Additional Unit Pack Version 1.1 is now available for download.

This mod for RTW 1.5 adds 23 new units to the game, using mostly original textures and models. It aims to fill gaps in unit rosters, giving factions access to units they did not have before. It uses mod:switch so it will not affect your original game files.
The excellent unit cards were made by Private Clark.

1.1 is only being released as a patch which fixes bugs, adds a few new skins, and tweaks a few units. If you have not downloaded version 1.0, you must do this first.

Note that this is version 1.1. Another version with plenty more new units may be up soon.

I am open to any feedback, on faults, balancing, suggestions, even spelling mistakes. Just do not come blabbering to me about historical accuracy. As a historian myself, I am aware of how apocryphal most of these units are. AUP presents a 'what if' situation.

What if the Parthians had developed an elite core of heavy infantry?
What if the Britons had utilised cavalry to a greater extent?
What if the Greeks had used horse archers as a counter to those they faced?

But enough of my rambling, you can download this at Filefront with the following link:

Or take a look at these screenshots:

Soem of the finest archers in the known world: Poeni Archers.

Poeni Legionaries (Old skin) taking on Roman Elephants.

Macedonian Hypaspists, waiting...

...for the clash.

The Thracian Swordsmen move on to the Numidian Spearmen and Royal Guards.

Gothic Spearmen in the thick of it with Noble Spears (Old skin).

We are Borg Cataphract Spearmen!

Backed up by the doughty Persian Archers.

Here come the Romans! Equites Patricii chase down Heavy Spearmen, with Auxiliary Cavalry in the background.

Oh, is that all? Well get on and download it then, lazy, and see them for yourself!

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