RP: Spanish Battles

[Arnelos]

Ok, this requires a little bit of introduction.

Before the start of the war, Togas and I asked all of the members of RP Team to make lists of all of the major members of their households and where they are during the war. The idea I had was that every time one of our characters was involved in or at least present for a battle, we could write stories about that character or multiple characters present. If a character was attached to a unit killed off in battle, we could decide whether the character dies and thus write an appropriate story along with taking care of any necessary changes in titles and responsibilities as the members of a household die off.

The main idea is that it would give us something to do while we were getting hacked away by a 2-on-1 alliance and it just might provide some form of less irritating entertainment for the public forum.

So, anyhow, History Guy is the one who's really done this so far.

Since I'm the first one with a character to actually DIE because he was attached to one of the units killed by ND this past turn, here's my first stab at trying to write a story about this stuff.

As other members of the team are involved in situations and if their characters die, some or many may do the same.

I hope at least someone enjoys my feable attempt at story telling.

[Arnelos]

The Battle of Zaragosa

In the tenth year of our lord, the infidel Neu Demogypticans came to the holy city of Zaragosa with all the cruel and heinous might of their evil empire. A truly monstrous army of their Ansar warriors rode upon a fateful day to the holy city and prepaired to assualt its fortifications.

However, unlike the other cities which the mighty infidel armies had previously assaulted in Spain, Zaragosa was at least moderately well garrisoned. Not a very large garrison, but certainly a capable one for its size. The situation would certainly have been far more dire for Zaragosa had General Dejon of the King's Army not wisely consolidated the meager garrisons of Santiago and Zaragosa together into Zaragosa while gifting Santiago to our Stormian allies. Even so, the foul armies of the heinous Neu Demogypticans greatly outnumbereda and outclassed those defending Christiandom that day.

Within the holy walls of the city on his deathbed lay Duke Aidun Cian, Lord Chamberlain of the House of Lords. Deathly ill for the past several years and unable to tend to his lands, the responsibility might have fallen to his younger brother. However, Senor Diomingo Cian was serving as the Spanish Ambassador to Legoland and had not yet been recalled from that assignment when Duke Aidun fell deathly ill. So it was that Aidun Cian the Younger, an 11 year old boy, was the only heir to the Dukedom of Zaragosa able to stand upright that day.

So it was that Duke Dejon, General of the King's Army, had given command of the garrison to his relative Senor Joseph Dejon and his lietenant, Senor Miguel Clemente, nephew of the famous Senor Francisco Clemente, the Special Representative of Spain to Spain's Stormian Allies. Miguel, an able-bodied man in his early 30s, though he had long undergone training to fight in war due to his rank in Spanish society, was in his heart a man of mercy and peace. From the time he was a small boy, his elders had pressed down upon him his responsibility as a man of noble rank to learn the ways of war and of the killing of his fellow man for the protection of Spain. But even then, he had desired none of this.

Miguel was, first and foremost, a highly religious man. From the time of his childhood, he had always been deeply spiritual, contemplative, and introspective. It was difficult even for his parents to even fully understand his private and deeply spiritual nature. Where Miguel had always found his outlet was in prayer, typically prayers of confession. As Miguel developed into an adolescent and eventually man, he came to accept his role in Spanish society and chose to serve Spain by becoming a leader of other men in battle, but he remained a deeply religious and humble man who seemed fixated with his need to atone for his sins and transgressions against god.

That day in Zaragosa, standing atop the walls of the holy city amid the papal banners of the Crusades, Miguel had a mix of emotions. He was proud to be fighting for Spain, prouder still to be fighting in defense of god's one and only true church. The pride felt at being a holy crusader truly could not be matched. Even so, he had the pang of regret for the position in which fate had placed him. He knew this day that he would oversee the death of many men, good men, both Christian and even infidel. Why was this slaughter necessary, he wondered, and why was it necessary that he should be one of those to direct it?

Also present that day atop the walls of the holy city of Zaragosa was Miguel's younger cousin, Antonio. Antonio, youngest son of the famous Senor Francisco Clemente, was the commanding officer of the Order of the Blood of Christ. A younger man, in his mid 20s, Antonio was brash and young, at times even foolish. He had always been a loud and perhaps even obnoxious child, though possessing a quit wit and a delightful sense of humor. He had largely accepted his obligation to learn the arts of war in stride, as with many things in his life, and while he took his studies of the art as seriously as he took anything in life, those around him seemed always concerned that he lacked the proper gravity generally exhibited by Spanish nobles trained to serve in war. The start of the war and the invasion of the infidel forces of the Neu Demogypticans had done much to dampen young Antonio's spirits, however. Though still a bright and amicable young man, he was nowhere nearly as cheery as his normal self.

Atop the battlements that day, Miguel was worried for his men, worried for Zaragosa, worried for Spain, but also worried for his cousin Antonio. But as the infidels began the first of their many assaults against the walls of the holy city that day, Miguel and General Joseph Dejon knew they had no time for such worries, they had to concentrate upon the defeat of the enemy.

The infidels came in wave after wave, scaling the walls of the city and battling its defenders upon the battlements, both sides fighting as fiercely as men can ever be expected to fight in a holy war. Countless men fell even in only the opening hour of the struggle and yet hundreds upon hundreds more were to die before the day was through. While the infidel invaders were as fierce and cruel as their repuations had lead the men of Spain to believe, the pikemen and the infantry of Spain fought desperately, valiantly, in the name of their homes, their wives, their lords, their king, their pope, and their god. They were fierce, they were brutal, they were magnificent. Each man died having spent the full measure of his remaining moments in this cruel world defending his homeland with every fiber of his being.

As the day wore on and men, both Christian and infidel, died all over the battlements of the holy city of Zaragosa, something amazing took place. The infidels, having suffered truly grievous and unexpected losses across their many hordes of Ansar warrior units throughout the battle, began to falter. It was then that the ancient Spamish Mitchell, present in the city that day, rose the papal banner above the Order of the Sacred Name and charged across the battlements, killing countless Ansar warriors in his path. Miguel, looking to capitalize upon this development and to stand with the brave Spamish Mitchell in this time, charged the what little remained of his Order of the Cross and fought one last and desperate fight agianst the Ansar warriors on the south wall while General Joseph Dejon was commanding the counter-attack on the west wall.

As Spamish Mitchell charged on into a thicket of Ansar Warriors to drive them back off of the walls of the city, it was then that a blow struck Senor Miguel Clemente. Antonio, not far away on the south wall, saw his cousin fall and ran with what remained of the Order of the Blood of Christ to protect the body of his kin. Fighting fiercely alongside the noble and ever-brave Spamish Mitchell, they battled off the Ansar hordes at last and sent them into a full rout from the walls of the holy city.

With a fullscale rout of the infidels in progress, Spamish Mitchell ran on to lead the remaining Spanish forces driving the Ansar warriors off of the walls of the city while Antonio dropped down to attend to his cousin.

Miguel Clemente, a man of peace, forced to fight in a war he hated, now lay partially upright with blood all over him upon the battlements of the holy city of Zaragosa. Antonio, tears in his eyes, clenched the hand of his older cousin and asked him what he wished. Miguel, caughing and growing weak, called for a priest for his last rights and while this was taking place, he clenched his cross to his chest and gave his own prayer. A prayer for the salvation of Spain, the salvation of this city and its noble people, his brave men who had fought and died with honor that day in the name of their lord, and even for the dead of his enemy.

He then turned to Antonio, tears also in his own eyes, and told him to carry on and fight for the defense of this brave city and the memory of the brave men who gave their lives for Spain and the Church. Victory was theirs that day and many a man had had to die to see the Ansar hordes so humiliated as to rout from a battle they might have otherwise won. But in such dark times as these, Spain must take whatever victories it could. Miguel told Antonio to give his respects to their fathers before he closed his eyes for one final and silent prayer with his cross clutched to his chest before passing away from this cruel world.

It was thus that Miguel Clemente, man of peace, passed from this world and Antonio Clemente had the responsibility for helping General Joseph Dejon with the defense of the city of Zaragosa from the vile enemy. After the priest had finished his his duties and the body of Miguel was taken away, Antonio gave out a cry, raised the papal banner, and charged with the remainder of all of his strength.

It was then that he came around the wall and met up with General Joseph Dejon, who was leading the glorious and elite Knights of St. John, low in numbers though they had become, against the remnants of the Ansar warriors upon the west wall. It was then that Antonio related to Joseph how Miguel had fallen and the bravery of the men in the field. Joseph Dejon, a much older man experienced in the horrors of war, turned toward the young Antonio and said that Miguel would not be forgotten, nor any of the brave men who fell that day. Spain would fight on and at least for the men remaining, the walls of Zaragosa had held that day for them and the infidels were routed.

It was later that Senor Joseph Dejon conferred with his new lietenant, Antonio Clemente, about the orders they had received from his relative, General Dejon, in Pamplona...

(note: the continued story of the heroic acts of Spamish Mitchell at the Battle of Zaragosa will be told by mrmitchell... others may comment as well for their own characters)

[History Guy]

Well... I liked it!

[Rhothaerill]

Finally had a chance to read this. Good job Arnelos.

[UnOrthOdOx]

Cool!

When I get time Ill get back to writing about my unit as well. Look forward to it..

Hey, could you tell me where the MrWIA unit is? Im hunting for him

[Admiral PJ]

Very good, and no mention of Squid either.

How is this RP war going? I haven't seen whats been happening with this game since our civ Lux Invicta proved it wasn't so invincible.

It should be very interesting doing a demo game with the new Conquests XP too, having slavers making each others units into workers.

I wonder how this demo game will finish, dominatino or conquest might be possible, maybe it will go on till 2050!! i mean 2050 in real world time

Maybe i'll try and join RP or some other team.

Admiral PJ:
Celtic Legion Centurion.

[Donegeal]

[Evil Voice]

One down....

[/Evil Voice]


Seriously, I love hearing RP stories. Please keep writting.

[Darekill]

Hmm don't you worry we are working hard to provide you with more soon

[Master Zen]

Great story Arnelos

Let's see what the other warring teams end up writing... as for GoW, we'll be so happy after killing one unit, any unit, even a conscript warrior that we'll probably write a 2 page epic about it

[LzPrst]

Colonel Domingo Nuñez de Vigo, the commander of the Vigo garrison and all military units in the Vigo region stands on the hastily prepared battlements of the city, angrily observing the enemy embark from their ships and establishing a camp right outside the city limits.
How dare they! If only there were some real soldiers here he’d charge out this minute and they’d all know not to step unto Spanish soil. But only a skeleton defence remains. The heavy infantry stationed here earlier has been ordered to the front lines elsewhere. Left are a group of pikemen, local militia given some training with a spear. None of these men have seen real combat. How am I to defend the west, he mumbles, left with only a few watchmen and a bunch of volunteering farm boys. Luckily reinforcements are on the way from the south… And there’s always my cousin Edgar with his Iron Cross Guard, protectors of the Iron mines of Vigo. Perhaps it is time to recall them to help with the cities’ defences, the Iron mines be damned, if General Dejon wanted a supply of iron he would’ve sent more troops to bolster our defences. These children can’t hold the city for long if the enemy attacks.
Colonel! I have a message from Capitan Edgar, sir! A weary man on horseback has just arrived at the newly-built defences. Give it here! the characteristic whisky-cracked voice of the colonel rebounds through the camp. Are they finally coming? He tears the paper from the young messengers quivering hands and rips it open.

Columns of dust. Large number, headed this way, moving slowly, probably not cavalry. Cpt. ENdV.

Strange, all information about the enemy indicates that they have appeared from out of the wind, riding lighting fast horses, a great horde of them. Not slow-moving infantry. The attack must come any day now. The colonel orders a group of scouts to investigate the approaching army, then returns to his tent. There he opens a bottle of fine Pamplonian whisky and pours a glass. I mustn’t drink too much, he reminded himself, emptying the glass quickly and putting away the bottle. Those reinforcements better arrive soon…

The following day the scouts returned. –Colonel, Sir! It’s not an army, just a large number of refugees from Santiago, sir. Santiago had fallen a few weeks ago. A curse on all foolish civilians, there’s no room for them here, food supplies are already strained due to the preparations in the event of a siege. The arab invaders from the sea weren’t doing much, they were still building a base camp. Perhaps there was still time… The colonel’s throat was feeling very dry, the waiting made him thirsty, inspecting troops in the dry streets and dusty training grounds made it worse. I’ll be in my tent if anything happens. he croaked to one of his officers.

Just a glass, that would be all. He filled his glass, looking curiously at the bottle, there was hardly anything left. Someone must have stolen a few jigs. It didn’t matter now, he sipped the harsh liquid and smiled. If they could sneak into his tent and steal whisky while he was sleeping there they had to be damn good. The colonel emptied his glass and refilled it with the remains of the bottle. He’d have to make arrangements for those refugees eventually…

The following weeks were very stressing, the refugees were flooding the city, his uncle, the Viscount wasn’t being very helpful either, dabbling with the other city politicians where to place the new city hall, easily ignoring a war was on. He’d ordered the more well-off people of the city to take in at least two refugees each, this meant splitting families, and stepping on the toes of the rich and mighty, but if anyone dared complain he’d kick them out of the city in direction the arab encampment.
Why weren’t they doing anything!? They just stayed there, training, scouting and avoiding all signs of trouble. They must be waiting for something, they’d probably attack the very day they’d see the first riders from the north, but there was no sign of a great horde, yet… The waiting was driving him insane, he felt it. And he still hadn’t discovered who had been stealing his scotch. By now he’d run out of his fine Pamplona brand and resorted to cheaper local sorts. If it was to disappear like that, why spend all his wages on it.

Summer had turned to fall, and still nothing. The refugees had finally settled in and were less of a nuisance, but the city was still overcrowded, and there was no food stored in the granary this month. At least there’d be some excess next month, the farmers were about to start the harvest. But would it be enough for the winter if they had to wait out an enemy army?
Of course not, but maybe they wouldn’t come until next year. Then the reinforcements would be here, there’d be enough food, maybe the damn arabs outside the coast would run out of food and surrender. Thinking like a child, again, he reprimanded himself for his foolish hopes. In real life it didn’t happen like that. Santiago, now Leon had fallen. It would only be a matter of time, unless those bloody reinforcements showed up soon. He found himself pouring another glass of scotch. I’m drinking too much, he muttered, I’d better be careful…

The cold of winter was approaching, there was snow in the mountains now, in a few weeks it’d come to the city, then an attack would be out of the question. The arabs weren’t used to the cold, he’d seen from an outpost placed on the mountains how they kept indoors, if they stayed any longer they’d have to build permanent housing, he thought. Colonel de Vigo! Turning to face a man on horseback wearing royal colours riding slowly into camp with two companions, his heart leaped, this must be the reinforcements. -Message from high command, colonel. the tall bearded man dismounted and bowed. His clothing was ragged leather, but it was lined with silk, now ruined from sweat and hard riding. Just a royal courier. No commander, no soldiers to bolster defences. He received the letter, broke the seal of the General and read. His eyes narrowed then he threw the paper on the ground. "WHAT IS THIS!? MADNESS!!! I will not accept these orders!"
–You shall or you will be relieved of command, I have the authority to replace you with any other capable man in this garrison.
"Has the general lost his mind!" the colonel screamed, soldiers had stopped to look at their raging commander, eyes protruding and spit flying from his lips by every word. –Do not cause further embarrassment for yourself, colonel. You have your orders, we will ride to inform your cousin on the mountain as well, these orders stand.
The messenger remounted and beckoning to his companions rode out of there. No reinforcements!? It was not possible! The colonel was close to losing his temper. Not in front of the men, he thought, charging across the grounds to his tent he drew his sword, swearing in a snarl he smashed his oak chair in half with a single blow. He opened another bottle and filled a glass, hands trembling.
Fools, damn fools. he muttered.

High in the mountains above, Edgar Nuñez de Vigo had received his orders. A squat broad-shouldered man with his long dark hair hanging in a pony tail, he seemed like a wild boar. Short, powerful and a slightly protruding jaw made the image complete. His men used to call him the Boar, he thought it silly, but never discouraged it. His fury in battle was well known, once he had chased off a band of marauders single-handedly. There had been six of them and only two made it off. He had heard the story from someone else later, though according to the corporal there had been thirty men and none had survived. It was all amusing in a way, but now these tale-telling kids would be involved in real war, against well-trained soldiers. Chasing petty criminals and flirting with miners’ daughters didn’t really constitute combat training. He felt sorry for the boys, those of more experience trained constantly, trying to prepare the younger for what was soon to come. Especially one young boy, so nervous that he could not keep down his meals, was running back and forth from the latrine. Oh well, at least we’ll have the advantage of our defensive works and knowledge of the mountains on our side.

Capitaaan! one of the scouters came running like the hounds of hell were behind him. –the, the, *wheeze*, the arabs are moving. Strange, he thought, there had still been no sign of riders, why on earth were they coming now?

In the city total chaos had ensued, the arabs had charged the battlements with little difficulty, and only half the garrison was there, the other half was stationed on the other side of the city in case the horde should show up. Sergeant Eduardo was doing his best to keep the enemy out, but having no real walls and being outnumbered 2 to 1 made the task near impossible. The colonel was nowhere to be seen and the boys fighting were all terrified. A curved scimitar slashed his face and he was blinded by his own blood covering his eyes.

On the other side of the city the other division was trying to push through throngs of panicked people packed in the narrow streets. By the time they arrived at the other garrison the arabs had finished off the last of the resistance, they were tired, but bloodlust shone in their eyes. The arrival of more men surprised the attackers and for a few minutes it looked as they were about to retreat. Then their leader rallied his men and drove them forth. A few minutes later the remaining defenders had retreated to the training grounds. The enemy was everywhere, throwing torches and attacking anyone in their way. Stumbling out of his tent the colonel shouted for order, but the look of their commander piss drunk was not an encouraging sight. The very second a bearded man came running into the camp, one of the tougher soldiers charged at him spear ready and skewered him only to be cut down seconds later trying to free his pike. The drunken colonel stared in disbelief at the scene, then stormed at the enemy while drawing his sword. He slashed at a nearby foe and missed pathetically, the blood soaked warrior looked at him then sliced his head clean off. The last of the Vigo Guard turned and fled, they were shown little mercy.

Watching the rising columns of smoke from the city, Edgar de Nuñez stands shocked, how could this happen? He knew the defenders were capable of holding their ground, his cousin had always been a strong man and a good leader. Had not reinforcements arrived, surely his cousin would have called them to his aid if the enemy was strong enough to take the city. Vigo was more important than the mines, why hadn’t they been summoned to assist the defenders if there were no reinforcements? His mind raced remembering the courier who had ordered him to not leave the mines regardless of what would happen below. The capitan thought the arabs might try to lure them off the mountain, but if this was the lure… Burning Vigo? The fools in high command have abandoned us, they have betrayed Vigo and all its people. Damn them! The Boar unhinged his blade from his back, it was shaped like a thin triangle, one side sharp, the other blunt. It was a powerful sword made for a powerful man, similar to an elongated axeblade. The miners were all gathered around watching the scene below, noone saw him walk deep into the main shaft. In the gloom he found one of the support columns, they were made of strong wood taken from the jungles near Santiago. With a scream he swung his enormous weapon and smashed the thick block of wood. Walking a short distance he destroyed another, and another, he felt the tons of stone above him groan and began walking towards the small light made by the sun setting, cutting support beams every few meters. Then he ran the last thirty meters as the cave collapsed behind him. If high command had wanted the mines, they should have protected the city better. They should know better than to value iron higher than the lives of thousands of Spanish citizens. Now no one would have the damn mines and the capitan cared for nothing but getting his men out of there alive, he'd have to destroy the roads and block the passes, then hide in the mountains until his men were ready to leave. Then he would have his revenge, on the arabs, on high command, on General Dejon himself.

[Donegeal]

Ooooo! Desintion in the ranks!!!!

Great story!

[BigFree]

I'm glad the public gets to see some of the talent we have on our team!

[nbarclay]

Fantastic stories!

[Beta]

Great reading! More! More!

[mrmitchell]

Unfortunately, as you might have already speculated, Spamish Mitchell, the world's oldest man, the last connection to the Ancient Age, the man that gave you the Squid Wars, has passed away. He was killed in battle. We have attempted to peice together the battle as how it happened on the field, but his heroism has already turned Spamish into a hero. Even the most conservative of stories puts him on a great pedestal, to be glorified by all.

Spamish surveyed the landscape of the battlefield. A formerly nice plain had already been ripped apart by the continuous wear of horses and the whole Earth, it seemed, had a naseous smell of body parts to it. His men, all young and not yet completely tainted by the horrors of war, waited anxiously for orders.

Across the field, just in eyesight, Spamish saw an Ansar gut his spear into a nurse who was attempting to at least give the surviving wounded a blanket so that they would not be cold. A woman, running into the field of battle to help soldiers! Spamish did not know whether to be shocked at that or the fact that the Neu Demogyptican soldier didn't care if she was a combatant or just a citizen wanting to help. While the revulsion was still coursing through Spamish's mind, an arrow landed in the Ansar's eye slot, upon which his blood spilled out upon the field and then he fell off his horse to lay helpless--there were no more people helping the wounded. A shriek of agony roared across the field.

Spamish looked at the sun. It was about noon. The Ansar Hordes had started to become tired already, and it was showing. They did not strike their spears with vigor; their arrows were more guessed than aimed. However, the Arabian commanders did not pause their assault; instead, they scaled it up. More Ansar units were brought into play.

Spamish saw his fellow Spaniards desperately trying to hold back the Arab fiends. It was not an easy task. Although archers sniping men out from pre-built hills were supporting the Spanish defence, it was not enough to counter the massive assault. Spamish had to bring the Order of the Sacred Name into battle. "Men," he said, wiping a tear from his eye, "We're going to have to fight. However, know that you are fighting the good fight. We are not only defending Spain, but we are defending Christianity. The salvation of the world might very possibly depend on how we fight today." With that, a strong rallying cry was heard.

The Order of the Sacred Name immediately had an enemy to fight. A strong formation of Ansars was galloping along; the men held their maces and assorted killing devices and then, on Spamish's word, rushed towards the attackers with a cry that had not been heard in the world before.

The Ansars, at first, stood in dumb fear, unable to move. Then, as their senses slowly kicked in, they all attempted to turn 'round their horses and run like hell. However, their horses would just sit there and angrily snort at them. So, they started jumping off them and running, for our own infantry were charging them like the dickens. Finally, as the first Arabs were slaughtered, all hell broke loose. Infidels were running about everywhere, screaming, wetting their trousers--their horses clogged the field and occasionally ran a few of them over. However, God protected the Crusaders from any harm. Not a single man from the Order of the Sacred Name was wounded. Eventually, as things settled down, prisoners were taken and the bodies of the dead Arabs were picked up. Spamish ordered that they be returned to the Demogyptican generals through a neutral party so that they may be buried by their own customs.

However, this was not the last of the fighting the day would see. Less than two hours before the sun would set, a heavily equipped division of Ansars came at us. This was nothing like the last unit we faced. They all had the look in their eyes as though the Devil himself were in each and every one of them, and they all let out a bloodcurdling, Ungodly roar. (Hey! They ripped a page out of our book!)

The Order of the Sacred Name quickly mobilised and prayed for the best. At the front was Spamish himself, disregarding his age and getting ready to kick some Arab ass. The Order charged at the Ansars, with such a fury fiftyfold as had been witnessed earlier today. However, this group had been warned about the psychological warfare and held their ground. Eventually they started a full run toward us, and we toward them; the two sides met and the ground immediately became littered with bodies, both Arab and Spanish. Spamish plummeted his mace into the faceplate of an Arab; the mere force of the blow crushed in his helmet. Spamish may have disabled as many as five hundred heathens in this way--we can not know for sure, as his tale has already made him a hero of local folklore only years after, and conservative versions are always at least 100. We can only know that he was chopping through them like a fine, tender Squid.

Then, as the Ansar formation finally started to retreat, a young Arab laid low on his horse, designing that an arrow land on Spamish. He carefully took aim, and, with a quick release, the weapon pierced into Spamish's chest. He fell from the battlefield, and immediately several Spanish men dropped their weapons and ran forward to him. Spamish had not but at most a minute left in his life; his shirt slowly soaked in blood. He told the first person to come to him to continue fighting for God, and then let his family know that he loved them...then, with his last remaining breaths, he carefully picked up a sword, took every ounce of strength that had been left in his body, and threw it into his slayer's heart. "Goodbye," he said to the small group of men that had been protecting him from more wounding. As his eyes closed, he smiled, and looked as though at an inner peace. His head slowly lowered to the ground, and all the surrounding soldiers started crying as they took his body up and brought it back to an army tent. They walked through the battle, but no one dare attacked them. Slowly word started to pass around the Arab infidels that Spamish Mitchell had been slain. The oldest man in the world, the last surviving citizen of the Ancients, was gone. The whole battlefield was silent for a second. Then, with a new gloom upon the day, sluggish fighting resumed. No one could say they hadn't seen the atrocities of war take place.

Eventually, the day's battle concluded. Both sides suffered heavier losses than recent history recalled. The plain upon which the battle took place was astrewn with body parts, and the ground had a red tint from all the blood shed on that day.

War has no winners. In war, both the loser and the victor lose immeasurable life. A generation's peace is snatched away from it by plotting officials of their own or another land.

Also, during the night, an unarmed Arab delegation delivered a small packet of flowers to the tent where Spamish was being held. Even infidels can have a heart.

Rumours say that Spamish had written an autobiography of himself before the Great War began, but it cannot be found anywhere in Spain. His homes in Sevilla and Madrid have not revealed its location, and no where in any of the embattlements of Zaragoza lies a copy. The search continues, however.

[Beta]

....sniff... sniff... my keyboard is soaked in tears.

Goodbye Spamish.. goodbye...

[mrmitchell]

Originally posted by History Guy, in the Private Forum, Referring to an Ancient Prophecy About Spamish's Age
(A gasp in the dark chambers beneath the palace...thousands of files and old boxes line the labyrinth, lit only by a few torches...the walls are made of earth, and one man stands alone in the gloom fingering the ancient books...)

The prophecy!

Spamish Mitchell is destined to live for many thousands of years and to die in Spain's greatest hour...

What does this mean?!

WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?!!!

Victory......or death?

(a hollow moan shoots through the labyrinth...)

[mrmitchell]

Memoirs of Spamish Mitchell Found!
The Introduction to Spamish Mitchell's autobiography has finally been found...it was hidden in a small box under his desk in an old, abandoned building that had once been used as the old Spam Brand office. How it got there, no one knows, but it included with it a small note reading "West," hastily scrawled across the page. The handwriting on the note matches Spamish's.

It is believed that the autobiography was written on the eve of the War. How it got in the old offices, we do not know.

The Memoirs of Spamish Mitchell
Businessman, Farmer, Noble of Spain

Introduction
It's been some ride, yes it has. Now, on the eve of war, with who I am not so sure of, I decide I must write my memoirs and put in stone (paper) what is my story. My memory has bits of forgetfulness (being the world's oldest person is not exactly a good thing for your mind) and there are probably some parts where I embellish, but you cannot blame me for glorifying if at all possible any story so intertwined with the history of the Great Nation, Spain.

I do not wish for people to awe at me once I have left this earthly world, for I am only a mere mortal; we should revere the God that made it all possible for us. His existence in the minds of the world is in danger, because it is only in the mind where religion exists when it comes down to the end. It is not so much as whether He did create the world--there are many foreigners who beleive otherwise--so much as you believe in an upper being to give you support and a reason to live. The knowledge that there is a better life in the end for those who give their lives to the Glory of God is the driving force behind good in all of the world. All horrors that plague us can be traced to a lack of faith.

Oh, wait, you want to read about me instead of God, don't you? Well, go right ahead and do so. Just remember what I have told you about Him, because it is good for your soul if you live in His vision. (I'm talking to you, unwashed foreign heathens. )

I don't really have much more to say in an "Introduction" and should get on with the story...grab some fried Squid and sit back and relax, it's going to be a good read.

(And oh yeah, one last thing--support the legacy of the Spanish delicacy of Squid! Learn to make some. Cook it up for your families today. If this is the last thing that Spain contributes to the world, all will be well. They say pure happiness can be found in the soft, moist center of a Squid.)

It's a light-hearted start, to say the least.

[Nuclear Winter]

Pamplona, Circa 90 AD
Commander Winterius rushed from place to place, from fort to fort, from battlement to battement, ralying the troops and giving orders for teh best placement of teh catapults, of the trebuchets, telling one stray engineer were to mount his boiling oil trap, showing how to best place the archers, teaching the peasants how to form the now famous ´´Shoulder of Pikes´´ formation, training the Swiss corps on command abilities... not a single moment would he stop. At the end of the day, when he finnaly sent out the night scouts forward, he finally managed to sit on a table in a cheap inn at the southernmost part of the city and have a beer. Most of the dwellers of the inn were soldiers, since that area had been evacuated for better allowing the moving of troops and the preparing of defensive apparatus. The citizens of that area were mostly in small tents mounted in Pamplona´s central square,were the mighty statue of King Togas the first laid. This statue was old and covered by mold in some parts already, but it only added to the air of power and greatness of it. It was like a father overlooking Pamplona, and his resolute eyes looking toward the gates were saying that none should pass. Winterius finished his beer and had the idea to start a talk with some of the soldiers to see how was the morale in the city. He in fact felt sorry for so many young faces, many of whom would die without ever experiencing true love, without having the joy to see their children grow, many fine young men who were faced such a terrible challenge before them... He aproached a young soldier, named Juan. He had been enlisted as an infantry soldier some weeks ago, and he seemed anxious to participate in a battle. Winterius noticed by this that he was yet to see real combat, for al who are eager to go to war are those who never faced the hell that a battlefield is. Yet, he admired his courage.
´´Hello , young man, how are you ? Feeling ready for battle?´´
The young men quickly jumped form the table and payed continence to Commander Winterius
´´Sure yes Sir!!!´´
´´ No need for that right now´´ - smiled Winterius - ´´I am here merely as an old man having his beer´´. The young men sat down, and started to talk to Winterius. He seemed anxious but nonetheless, proud and determined.
´´So, how old are you kid?´´
´´Pardon me sir, I am not a kid anymore, I am already 17!´´
Winterius contained a smile, and continued:
´´Oh well, mr young man, for how long have you been in training?´´
´´10 months and a half, sir, I am being trained to be an officer´´
´´Great, great. How do you feel about the battle?´´
´´I feel like I can kill a thousand infidels, sir!!´´
With a lower voice, Winteirus asked him : ´´you are aware that you may not return alive, aren´t you?´´
´´Yes sir´´ Answered the young man witha resolute voice´´It matters not anymore sir. I don´t care if I die here, all that matters is that I will kill many before I go, and that I keep His Highness and His Holyness alive to continue the fight. And I am sure I can make them pay every single drop of spannish blood they shed!´´
After a bit more talking, Winterius left the inn. He had a duty to those boys, more than they had a duty to him. He was already on his 40´s, it didn´t matter if he´d die or live, but those young men were too young to die. He had to do something to save Spain. He had his brave Paladins of the Holy Cross on his side, who were a mobile force who could very well decide the battle. He had the trust of his superiors... but above that, he had a plan, a plan that could save Spain.
It was with these toughts in mind that Pablo Winterius walked his way through the battlements to the Siege Workshop of doctor Pinch.