Our Sverker never ceases to learn.
I'm looking forward to seeing more of Sif and what the three Norns will get up to
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I'm looking forward to seeing more of Sif and what the three Norns will get up to
To be fair, his deduction makes a sort of half-baked sense in CK3, where the hairstyle is chosen during childhood and generally doesn't change later in life.
But we shouldn't give him too much credit; since that's the case for men too, concluding that it is because of women's primitive brains just shows he hasn't given the matter much thought and is letting his prejudice show.
OTOH, it also shows that he has been showing attention to the hairstyles of at least the four named women, and to Sif as well, proving that he does pay attention to women sometimes. So good job, High King! Every day, in every way, you get better and better.
Hardcore politics!
Since this has turned into much more of a soap opera than originally planned, I've been thinking of adding a "may contain nuts and traces of ribaldry" disclaimer in the first post.
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I had to wash my brain with soap after #140. Will Viola be converting Denmark to Adamite? Do the CK3 baby limits apply to CK2? My current ruler got to 13 and may have had a few 'oops' before I got my hands on him at age 25, also recently saw a lesbian with 9. Thanks for the info
CK3 baby limits do not apply to CK2 as far as I recall, but it is a long time since I played CK2, so I might be wrong.
Viola is a genius, totally sane, definitely not a witch, and her professed goal is becoming the greatest human breeder of all time using Sverker as base. Having everybody run around naked and freezing in winter does not seem to advance this goal, so... probably not.
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This AAR keeps giving. And just look at Denmark, how big she is! Surely the Pope and his minions shiver, and seeing how we keep talking about the High Priestess of Isfahan, the Caliph will too.
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Ah, well, Nikolai, you know how it is. I have a hard time not falling back on old habits.This AAR keeps giving. And just look at Denmark, how big she is! Surely the Pope and his minions shiver, and seeing how we keep talking about the High Priestess of Isfahan, the Caliph will too.
Your post made me remember a bit of doggerel I wrote some years back. Originally intended as a teasing reply to some long-ago discussion about how Crusader Kings, or possibly Victoria (EDIT: Hah, I recall. More recent than that. Imperator: Rome), wasn't a map-painter (which is nuts; all PDS games are map-painters, except airfix dogfighter), I never got around to posting it. But it is still in my archive, and this seems an excellent excuse to use it.
Map Painting Doggerel:
Cyrus was a bit of a hoarder,
so whenever he thought of a border,
his neighbours would groan,
for his wish was well known,
to rule all the lands from the seat of his throne.
Aristotle's pupil was barmy,
he toured the world with an army;
but lacking restraint,
with blood did he paint,
a map that, 'tis said, was ever so quaint.
Caesar was a seasoned campaigner,
so whenever he met a complainer,
he knew what do to,
and ran the man through,
for the painting of maps only blood will do.
From Cyrus to Alex to Caesar,
to live to old age like a geezer,
do what is smartest,
with arguments tartest,
and praising the maps, show respect to the artist.
----
And that's just what the monarchs in Born to Breed: House of the Prophets do!
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The Sverker Diaries, interlude 5
Born to Breed: House of the Prophets
- The Sverker Diaries, Interlude 5 -
- The Sverker Diaries, Interlude 5 -
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 31 - my Wedding Day, addendum
Dear Diary,
I must put this down in writing lest I forget.
After I had written my Diary, I extinguished the final candle and lay down to sleep... But it was not to be. The next thing I remember is pain in my chest and waking to find Sif floating above me in the darkness while pounding my chest with her tiny fists, shouting that Archimedes never accepted mechanical failure as an excuse, and neither would she. And it seemed to me that I heard Iyana whispering “sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof” in my ear.
The world shook as if struck by Thor's hammer, and she was straddling me, and her hands were all over me, searching the darkness for something. Sif, that is. Not Iyana. That would have been stupid.
With a mighty cry of “EUREKA!”, which means, “I found IT!” in Greek, she went on to prove that with a place to sit, a fulcrum, and a firm grip on one end of the lever, she could move the world. Archimedes would have been green with envy. She did it again, and again, and all I could do was instruct her to stop and let me sleep, but she ignored my commands.
Next I recall running around the bed with Sif in hot pursuit, shouting that she just wanted to experience the Archimedes' Screw, while I argued in vain that her crops had received all the irrigation they needed. That was quite strange, even by the standards of my household. So strange, in fact, that my fear fled and I felt a surge of relief as I realized that I was dreaming.
I do NOT beg, and I do NOT run from women. They run from me. A particularly lucid dream was the only explanation, but I had been working hard for weeks for the kingship and Sif had certainly put me through my paces. I am not as young as I used to be. So no wonder I was too exhausted to fend off a nightmare! All I had to do was endure the nightmare until I woke, so I relaxed in my sleep, determined to wait it out and curious what it would come up with next.
“Do your worst”, I told it. And it did.
Suddenly I was drowning in a still lake, and could only save myself by holding on to Sif's floatation devices while being lectured about the buoyancy principle, and all the while I wanted to scream and had no voice, because it was muffled by the warm waters closing in on my head from both sides.
I rather stopped paying attention to it after that.
The nightmare's work was silly, strange, and awful. But mostly silly. I do NOT beg. I do NOT run from women. And I do NOT drown. I am an excellent swimmer. But that's nightmares for you. They make no sense and try to take advantage of your insecurities. Fortunately I have none to speak of, so it had to get creative, and soon enough it gave up and I woke up.
Though come to think of it, the Archimedes references do make warped sense. While my secondary brain was running the show during the night's entertainment, my primary brain must have been thinking of reading up on Isidore of Miletos' edition of Archimedes' Mechanical Curiosities, part of the loot from my great raid on Cordoba, because unless I recall wrongly it has a possible answer to a present difficulty. So in desperation at finding no insecurities, the nightmare used whatever it could find.
So I am writing down the nightmare to remind myself to read Archimedes, and to shake that unnatural feeling of helplessness. Done. That was easy. And now that I have done so, I must sleep. Hopefully I'll dream a better dream this time. Is it too much to ask the gods for a dream of my little witch?
Well, yes, it probably is. But I am Sverker, High King, and I demand of them my due! Respectfully, goes without saying.
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Sorry for getting sidetracked the last four months, but this AAR is now back in business and I have a safe branch of CK3 to run it from. I've also ported the save to work well with Royal Court (so far), but I am at this point not sure which I'll choose to pursue.
Next major chapter to be posted within the week - I might have to split it as it is running 13 pages so far.
Next major chapter to be posted within the week - I might have to split it as it is running 13 pages so far.
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You come back from a six-month break and then immediately knock me out of my chair with this one. It's too early in the morning for me to be laughing so hard! It's so good to have this AAR back. Thanks for making my day!
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Only four months! And you're welcome.You come back from a six-month break and then immediately knock me out of my chair with this one. It's too early in the morning for me to be laughing so hard! It's so good to have this AAR back. Thanks for making my day!
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Dreams like those can induce 'night sweats'. Welcome Home! Four, six, nine; who cares so long as Sverker returns to rule everything (or at least as much the little witch permits).
Finally back in business - and business is good.
Err... considering the past experience with updates, would rather recommend continuing on the patch it started; also the modded nature of the run increases the risks, presumably.
Hopefully it will work if the update-route is going to be the choice.
But if the run collapses (apparently it is still unfinished), forcing a premature end to the AAR, then there will be RIOT
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Yes. Poor Sverker is having a hard time. So little time, so many wives. And so strange ones too. Ah, for the tranquility of a good battle or relaxation at the oar. If anybody wondered what drove men to go a-viking, wonder no more!
Is it too much to ask for anybody remotely normal to enter his life?
Yesss, to think that it is over a year since it started, and I'm only a short way into the second reign. It was intended to be one of the more detailed, but I rather trapped myself with how entertaining Sverker and Viola were to write.Finally back in business - and business is good.
Err... considering the past experience with updates, would rather recommend continuing on the patch it started; also the modded nature of the run increases the risks, presumably.
Hopefully it will work if the update-route is going to be the choice.
But if the run collapses (apparently it is still unfinished), forcing a premature end to the AAR, then there will be RIOT
And then with Russia's invasion of Ukraine, I rather lost my interest in writing the chapters covering Sverker's slavic conquests for a while, as I didn't want real-world atrocities influencing my writing - whether being inspired by them or holding me back from letting Sverker do what he does best, or referencing leaders.
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Oops. Looks like I forgot to post last week's chapter. Coming right up. This week's chapter, on the other hand, just got delayed.
EDIT: Which means I've got the time to revise the heck out of it, and it'll be the better for the effort. So there is that.
EDIT: Which means I've got the time to revise the heck out of it, and it'll be the better for the effort. So there is that.
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The Sverker Diaries, part sixteen
Born to Breed: House of the Prophets
- Chapter the Twentieth: The Sverker Diaries, part sixteen -
the world of 933
- Chapter the Twentieth: The Sverker Diaries, part sixteen -
the world of 933
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 31 - my Wedding Day +1
Dear Diary,
The gods listened! I owe them a sacrifice. I did dream of my little witch!
In the dream we were riding in a forest, on a morning in spring, and the sun's gentle light shining through the canopy shone upon my little witch, and we were talking sweet nonsense, and it was pretty bloody romantic if you ask me, just a man and his wife sharing a wholesome riding trip together without any politics or murders or Great Plan this or Great Plan that, when suddenly we were surrounded by bandits! A lot of bandits.
The biggest baddest bandit of them all threatened me: “Your money or your wife!”
That was an easy one: “That'll be number two. I've got a spare: 17 years old, conventional beauty, hardly used. Her name is Sif, and she's a goer. Shake on it?”
“Sif? You've got to be kidding me. We've all heard of her. I want THAT one,” the bandit said, pointing at Viola, and continued, “I love a girl with spirit!”
My little witch rolled her eyes and told them that now they'd done it, and weren't they a sorry excuse for bandits, but I stopped paying attention as red mist clouded my vision and I took my trusty sword and struck them down and built a mountain of their skulls that reached the sky, and dedicated this, their final apology, to my little witch.
Then we sat by a lake in the forest playing a kissing game while morning turned to noon, and I got drowsy and laid my weary head in her lap. She gently caressed me and chatted about our children and our plans for empire, and I told her something I do not do often enough. That I loved her, and only her, and couldn't live without her, and she called me her silly old bear, and her mighty stallion, and the most valiant champion on life. As I lay there at rest gazing up in those beloved azure eyes, I knew that all was well in the world and that even Valhalla could not compare, and that moments like these were what made life worth living, even were they but dreams. (Even blissed out as I were, there was no doubt in my mind that I was dreaming. That she did not mention the Grand Plan even once was a dead giveaway.)
And then we were swimming in the waters of the lake and we playfully fought in the water the way we did when we were newly married, though these days it is hard to find the time or privacy, and as always Viola fought dirty, and suddenly we were ashore but our clothes had disappeared, and I wanted to look for them, but she got a wicked glint in her eye and asked me to give her a green gown instead, so I took her in my arms and held her tenderly for a moment before carefully laying her on the grass, and it was her turn to gaze lovingly up at me as I descended upon her from above, and a hideous voice out of nowhere screamed, “ARISE IN MIGHT!”, and the sunlight disappeared and Viola vanished with a wail into the darkness and I drifted, bereft of sensation, and suddenly I was lying on sheets rather than grass and I felt the not unpleasant sensation of delicate fingers tracing the scars on my chest, while unbound hair caressed my face.
I thought for a moment my little witch had returned, but the idyllic scene was marred by the gnashing of teeth, a most penetrating sound. How peculiar.
I peeked from under my eyelids, and saw a golden orb hurtling out of a pinkish sky towards my chest to crush me, then retract into the heavens, then fall again. It was a divine yo-yo, and the effect was strangely compelling. I opened them slightly more, and realized my error. It was Sif lying on her side and leaning over me. She wore a deranged half-smile on her face, and I concluded that I was still dreaming, my wonderful dream of my little witch having taken a very strange turning.
Obviously the nightmare was back for round two, shunting Viola aside to a corner of my mind as the dream faded. But nobody puts my little witch in a corner, be they man or monster! (Gods and sufficiently large Jotuns – well, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.) The nightmare had gone too far this time, so quick as lightning I grabbed a breast and gave it a good honk. That would teach it!
...That sounds silly in writing, but it seemed a fitting punishment to my sleeping mind and everybody does stupid things in dreams on occasion.
Granted, it turned out I was awake rather than asleep, but how was I to know? I thought I was sleeping. It was a natural mistake anybody could have made. But no nightmare would have responded as Sif did.
“Your vile animal lust betrays you, Great Violator”, she announced, slapping my face, “and I know what you are planning. Can't waste all day sleeping when you've got a victim to ravish, can you? But know, oh lustful king, that I am neither playing wargames today nor engaging in tickling contests. What I gave freely on my wedding night is the last you'll ever have of me willingly. You may overpower my frail body with your beastly strength, you may force my gate with your loathsome instrument, but I shall suffer any indignity with stoicism!”
She was working herself into a state of frenzy, but that doesn't excuse bad similes, and the “loathsome instrument” line needed work. So I helpfully suggested to her that comparing IT to a battering ram would work better in the context, and if that didn't work for her (one must make allowances for stylistic differences), she could always ask her sister for help.
Big mistake.
She slapped me again, and she is stronger than she looks. I had to grab her arm to prevent receiving a backhand slap, and then the other arm to immobilize her. At arms length, she stared down at me with hate. It was a ridiculous position, having to fend off my wife. How my little witch would laugh.
But did that stop Sif? Of course not. “The assault begins and I am helpless in your arms! NOW DO YOUR WORST, Great Violator! “, she continued unabated, and with a determined stare right in my eyes ended the rant with, “But know that I will NEVER GIVE UP, NEVER SURRENDER!”
“Shan't. Don't want you. Want to sleep,” I told her. I released her arms and shut my eyes tightly. It had been such a good dream.
Whatever answer she had expected, this was not it. But say this to her credit, she rallied gamely.
“A likely story. The tenting at your loins proves you a liar! You are just waiting for me to let down my guard to have at me, you randy swine!”
“Oh, that. IT tends to do that when I dream of my little witch. Your sister finds it funny, but admittedly she has a warped sense of humour. I once woke up to find she had... Never mind. Forget I mentioned it. Sif, please be a good girl and pipe down and let me sleep. If you want to be useful, go away and do woman stuff. You officially qualify now. Congratulations.”
“Even as you are relishing ravishing my weak and defenceless body and readying yourself to renew the assault, you are thinking of another woman!?!?”
She was not going to let me sleep.
Perhaps it was time for some good old-fashioned ravishing after all, despite my exhaustion. It was what she expected, and I had kind of promised, and it was her morning after... As plans go, it had the virtue of simplicity and my secondary brain was all in favour. All I had to do was hand over control and deal with the problem of Sif later.
But in a flash of insight I saw the future clearly. She would consider it vindication of her silly girlish beliefs, and the Norns' web would tighten around me, setting me on the path of eternal nagging.
My heart sank as I realized that three months had not matured Sif, no matter what Kráka said, and becoming my wife had not changed her at all, despite my winsome nature and how eagerly she'd participated once I'd jollied her up last night. If I continued as both tradition and reason demanded, I would come to dread the s-nights, and mornings. I had invited misery into the household. All was lost.
Or was it? Am I one to give up? What Would Viola Do?
...Well, come to think of it, I knew what she would do. She would grin at me, slap my rump, and cheer me on with a “Tally-ho, my stallion! Up and at'er!“
Or she would sigh wearily, and say, “If you worked harder for the Grand Plan, Sif would be too exhausted to pester you”.
Or she would get a steely look in her eyes, as she occasionally does when I overthink issues, and instruct me to “Screw harder, not smarter.” How Kráka had laughed when she heard it for the first time.
Sometimes WWVD isn't the best source of advice.
Then I got an idea.
An awful idea.
The KING
GOT A WONDERFUL, AWFUL IDEA!
I smothered a grin and counterfeited an earnest, but confused, look, as I embarked upon a campaign of seduction that whether I win or lose is bound to amuse. It was time to answer her question.
“Well, it is like this, Little Violator,” I replied calmly and rationally, “she is my little witch, while you are just an opportunist. You suborned my dear wife Kráka. You raped me by deception for a week. You extorted me to take you as my third wife. Either of these would justify your destruction.
A hit, a palpable hit, and before she could get a word in edgewise, I continued: “But I spared your life, and I have married you as you demanded, ceremony and all, and I have satisfied your base desires this night as is your right as my wife, and I'll see you honoured as the third most important woman in the High Kingdom. I respect your victory, but I really don't see what else I owe you.”
“As is MY right?” she screamed, focusing rather narrowly on that minor issue. “You satisfied nobody's lust but your own,” she continued, and added, almost as an afterthought, “loathsome boar.” She was definitely off script.
“I'm not expecting any gratitude from you, my tempestuous wife, though I do think any reasonable man would say that I deserve so for saving you from the Normans and not solving the problem you present by reducing headcount, but the least you can do is let me sleep. I'll take a dream of Viola over your reality any day. A man's got to have his priorities straight.”
“I can't believe what I'm hearing! What happened to screwing me seven days to Sunday?” she asked, incredulously.
“Not worth the effort. You are too exhausting. It is not like it was a real promise, anyway. I only said it to mess with your head because you annoyed me. Petty, I know, but in the circumstances I'd say you had it coming. Now, I'll give you that it was a merry wedding night, but you aren't a patch on your sister, to say nothing of my little witch. You've got innate ability that under other circumstances would be worth developing into real skill, but you lack the generosity of spirit and the ability to join me in a true meeting of hearts and minds that makes it all worthwhile and makes me want to return for more.”
“What!?” she began, and whether she was rallying for another rant or just plain confused I do not know, but I cut her short.
“Let me use smaller words even a seventeen year old can understand, I love women for their beautiful minds, not their bodies,” I lied, “so you don't attract me.” A lie so great that I could feel IT growing in response, but fortunately she didn't notice.
Her eyes boggled in disbelief. Time to stick the knife in.
“So don't come begging for me to deliver, just because you are a sex-crazed rapist seeking gratification. It is undignified and I expect a certain measure of decorum in my household. Besides, I have more important things to do, such as planning a campaign once I've recovered from the night's excesses. Problems in Poitou.”
That did it. I braced myself for the storm.
“Promise? Begging you? SEX-CRAZED RAPIST!?!? Your conceit knows no limit! If I went above and beyond the penalties of that stupid tickling game I let you believe you tricked me into, it had nothing to do with desire. I was trying to beat my sister's wedding score, and I did so too!” she screamed in my face, hyperventilating, her chest heaving and her body quivering with wrath.
Since she was still leaning over me this was quite distracting, but wise to the ways of women I refrained from pointing that out to her. She ranted stupidities for some time, but being preoccupied tracking the movements of the heavenly orbs, it was all so much noise to me, and I believe we were both the happier for my sensitivity.
Finally she noticed I wasn't paying attention to her words, or possibly she noticed what I was paying attention to. Whatever the case, she sprang out of bed and from a safe distance, her face reddening, she announced in a voice dripping with ice: “So remember it fondly, for that's the last you'll ever have of me save through force. Great Violator, I defy you!”
It did detract a bit that she added as an afterthought, “And also, I'll have you know, I am NOT exhausting!”, but she's young and practice makes perfect.
I must admit I was quite impressed by her; Repetitive, for sure, but from start to finish, that was quality ranting, some of the best I've ever heard from a woman, and I've heard a lot.
“Well, you are. And noisy too. A real moaner. Not that I mind, but I wonder how far your voice carried,” I replied.
Sif looked mortified. One final dig seemed appropriate.
“Anyhow, the scoreboard needs updating. So hop along and leave me alone, Little Violator. If you want to curse me for not serving you horizontal refreshment this morning, please do so elsewhere.
I hid my head under my pillow to escape her temper tantrum. Better not let her see my grin.
Finally she left me, slamming the door, and I returned to sleep. As luck would have it, my little witch was waiting for me in my dream (she's considerate like that), so all was well in the world.
Until lunch.
It was a family gathering with my mother and my mother in law in attendance, and it was jolly. As expected everybody gently ribbed me and Sif, making jokes about the nightly entertainment. I took it like a man and joined in, providing our mothers with the occasional enlightening detail, while silently thanking Viola that despite having three wives I still only had one mother-in law. Sif on the other hand was the very ice queen, cold and distant – too foolish to accept the praise she received.
At the end of the meal my little witch proudly announced that Sif and I had set a new highscore, and she always knew I had it in me. She was so proud of her stallion that she could burst, and dowager queen Praxida wept tears of joy, as she had feared Sif would prove a disappointment, but now she was well and truly wedded and bedded. Everybody cheered our vigour. Nearly everybody. Sif hung her head in defiant shame, silly goose that she is, and her day got worse when Kráka claimed to have won the betting pool.
It turns out that after the guests had left, the women had retired to our living quarters and entertained themselves telling stories of the happy couple and betting on the final score. They found us too noisy to sleep, apparently.
I can't say I'm surprised Kráka won. She'd been present for the preceding week's games, so she knew best how to interpret her sister's ode to joy. I am surprised by the highscore, though. It hardly seems possible. I must have lost track of time.
After lunch I took my little witch aside and suggested that the bygone seven k-days be retroactively considered s-days to keep the score accurate, and that surely it was somebody else's turn tonight or Sif would end up too far ahead, but Viola explained that my concern for fairness and accurate record-keeping, though admirable in the abstract, was misguided in the particular. For a) Sif's sexual blackmail was a state secret, and b) it would be against herd rules; the week after marriage was sacred and belonged to the mare.
You win some, you lose some. It was worth the try.
I spent a few hours getting some work done, shouting at people and cracking some skulls, and relaxed afterwards reading Archimedes' Mechanical Curiosities. My mind had not played me false, and it was just as relaxing and informative as I remembered from years back when I read the complete collected works on my return trip from the business trip to Cordoba. Fond memories.
Tonight I went to Sif's stall carrying a chess set.
“The Great Violator comes!” she intoned when I entered her stall, which as a greeting leaves something to be desired, but my otherwise brilliant mind failed to come up with a proper response as I was momentarily distracted by the sight of her form-fitting chain-mail underwear. It was hard to miss as she was otherwise naked. Noticing my glance, she continued, “I assume that means you've recovered?”
“Quite recovered, thank you. Your sister waylaid me after dinner; She didn't want to fall further behind, so I gallantly helped relieve her worry,” I replied, helpfully.
“Pig! Don't assume that I'm that easy a target.”
“Perish the thought. How do you feel about a game of chess?” I asked, kindly.
“A penalty game, I assume? You aren't getting past my lock that easily,” she responded, a prisoner to her own narrative.
“I don't want to. I don't want to have anything to do with you except, perhaps, to play a relaxing game of chess before returning to my room to sleep without having to perform for the Grand Plan. I need to catch up on my beauty sleep, you know. I doubt I got more than three hours of sleep last night, and I am not as young as I used to be,” I answered, truthfully if regretfully.
Predictably, this made little impression on Sif. “Never! You are trying to trick me!” she cried, “Pretending to give up because you can't open my lock. Lulling me into a false sense of security. I see through you, pig.”
Time for the evening's masterstroke!
“Have it your way; I'll be returning to my own bed to sleep, then. You do you. Keep the chess set.” I said, cheerfully.
“Sverker! I'm not done talking!”
“But I am. Toodeloo, Little Violator.”
I left quickly, shutting the door behind me, and well I did so as within moments something struck it with a majestic thump from the other side. I hope it was a pot and not the chess set, but either way, point to me.
This is working out better than expected.
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 31 - my Wedding Day +2
Dear Diary,
This is great fun! Sif was obnoxious during the day, so tonight I went once again to her stall carrying another chess set. She greeted me with the familiar, “the Great Violator comes!” while wearing, once again, to my complete lack of surprise, nothing but her special chain-mail underwear.
“How about a game of chess?” I asked her.
“Hah! The infamous conqueror defeated before he has even tried. Why do you keep persisting rather than leaving me alone?” she crowed.
“Because I like playing chess,” I responded, earnestly.
“That's not what I meant!”
“Well, if you insist,” I said, “I'll give it a try. Be a good girl and stand still so I can access the lock's tumblers without touching you, since I know how you dislike my touch.”
She did, and I unlocked the combination lock in the first attempt, removing her underwear. “Thus is access granted, Little Violator. For I am Sverker, 'gainst whom no lock will hold, nor fastened portal bar. One of the perks of being the All-father's favoured.”
She shivered nervously, and honesty compels me to admit to my diary, if to nobody else, that with Sif so close and her scent and gorgeous body sending signals rapidly eroding my willpower, had I not been wearing special reinforced trousers the evening might have turned out differently, spoiling my plan. But my sartorial preparations paid off, so all I did was ask her, friendly as can be, “Now, how about that game of chess?”
“You aren't fooling me, Great Violator. You must have remembered the code. And as for chess, I can see your loathsome instrument straining to be free. Do your worst! You may conquer my frail body, but you will never, NEVER, conquer my soul!” she proclaimed with a strut. As an oratorical exercise it wasn't half bad, if arguably a bit primitive. The strut was good though. If you've got it, flaunt it, as Kráka often says. So 10/10 for effort.
“Oh, that's just something IT does when I open combination locks, nothing to do with you, and IT is not in charge. I'm wearing reinforced trousers these days to avoid accidents, you know. Less wear and tear on tables.”
“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?”
“This isn't as relaxing as I had hoped. I'll return to my own bed and leave you to yours. Sleep well, Little Violator.”
“SVERKER!”
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 31 - my Wedding Day +3
Dear Diary,
After opening her lock this night, Sif once more dared me to violate her, blah blah blah weak body blah blah blah unconquerable soul and blah blah blah. She needs to work on her material. And start wearing clothes. This is getting old, fast.
So I gave her a chess set to her great annoyance, and earnestly told her that she had no cause for fear, as I had never violated a woman and did not intend to start now.
How her eyes boggled.
She denounced me for a liar, repeating to me the fate of some of my foreign conquests that Kráka had boasted of to her, but her logic was weak and emotional. Heathens, thralls, and spoils of war do not count, as they have it coming by their very nature. Unless she'd want to argue against the religious exemption that put the fun back in fundamentalist? Sigurd's scripture was clear on this issue. So we sat down at the table and had a spirited discussion and I didn't quite convince her though she granted that I had a point, of sorts, but at least she was arguing rather than orating, and that counts as progress.
So I took the opportunity to ask her just why she hated me so? Was it something I had done?
She informed me that she hated me since she saw me mounting her sister in the wedding salad when she was 14, a vivid image she could never forget, and never forgive.
I had an insight.
Of course she was envious of her sister – what woman wouldn't be? How could I not have seen that before? It explained so much! And yet again, a nagging doubt assailed me. Could it really be that simple?
So I told the silly goose that there was no shame to being an exhibitionist, and if she had wanted salad with the sausage on her own wedding night, why hadn't she said something? No reason to be envious of her sister over so slight an issue. Just trust Sverker. I could fix this easily as few of the guests had left yet. Send out the handy henchmen to round them up, and she could be the star of an after-wedding performance with a captive audience. It might raise a few brows, but as Fylkir I could declare it a holy act. Perhaps make it a yearly ritual? Would that suit her needs?
Apparently not, or so I inferred from her reaction.
Rather than responding with gratitude for my caring, she sprang to her feet with a yell and launched herself into a flying kick over the table. So perhaps it wasn't quite that simple, but I had obviously touched a nerve.
And what a view!
Dodging her assault, I congratulated her on her athleticism and saw myself out before she began flinging chess boards.
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 31 - my Wedding Day +4
Dear Diary,
Kráka cornered me today to ask why I was confusing her sister so. Sif was turning into a nervous wreck. Why not take her for a ride as she expected? Sure, she'd protest my forced entry, for Sif had always been a bit of a whiner, but the marriage was her idea in the first place and she knew what it entailed.
The sooner I got her used to the reality of married life, the happier everybody would be for it. This was clearly the rational way to proceed, and instead I was gifting Sif chess sets? What in Midgård was going on? Were I trying to drive her sister mad?
I assured her that nothing could be further from the truth. It was simply that as an ardent feminist I respected Sif´s views and bodily integrity too much to take her against her will.
“A likely story, Sverker, my love. Well, if you think that a week of games and that crazy wedding night, where she went all out to beat my record, has given her a taste for your rod of lordly might, and that you just need to wait her out before she comes crawling to share your bed in desperation, I fear you have greatly misunderstood my sister,” said Kráka.
Ha. They are both clueless. This is great.
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 31 - my Wedding Day +7
Dear Diary,
Six zeroes in a row was more than my little witch's curiosity could bear, and she demanded answers. Had I really been defeated by a silly lock? If not, whatever was going on? So we went to our rooms, and I sat her down in her favourite bearchair, and I began talking.
“Would you believe me if I told you that I am simply respecting her views, little witch?” I asked, counterfeiting an honest face.
“That is what I call a low percentage scenario, my stallion.”
“Well, I am. I have now defeated her lock six days in a row despite her changing combinations, on first attempt each time, mind you, but I have kept my hands off her and left her with nothing worse than deepening confusion, a slight edge of paranoia, a tendency to jump at shadows, and an increasing number of chess sets. I've got Gamli the Woodmaster crafting more sets to build up a reserve.”
“I see. You are trying to be tricky, aren't you?” my little witch retorted. She's smart that way.
“Tricky, me? Everybody knows I am straightforward,” I said, innocently, as two can play that game.
But admittedly, only one of us can play it well, as she responded by rolling her eyes and saying, “That's the least convincing face of innocence I've ever seen, my stallion. Own up.”
So I did.
“I am not being tricky. She doesn't want anything to do with me? That's her right, and I have told her so. I'll have her when she comes to me of her own volition, and not a moment before.”
“I'm listening. Disbelieving, but listening, beloved. How does the epic score from her wedding night fit into this rather fanciful tale of yours?”
“Oh, that. I told Sif it was traditional to continue until one of the happy couple dropped from exhaustion, but if she wanted to call it quits after we'd played through a mere nine rounds of penalties from the tickling contest I would respect her wishes and leave her to her rest,” I said earnestly, earning me another disbelieving look.
“Not that it mattered. Sif didn't believe a word of what I was saying, but after being honoured nine times, drunk on the experience and, possibly, strong drink from the feast, she had shed most of her inhibitions, and she is so very, very, competitive. Completely wore me out, truth be told. Have pity on me?”
“A likely story, my stallion.”
“Why do none of the women in my life believe me? Sif doesn't believe me. Kráka asked me because Sif wasn't talking, and she didn't believe me. My mother collared me yesterday because Sif looked pale, and she didn't believe my explanation either. And now you don't believe me. Why, oh why?” I asked, theatrically.
“I guess it is because we know you, my stallion,” she answered. Hard to refute that, but I could give it a try.
“I am wounded! I am nothing if not truthful, and I respect Sif so much it must be driving her mad. I have told her that if she wants to live a gilded life serving my other wives, tending the children and doing her assigned chores as the lowest ranked wife in the household, always inferior to her big sister, that's nothing to me.”
“How noble of you.” she said, ladling on the sarcasm.
“Isn't it, just? I also told her that you'll get me a replacement for breeding purposes soon enough if she underperforms, so why should I make an effort to win her over if that was what she wanted to make of her life? I even granted her a nickname, 'Little Violator', to remind her of her transgressions, lest she forget. I do hope that she'll take up playing chess with me rather than wasting all the evenings, but if not, it'll be interesting to see what she does with the chess sets.”
“I am touched by how you pay attention to her desires, my stallion, but I suspect you are being too clever by half, and I'll ask you not to take your newfound ability of strategic patience to excess or I'll have her put out to pasture.”
“As you wish, little witch. Until then I'll rub her face in the consequences of her actions, and whether she turns to me or you decide to end the game by putting her out to pasture, I win.”
“Now, that's the Bear King I know and love!”
“Wait-a-moment! You insisted on that lame High King title rather than Bear King. Have you changed your mind? It is not too late to change the title,” I suggested, hopefully.
“No. The use of Bear King is mine, and only mine”, she answered, twisting in my lap to give me a hug.
I can live with that.
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32
Dear Diary,
It has taken longer than expected, April slipping into May, with cousin Arnfast running wild making a fool of himself, but the weeks have been good to me. More time spent with Kráka and my little witch, frustrating Sif every third day or so, and sending out the call, gathering the armies, while consolidating my power at court. Where do you lead us, they ask?
Now they know. The raven flies east, to the lands of my father. The general vicinity at any rate. The home of the Slavs. Lands that have never known the degeneracy that is feudalism but follow the strongest. And none are stronger than I.
I'll crush cousin Arnfast on my way east. Or perhaps on the return trip, to see if more opportunistic cousins join him.
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32
Dear Diary,
I received a message from my little witch. She and Kráka misses me and wishes me well, which is good to know as I spend weeks stomping idiots into the ground and yelling at and pointing my own morons in the right direction. Viola says that Sif has found a use for her chess sets, teaching the children and playing simultaneous chess against the entire family. Good for her, I guess.
If I manage to satisfy Kráka's and Viola's requests for souvenirs for themselves and the children, I guess I might keep a look out for some foreign chess sets as gifts for Sif.
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32
Dear Diary,
The campaign season is coming to a close and I'll be returning home for winter quarters next week, and all I want to think of is relaxing in the bosom of my family. Well, my little witch's, anyway.
Then this comes up. As if it isn't bad enough that I have to deal with idiot Slavs that don't know when they are beaten, I am shocked to learn that one of my best Jarls, Karl of Prussia, is an adulterer!
While he is a good man in a fight, Karl has never been bright, but he is loyal and he has served me well on this campaign, and then he goes and does something this stupid. Led by his prick, the fool!
He should know better! Rogering somebody else's wife is a sin in the eyes of the gods. Well, some of the gods, at any rate. Certainly I would never do so. I have never in my life dallied with a married woman. Heathens and war-taken women don't count. Our gods are practical like that – or more likely they just don't care.
BUT what was Karl thinking! He was on campaign, which is a target rich environment for the secondary brain if ever there was one, but noooo, he had to sneak back home to play hide the sausage with the wife of one of his chiefs.
Morons. I'm surrounded by morons.
And if he had to do something that stupid, why was he not discreet? Or failing that, why didn't he just kill the chief and marry the widow as is traditional? Do I have to do all the thinking around here?
As to how in Midgård it came to pass that I learned of this outrage in my own warcamp from a message sent by my little witch from the capital, well, THAT mystery at least has an intelligent answer: His wife is one of my little witch's snitches.
And one of dear departed Baldr's oldest daughters. Who is, apparently, sad.
Which means that two thirds of my wives are urging me to punish him to avenge the slight to their elder half-sister's honour rather than letting him off with a slap on the wrist as is the custom, because while our gods are dead set against adultery, or at least some of them are, one has to be realistic about these things.
Which means that if I don't punish him, Kráka will be sad. So I guess I had better punish him. It is only just, after all.
I'll chop his head off. That'll teach him not to bother my wives.
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To punish adulterers, chop off the correct head. Sif, Chess Grandmaster. Thank You