Home Trending Latest threads New posts Developer diaries

Resurrection: Rebirth of the United States

Jump to latest Follow Reply
  • We have updated our Community Code of Conduct. Please read through the new rules for the forum that are an integral part of Paradox Interactive’s User Agreement.
Dramatis Personae: (Major Characters)

For those new to the AAR, or those wanting to review:


United States and Allies - Military:
Thomas Heyward - Our hero. Originally from 20th century Britain in a world where Germany and the UK exchanged atom bombs, he somehow winds up back in the middle of the American War of Independence. Heyward decides that, since the US never existed in his timeline, if he helps them succeed he may prevent his timeline from coming to pass. Currently a general in the Carolina army.

John Preston - A young (sometimes VERY young) man. Having lost first his father then his love, he briefly went mad before recovering. He's completely devoted to proving himself and killing Exeter. Currently a colonel of cavalry.

Benedict Arnold - American general. He ignored Stewart's attempt to make him betray America and is now hunting Lord Cornwallis in New York.

George Washington - American commander in chief. Dismissed von Zahringen under orders from Congress. Currently trying to deal with the Shawnee.

Waymouth, Wesley Harding - Former compatriots of John, they're now part of a cavalry regiment under Generals Kosciuszko and Arnold.

Dieter von Zahringen - A Badener officer, son of the margrave. Last seen luring Exeter's army away from Tom's artillery. Presumed dead.

British and Allied Military:
Jasen Exeter - Formerly an American officer, he was frustrated while trying to deal with the Cherokee. He defected to England and led a successful southern campaign before a recent stunning defeat. He can't speak due to a throat wound during an assassination attempt.

(Lieutenant) Donnell - Exeter's assistant and translator. Donnell saved Exeter from his assassin. Killed at the Battle of the Altamaha River.

Lord Cornwallis - British general. Currently sacking his way through New York.

American and Allied - Civilian
Edward Rutledge - Congressman from South Carolina. Strongly believes in southern dominance and willing to go to any extreme to make it so. Frequent rival of Tom.

John Hancock - Former President of Congress from Massachusetts. Ousted after a rumormongering campaign.

Joseph Hewes - Current President of Congress from North Carolina. Hancock's successor, and a puppet of Rutledge.

Lyman Hall - Delegate from Occupied Georgia. He's had very little political power since Georgia was seized in '73, though he did secure Tom's promise to free his home state.

Cassandra Rafferty - John's love, a girl from near Fort Carleton, New York. Killed trying to cross the Canadian/American border during the Year of the Hangman.

British and Allied - Civilian

Guy Carleton - Former (and future?) Governor-General of Canada, Carleton arranged the first treaty ending the American War of Independence in 1773. He was disgraced as a result, but with current British military reverses his star may be rising again.

Henry Stewart - A spy from British intelligence, Stewart is secretly from the mid-20th century. For whatever reason, his mission is to ensure his timeline comes to pass - which means the US must fail.

(Unknown) - A man in black, Stewart's apparent boss. Stewart thinks he's a Nazi, but the truth is far more sinister...


I miss anyone important? :cool:
 
Thanks for the post mortem and the break down of the characters (I must be getting old to be fogetting all of them, eh? :wacko: )

I see that Rutledge is still working hard at being one the most despised characters in this AAR! Is there any chance that somebody is going to be able to take him down a few notches anytime soon?
 
Excellent updates Catknight! Even if your battles are smaller in scale they are nevertheless rich in detail and well-written ;)

As for your post mortem, ironically my favourite characters in this tale are the villains, i'll list them in order of preference.

1.) Rutledge
2.) Jasen Exeter
3.) That nazi fellow, Henry Stewart

You are really good at writing Rutledge, what a bastard he was even if the Americans won, Rutledge was pulling Heyward's strings all along. :(

I liked this quote :D

. He'd have the man court-martialed! No, he'd have him crucified! No, first he'd have him whipped, then impaled, THEN crucified!
Click to expand...

But not court-martialed? :D
 
Exeter is by far my favorite villain and perhaps even my favorite character in this story, I do hope he is not yet finished.

But just incase Draco or someone else who Loathes Exeter is reading this, I'll be on my way....
 
Draco Rexus: I'm not the one who said you were old..
Uh...er..

jwolf: That's true, we forgot Dragging Canoe, who has my vote for best name in the AAR so far.

TreizeV: Thanks. I saw one of your mammoth battles the other day - all I can say is wow. (and Ow!)

Machiavellian: Don't let Draco see you!
 
Chapter 66: Stewart's Lament

24th April 1780
Lake Erie


A light wind, barely a whisper, bore a hint of spring as it carried HMS Procyon towards the distant Shawnee shore. Her captain stood on the quarterdeck, just behind and to the left of the quartermaster at the wheel, willing that land to appear with every ounce of will.

Mark Tolleson was in his thirties, and though at sea he was a captain by custom and authority, in truth he was only a master and commander - a high ranking lieutenant. Since he had no influence or allies at the admiralty, his only chance at promotion to the holy rank of post-captain was a battle against a ship similar in size (or preferably larger) to his own. The Americans disobliged him extremely by not bothering to build a navy, and the Royal Navy had done its share by giving him a siz-gun river boat to earn his keep.

So Captain (Commander) Tolleson reviled the Americans as particularly unadventuresome cowards, nor was he fond of the admiralty. His particular hatred though, the seething rage that kept him up nights and made his stomach quarrelsome, was reserved for his ship. The odious tub turned about as gracefully as a fort and about as seaworthy. Procyon had been built in Quebec City, and would never see the open waters of the Atlantic. She'd been constructed precisely to protect the Saint Lawrence River and Great Lakes before the Americans proved so uncooperative...but rather than retire her or find some old, broken captain for Procyon's little scouting and supply runs, they'd left Tolleson here to rot. No chance for glory, prestige, treasure, or honor.

"Good morning, Captain," cried Tolleson's cargo. He glared down at the mysterious Mister Stewart with sincere dislike. He didn't really care that Stewart had no sense of naval custom - what did you expect of landsmen? He very much minded he'd been lowered to transporting spies.

"Sir," Tolleson answered coldly. "A good morning to you."

"Do you think we will arrive today?" Stewart stopped short of the holy quarterdeck and stared up at the man. He didn't like the captain, a singularly unpleasant and bitter fellow, and would be happy to be on his way.

"Tomorrow I think, sir."

Not to mention uncooperative. Stewart's face pinched, but he knew better then to challenge his authority publically. "Might I speak to you privately?"

"Of course, sir." He nodded to the quartermaster and stepped down. "Please follow me, we will have breakfast."

Over breakfast then, an unpromising mix of bread, meat, and something claiming to be porridge, Stewart leaned forward. "Captain, I don't mean to tell you how to run your ship...."

"Very wise of you," Tolleson answered a little sharply.

"But I believe you're not taking full advantage of the wind. You barely have any sails set, certainly we can go faster?"

"You're not accusing me of dereliction, are you?" the captain asked softly, knife poised over the bread.

"Not at all. However, I don't think you realize the importance of my mission. I understand you want to...to husband your ship, however..."

"Your mission, while no doubt quite important, must conform to the laws of nature, sir. I should advise you, sir, that in a light wind there is such a thing as setting too much sail. It would literally bear our ship down and bring us to a stop - less the current. I do assure you sir, I am doing everything in my power to get you to your destination as quickly as possible."

What Captain Tolleson said was very true, but Stewart could not know that - nor did he really care. "I am sure you are, sir," he answered mildly. "You can be certain I will let my superiors know just how cooperative you've been."

"I am certain you will." Tolleson smiled, his mind lingering on all sorts of pleasurable decisions that would tragically lead to dereliction of duty. "A pity that we are so far from your masters at Halifax."

Stewart bowed, perhaps realizing his tenuous position and Tolleson nodded distantly. "I am going on deck," he announced. "Pray take your time." He wasn't in the mood for more verbal jousting and saw no need to trouble himself with his guest further.

"Good day, sir," Stewart answered, distracted. Once Tolleson left he picked up the knife, pondered it thoughtfully, and stabbed ruthlessly at the bread. Once he'd torn it to shreds Stewart poured himself a cup of coffee to calm his nerves.

All his manipulations, all his plans were for naught. These Americans weren't only holding their own, they were winning. Exeter was a failure, he'd been a fool to trust him. All Exeter managed was to convince the standoffish southern states to fully commit. The Whigs in parliament wanted peace, it was only the Tory majority - or rather their pride - that kept England in this fight. Who'd have thought his countrymen could be so blatantly incompetent?

Yes, countrymen, for Henry Stewart was English. While Thomas Heyward despaired and nearly froze on a dark night in January 1946, Stewart sat comfortably at home in Bristol knowing Nazi commandos would attack the next night. He scouted the British defenses for them, and tomorrow evening he'd disable a certain lighthouse, blinding the Home Guard just long enough...

Henry was a pragmatist. He knew Britain must lose the war and he planned to be on the winning side. He knew how the Nazis treated enemies; his family would be spared that. Stewart had little use for patriotism or other ideals, and the idea of dying for a cause struck him as insane.

It probably would've ended there, except that night he'd received a visitor - and the next morning Stewart found himself in 1773 London. Why him? That, alas, no one bothered answering... and it annoyed him no end.

"I will stop you," he swore at his unknown nemesis. "I'll stop you and your little rebellion if I have to kill every last bastard on this continent."

He had no choice if he wanted to see his family again.
 
Nice update...

You know... after careful reconsideration I've decided that maybe Exeter isn't all that bad of a character after all. I mean, let's consider this. He's doing what he thinks is right and best, he's doing it well even after being brutually attacked. Who are we to want to see his life ended in such brutal fashion? Mayhap we should instead, cheer him on just to see what else he can get actually do to Heyward and company.

What am I saying? :confused: To hell with that! :mad: I take that all back, and because of my slight stumble in my loathing of Exeter, I am now hereby declaring that I would like dear Jason, not die in a blaze of glory, but rather shamefully.... mayhap walking in the path of a firing cannon? Or maybe leaving this earth by way of snake bite? Oh wait, he falls off his horse in a swamp and becomes 'gator bait? Oh yes, I like that one! :D
 
Chapter 67: Lobster Hill

30th May, 1780
Catskill Mountains, near Albany, NY


"Oh, you're not serious." Wesley Harding didn't even need to ask why his cornet wore such a sour expression. He'd just left a company meeting with Captain Perlman, and that could only mean one thing.

"Shut your mouth, Harding." Waymouth looked tired, old. "And gather your men."

"_____." Wesley poured the gritty sludge that passed for coffee onto the ground and stood. "I thought we were done with the Wolf."

"Not yet!" Waymouth stomped off. Harding sighed, rolling his shoulders to ease the kinks out as he surveyed the woodland. He was dressed in a simple grey vest over white shirt and breeches; his uniform coat had been shredded in the last battle. Two of his men played a very illegal game of dice, the rest he'd find by the creek.

Wesley picked up his rifle and walked over. "Okay boys." He ignored the dice. "Let's form up."

"Where we going, Wes?" asked one.

"Guess," Harding answered sourly.

"God's death!"

Wolf Hill was a steep, wooded incline overlooking the road between Albany and New York. It earned its name from several wolf dens scattered across the face, the more or less permanent home to a very large pack that found decimating the cattle herds of several local farms great fun. Every night for the past week brought their eerie howling to Wesley's ears, and despite double guards around the stores no one slept well. They weren't the problem, however.

Harding pulled together the rest of his squad with similar curses and grunts. Together they mounted, an uncertain mob on restless steeds, as squad after squad grouped into some semblance of order. Captain Perlman rode by shouting something about duty and honor. He was always talking about duty and honor, no one paid him much mind.

"Today is a fine day to die for one's country!"

"Shut up, Wilkins!" The former messenger was more trouble than he was worth.

"I wonder if Colonel Aster is coming this time."

"Why don't you go ask him!?" Harding looked up the hill with active dislike, trying to see past the trees with sheer willpower. He had considerable time to do this, time spent by Captain Perlman wrestling his battalion into some semblance of order and reminding the men how important it was that Wolf Hill fall. "As long as they hold the hill, they control the road to New York!" he reminded anyone who'd listen and amazingly managed to forget in the last day and a half. Finally Perlman was satisfied and nodded to his trumpeteers. They blared their challenge at the uncaring hill, and a number of flags - American, New York, the four New England states appeared. Slowly one hundred cavalrymen approached the trees.

Nothing happened. Nothing until they tried to cross the dirt road and British artillery opened up on them. Faint explosions, then a high pitched wail, then balls danced here and there - all misses at this range, but enough to make the horses skittish.

"Steady!" Wesley cried, unnecessarily. Wilkins looked very pale as he drew his sabre - several minutes too early. Harding's squad narrowed its frontage from a wide line into a compact group as they slipped into the trees again - maintaining order in these trees was an impossibility anyway. Flashes of blue and white to the left and right, almost completely concealed by the green, were their only clue they weren't alone on this hill.

Somewhere off to the right Harding heard the crack of musket fire. "Steady!" he called again as riders nervously looked over. The trumpeteer sounded again, three short blasts. "Trot!" he cried, nudging his horse. In truth their trot was little better then their walk, as horse and rider picked past rocks, holes and fallen limbs. More musket fire, and were the trees clearing ahead?

"Charge!" Wesley roared at the first sign of red ahead, then the flashes of innumerable muskets in perfect order. Horses screamed and men cursed. This was the reason men hated Wolf Hill - the cannon had friends.

A sullen explosion somewhere ahead, and a tree near Wilkins shattered at the cannon blast. Suddenly they were gone, out of the forest and climbing up the grassy slope into the teeth of the British infantry. On either side more squads emerged, rattled and limping but not crippled, not broken. Ahead the cannon reloaded. The trumpeteer spoke again, and the horsemen broke into a run.

More muskets, more screams. The English line was doubled up, the fire nearly continual. Somewhere behind him Harding heard a cry of pain, someone else prayed, a third snarled. Then they were on the infantry, sabre vs bayonet. Harding hacked down viciously, one man fell. The second parried his blow and thrust up, Wesley nearly leapt out of his saddle to avoid the blow. One of the squads was through, through and charging the cannon. They fired cannister and the squad vanished in a spray of blood and flesh.

No trumpeteer this time, he was dead. Across the narrow hilltop squads were retreating, followed by harassing fire. Four times now they'd assaulted Wolf Hill, four times the British kicked their rump, four times Cornwallis managed to magically reinforce his men. Harding tasted bile, though whether it was defeat, fear, or knowing he'd have to do this again he couldn't say. He gave a last spiteful slash, then turned to flee with the Redcoats mocking laughter in his ears.

"Come on Harding, you fat pox-faced leper!" bellowed Waymouth. He stood at the edge of the forest - his horse apparently didn't make it - waving the last of the retreating cavalry through. Behind him laughter was replaced by the crack-crack of musket fire. Suddenly Waymouth stumbled.

"I have you!" Harding pulled him up bodily as they ran. He ignored the slick, wet sensation where he grabbed the man, just as he ignored his commander's sudden stench. Cornwallis would have to be dealt with another day.
 
Draco Rexus: Exeter was by my place earlier. He wanted to know where Hagerstown, Maryland was. Hmm..

BTW, how do I become a member of AARA? * grin *


This is an in-game map through 2nd July, 1780 so you can see how things stand. (I modified it to cut down on the size and so I could draw on it better.)

071780.txt
 
You gotta love the mind that thought sending cavalry through heavy woods and then up a fortified hill was a good idea! :mad:

Oh Cat, tell Mister Exeter to look it up on a map and to bring it on! :D
 
I just caught up although I have to admit I skimmed through a lot. Thanks for the brief summary of the characters. I like the writing style. Keep it up.

Draco Rexus - I looked up Hagerstown on Mapquest. *in Sauron voice* I see yoooouuuu *end voice* Just invite Mr. Exeter to AARA and we will...deal with him there. :D
 
Muwhahahahahaha! Yesss, Jason Exeter, coome to meeee, AARA will help solve all of your issuesss. Muwhahahahahaha!

Oops, sorry, didn't meet to let my Dark Side get out. :D Pray you pay it no attention.... unless your name be Exeter, eh? :D
 
Quite a few updates since I was last able to check on your tale, CatKnight. All your memorable villains making appearances, too.

I will freely admit having more loathing for Exeter than a fictitious character should really warrant. But hey! He's just so easy to hate! :D

Here's hoping you have reached a turning point in the war and that you will be able to sort things out on the northern front. Suicidal cavalry charges uphill, through forest, against a well-prepared position notwithstanding.
 
First off, ill start by saying i absolutely love this quote :D
Where we going, Wes?" asked one.

"Guess," Harding answered sourly.

"God's death!"
Click to expand...

And once again, Stewart shows why he is one of my favourite characters. i never expected him to be English as welll :eek: Good twist!

And oh my, the English are getting slaughtered, even more so than in the real revolutionary war :). England always was easier to beat in EU2 than in Vicky ;) where they don't have the insane 1 million manpower they gain from india :D not to mention the impossibily huge fleet lol.
 
Chapter 68: Angel of Mercy

5th June, 1780
Near Albany, New York


A gentle rain fell on a warm day in late spring. Wesley Harding and a handful of others rode up the post road towards Albany escorting several wagons of wounded, the end result of General Arnold's last few duels with Cornwallis.

"This isn't a good idea," Wilkins said, not for the first time. Normally Wesley would tell him to be quiet or mind his business, but this time he agreed. Albany was British territory. Following Cornwallis' series of victories down the Hudson River valley, loyalists who'd retreated to Canada in '73 returned to their homes and it simply wasn't safe to walk the streets in an American uniform.

"This place is supposed to be safe," Harding replied. "It's a church."

"So?"

"So...it's holy ground! They wouldn't do anything to us there!" Harding winced at how naive that sounded.

Wilkins apparently agreed. "That's foolish. If they decide to attack, a church won't stop them. Why are we taking our wounded there anyway?"

"I guess our surgeon can't do anything for them. The church set themselves up as a hospital, and I don't think many of them would make it to our nearest hospital in New York. Supposedly they said we could use their services."

"They'll be out of the war."

"They'll be alive."

They rode along for some minutes. Finally the former messenger tired of the silence. "I believe you have a kindness for our cornet?"

Harding didn't answer, he set his mouth in a thin line.

"I heard the surgeon tell you that considering his wounds, it'd be better to make him comfortable and let him go."

"He's wrong."

"Are you sure?"

"YES." Wesley turned viciously. He wasn't at all sure, but he wasn't willing to give up on the man who'd been more like his father then ... well, his father.

"I'm just saying there comes a point when mercy must take precedence, and...."

"Suggest that again," Harding hissed, "and you'll be the one needing this hospital."

Wilkins tried to return his stare, but ultimately looked down. They marched on in silence, the miles passing under the mud-spattered hooves of their steeds, their only company the creaking of wheels and occasional moan.

While stopped to rest the horses, a scout went to check the road ahead. He returned half an hour later with a clatter of hooves. "I found them," he turned to Harding and saluted. "Maybe a mile, mile and a half. An episcopal church in a small village."

"British?" Wesley rose.

"Small garrison, I only saw four men. No horses."

"Right." Wesley looked around - he had six. They could fight if they had to. "Fine, let's get this over with."

The church was easily the largest building in town, with a tall white steeple towering over the collection of buildings clustered around it. Harding swallowed hard as he saw the Union Jack flying from the green. Behind him he heard several soft clicks. "Remember," he said quietly. "Nothing unless they start it." He sighed and nodded to a private, who blew a trumpet as they approached.

After a few moments two men in British red marched out. They met at the outskirts of town.

"Who is in charge?" the apparent leader asked - a lieutenant. He studied the six soldiers and handful of wagons critically.

"I am. Wesley Harding, Sergeant, United States Army." He didn't dismount. "You?"

"Aaron Buchwald, Lieutenant in His Majesty's 48th Foot." Buchwald nodded at the wagons. "Your intent, sir?"

"I have orders to bring wounded to that church."

"Indeed? Well, I won't insult or delay you with an inspection. Your wounded are welcome here, sergeant. I must ask you to put your weapons away. You would agree that a misunderstanding would be regrettable."

Wesley stared at him, then nodded. They put their pistols away.

"Excellent. Please follow me, sergeant."

They made an unlikely entourage as they marched up the silent main street. Women stood on porches or looked out windows with pursed lips, though whether they disapproved of the clean, polished Brits or the Americans fresh from the field was hard to tell. The march was almost regal, rather solemn. Harding quickly noted several redcoats on roofs or between buildings, ready in case of trouble. None molested them, and despite himself he began to relax. That was until they reached the church.

"I will let them know you're here," Buchwald began, but he needn't have bothered. The double doors to the sanctuary slammed open as if a giant hidden within sought release. Out ran several men and women in civilian dress, the men wearing bloodied aprons. They ignored American and Englishman alike and swarmed the wagons like hornets, calling out arcane medical terms. Without so much as a 'by your leave' they began unloading the patients. Harding's brow rose and his eyes narrowed. He began to ride forward, but Buchwald touched his arm. "It's the same with our men," he shrugged. "They will be quite unapproachable until they know who will live and who won't. The surgeons seem to feel time is of the essence in these matters. I promise you, they're safe."

Harding followed the now fleeing doctors with his eyes. "I want to see them."

"Later, I give you my word."

It was just a little bit later when a very reluctant, but determined to be polite Wesley Harding sat for a meal with Lieutenant Buchwald. Buchwald did his best to be agreeable, despite the small room he owned at the boarding house and the indifferent supplies trickling in from Canada. "I hope you don't dislike beer, sir?"

"No." Harding stared hard at him, then at the cup placed before him.

"What shall we drink to?" Normally a British officer would toast his king, but he sensed Harding's discomfort. "Ah ... England, Home and Beauty."

"Wives and sweethearts," Wesley replied drily. He waited until Buchwald swallowed his first sip before tasting it. "It's quite good."

"You may thank my masters for that. You can imagine how hard it is to bring supplies in through Montreal. I would say you Americans have it much better."

"You would think so." Harding faltered, but saw no reason not to say something the English probably knew anyway. "However many of our ports are now blockaded."

"I didn't know that." Buchwald nodded to his servant, who went for the soup. "Admiral Howe I take?"

"No....pirates." The American plan to protect their coast had finally backfired, and the US didn't have the shipbuilding capability to do anything about it.

"Oh? .... Oh, I see." The Brit saw no reason to rub it in.

"Yes....my father's a merchant in Newport. You can imagine he's displeased." Harding smirked in his attempt at being agreeable.

"I dare say." He paused as his servant returned with the soup. "Please, don't stand on ceremony." Without another word he began eating.

Harding frowned, dipped his spoon again, then rapped it against the rim and looked up. "I have a question."

"Certainly."

"Am I your prisoner?"

Buchwald looked honestly surprised. "I thought our offer was clear, Sergeant. No...you are free to go whenever you like. Those you leave in our care - well, I imagine they won't be fighting anymore anyway if you brought them here. We'll see they get home when this ... disagreement settles down."

"Then why?"

"Why not?" Buchwald shrugged. "It wasn't my idea, though I support it. Most of the people in the church are locals - Albany, Pittsfield, White Plains - some are returning here from Canada I understand. I suppose they tired of seeing our armies hammer on each other and thought to step in. Quite decent of them really."

"So they're helping both sides equally?"

"Yes."

"Then why are you here?" Wesley challenged.

"Defense. There are some - on our side as well as yours - who think inviting anyone to come here is ridiculous, and would gladly slaughter their enemies. Then there is still the occasional Indian. Anyway, as I told you, I agree with them." Lieutenant Buchwald finished his beer. "I don't need to tell you that war is a horrible thing, sir, and this one in particular since it's turned so bitter. I believe we ... soldiers have to recall how to treat each other with basic decency and respect, or how can we possibly expect to see home again?"

-----------------------------
21st June, 1780

"Nurse? The American cornet is waking up."

"Thank God."

Waymouth's first thought was that he must be dreaming. How long had he been asleep? Almost immediately his thoughts took a sharp right turn, thinking of his home in Massachusetts .... his son. Whatever happened to him? Oh yes.... He drifted off.

Then woke up, all at once, as someone forced his eyelid open. He stared unseeing for several moments at the skin-colored blur. He tried to rise, but found his body wouldn't obey him. Worse, his lungs decided they didn't want to work anymore and promptly caught on fire. He managed something between a hiss and a scream.

"Hold him." Waymouth focused on a maroon uniform as someone grabbed his shoulders. British. Christ, they were torturing him. He struggled, but it was no good.

Someone poured something down his throat, it tasted like alcohol. He tried to spit it out, but his tormentor mercilessly held his jaw shut and waited for him to swallow. "Good, very good."

Almost immediately his lungs eased up, his breathing steadied and the Brit released him. Waymouth focused on a...woman? A young woman with curly brown hair. She studied him intently, as if looking for something, then smiled.

"Where?" Waymouth croaked.

"Safe. You're safe."

"My men?"

The smile faded. In fact, she frowned. "Probably back behind your lines."

"Prisoner?" His eyes followed the redcoat as he stepped across the room.

"Guest. We didn't put you back together just to let anyone hurt you, Cornet. You're safe, I promise."

Promises were rather worthless without names. Waymouth coughed weakly. For a moment his lungs woke up and he gasped, then the pain faded again. "Who?"

"You can call me Miss Rafferty. Cassandra Rafferty."
 
Draco Rexus: Exeter said he has a surprise for you, but he needs to know your ISP address and any firewall protocols you have.

He says it's a cake...

LewsTherin: Thanks!
So....since Exeter's been invited to the AARA that means I'm in, right??? :D

Oh, how did you know Sauron's in the AAR?? * runs *

Stuyvesant: It seems my villians are more memorable than my good guys. I wonder what that says about me! :eek:

The war....well, see my comment for Treize :)

TreizeV: I liked that quote too!

Yes, now the English are getting slaughtered...unfortunately I really have no choice if I want a decent peace settlement. For example I have 1000 cavalry taking over Hudson Bay and Newfoundland JUST to run up the warscore and try to bring them to the table. Even with all those defeats, the English don't make their first peace offer 'til October - and that's just 130 gold. Hmf.

Still, it should only be a matter of time....I hope. EU2 sometimes gets weird with wars. I just played another game and I think Mexico and Spain slugged it out for nearly 20 years...and finally Mexico payed a few hundred gold - no land changed hands.
 
CatKnight said:
So....since Exeter's been invited to the AARA that means I'm in, right??? :D

Oh, how did you know Sauron's in the AAR?? * runs *
Click to expand...

Welcome to the meetings!

Well, it seemed that there is someone with an evil masterplan behind all the things that are happening. ;)
 
So... Ms Rafferty is still alive, eh? I foresee many ill-thought-out shenanigans as soon as Preston finds out about this. :) Should be fun to watch, indeed.

Regarding the memorability (if that is a word) of your villains, they are just so intensely dislikeable. :D While I like the conflict of interest that Tom Heyward has between his immediate, American, and future, British, loyalty, it is much more cerebral than the visceral dislike I experience after reading about Rutledge's political machinations and Exeter's vicious military plots. And with Exeter blowing his hapless subordinate out of the saddle for voicing common-sense doubt, that dislike is only likely to increase. :)
 
Lews Therin: Thanks! Hm...Sauron...I could fit him in. Let me think about this...

Stuyvesant: Yes, let's hope John doesn't find out for a little while. :X

LOL - So I'm good at writing dislikeable characters. That doesn't help!

Well...to be honest, I kinda like Rutledge and Exeter too. They're SO easy to write for...
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Top Bottom
Back