We Can't All Be Heroes

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"We all can't be heroes, for someone has to sit on the curb and clap as they go by." - Will Rogers

Welcome to this, my first AAR. As it's only my first AAR, I appreciate all comments, feedback, abuse, anything. Let me know if I did something well or something badly, as I'm feeling my way at the moment and appreciate any help I can get.

This AAR is based on an EUII game I played several months ago, using the excellent ExtraWATK modification, which adds a good number of AGCEEP events and features to the WATK map.

However, the modification I used and, indeed, the game I played, will not have much bearing on the AAR. I will not start by introducing the country I am playing (although it should become obvious quite early on). I will not entertain you with witty accounts of my gameplay. I will instead attempt to tell the story of one small slice of this alternate world. Not the whole story, of course, for that would be not only impractical but impossible. Even meticulously to write, minute by minute, day by day, year by year, the events as they unfold would not suffice to whole story. Just as the only truly accurate map of a sovereign's territory is the territory itself, the only way to experience the entirety of a story is to live it, from one moment to the next.

To summarise, or perhaps translate: This will be a Narrative AAR, covering only a few years of my game's history.

Before I get into it, I'd like to acknowledge the debt I owe to Director's wonderful A Special Providence, which inspired me to write something, anything; to just write.​

​

* * *


Updates​

1. Introducing...
2. A Call to Apathy is Ignored​

 

[CatKnight]

:grabs popcorn:

Always good to get in on the ground floor of a narrative. The nice thing about these is you don't need to worry about the game too much and can just concentrate on your characters.

Also, I agree. Pretty much anything written by Director is worth looking at.

Good luck!

 

[unmerged(63567)]

Good to see you, CatKnight! I recently started reading Resurrection, and I'm trying to race you to the end. I think you might win, but I'm giving it a shot.

First (short) update should be up tomorrow.

S-G.

 

[The Swert]

I'll follow this, I usually miss the start of narratives which leaves me all confused and I turn off. If I catch the start i've got no excuse not to follow it.

Btw I think I know which country this will be considering the other thread you wrote. Should be good. Nice title picture too.

 

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Hello, The Swert! (Is it "Hello, The Swert!" or "Hello, Swert!" like "Hello, White Stripes!"?).

And while that may be the setting for the story, that's not the country that I played. Oddly enough.

First update will be up very soon.

S-G.

 

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And we're off!

Introducing...​

Life is a dance for two. — Antonio considered, observing the merriment around him — Earth used to dance on its own, self-centered, complete. Now, it is paired with the sun, a waltz for two spanning years, the diurnal rhythm of their revolutions inspiring countless others down their centuries. Two partners, isn't that always the way? The light of one, the darkness of the other, isn't that how it goes? Christ danced with the Devil and came off better, didn't he? The good and the evil, that's the crux of it, if you believe the Church. Good and evil, Christian and Moor, Pope and Antipope, Orthodox and Heathen. Couldn't the conflicts of history be seen as the dance of hero and villain? Rome against the barbarians; Venice, Austria and Hungary against the Turk; the Holy League and the Huguenots; Christians and Pagans in the New World; the fight for souls in the north. Even the Habsburgs and the Bourbons (but let's not think too long on that one). All conflict is thus — concluded Antonio — with a protagonist and an antagonist. For all evil in the world, there is good. And for every reflection, there is an image.


Protagonist and antagonist, that is where it starts. To be sure, there are trills and arpeggios which add to this grandiose theme — the trusted but wilful lieutenant; the jovial companion; the put-upon servant; the fair maid who, if headstrong enough, can be called a heroine in her own right — but the music of the spheres, echoing through the heavens, tells of only one great cosmic narrative. It is that of Jove and Saturn; it is that of new and old, light and dark, Lucifer and Yahweh, devil and god.


Hero and villain; this is where we begin and, in time, where we will end. For what is one without the other?​

 

[CatKnight]

Regarding Resurrection: Glad to have you aboard! I'm just entering the epilogue now.

Now you did ask for feedback. Don't take this as anything but personal opinion - I think you have the potential for a great story here.

You have a tendency to prolong your point, however. Shorter, crisper paragraphs are better. I've found they're easier for your readers to digest. Make your point, then go on.

I'll give you two examples:

I will not entertain you with witty accounts of my gameplay. I will instead attempt to tell the story of one small slice of this alternate world. Not the whole story, of course, for that would be not only impractical but impossible. Even meticulously to write, minute by minute, day by day, year by year, the events as they unfold would not suffice to whole story. Just as the only truly accurate map of a sovereign's territory is the territory itself, the only way to experience the entirety of a story is to live it, from one moment to the next.

I would have omitted the colored part. You'd made your point. "This is a narrative, not game play." By the time you reached 'Even meticulously' I was anxious for you to get on with it.

Life is a dance for two. — Antonio considered, observing the merriment around him — Earth used to dance on its own, self-centered, complete. Now, it is paired with the sun, a waltz for two spanning years, the diurnal rhythm of their revolutions inspiring countless others down their centuries. Two partners, isn't that always the way? The light of one, the darkness of the other, isn't that how it goes? Christ danced with the Devil and came off better, didn't he? The good and the evil, that's the crux of it, if you believe the Church. Good and evil, Christian and Moor, Pope and Antipope, Orthodox and Heathen. Couldn't the conflicts of history be seen as the dance of hero and villain? Rome against the barbarians; Venice, Austria and Hungary against the Turk; the Holy League and the Huguenots; Christians and Pagans in the New World; the fight for souls in the north. Even the Habsburgs and the Bourbons (but let's not think too long on that one). All conflict is thus — concluded Antonio — with a protagonist and an antagonist. For all evil in the world, there is good. And for every reflection, there is an image.

Unless Antonio is an unusually wordy fellow who contemplates too much for his own good, these are far too many comparisons. I would dump the stuff in wheat, and drop either the pink or silver. Either group makes your point in spades. Both together, especially when taken with the last part, again makes me want to skip ahead and find out what your next point is.

Again, this isn't meant as anything but (hopefully) helpful commentary and personal opinion. The ideal (which I don't always reach) is for each short paragraph to develop a single thought. That keeps your story from bogging down and keeps readers turning the page (or hitting next) to find out what you're up to.

In the end you have to go with what style feels right to you. You've pretty much promised us an epic. I'm anxious to see where you go with this!

 

[The Swert]

A very philosophic start there. I agree with Catknight, especially on that second example. For the first one I felt the story hadn't begun yet so felt it was ok.

Such an introduction has left me wanting more.

(and either Hello The Swert, Hello Swert or Hello Mr Swert is fine. I've had all three)

 

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Thanks for the feedback, and don't worry about me taking it the wrong way or anything. You've hit the nail on the head: I am unused to writing for an audience. The only fiction I've written since creative writing class in school three, four years ago has been brief scribblings for no-one's enjoyment but my own. The whole of this AAR will, for me, be not only a learning experience with regards to writing, but also with regards to writing for other people to read.

With regards to the specific criticisms, I agree that some examples can be happily thrown out, but this first update is really introducing our theme rather than our narrative. The next update will take care of that.

It'll be a long one. See how you like it.

S-G.

 

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A Test Of Stamina

A Call to Apathy is Ignored​

But who are the heroes? — Antonio fretted — It all seemed so clear before; so big and simple. The Habsburgs are in the right, obviously. They have to be; I was a Habsburg myself, practically — He smirked at the past tense, already creeping in, and toyed with his wine — I worked for them and in their stead. We at the court ruled our lord but by God's wounds we were Habsburgs to the bone! To care about such things, how foolish! But I did care, and I thought that the others did, too. As it turned out, many of the court felt no loyalty to the bloodline of our lords, believed not in the oaths of fealty they had taken, believed not in the rightness of their cause or the villainy of the Bourbons, believed in nothing, nothing at all. Even my friends and allies, who worked with me, in the end, for the claim of Archduke Carlos, were driven by nothing other than money and fear. Both of which the Godforsaken Venetians had in no short supply.

Still, I was sure I was on the right side. The pro-Habsburg faction were petty and spiteful, yes. They were driven by ulterior motives, sure. They were even, at times, downright bastards. But I always knew them to be the heroes. Perspectives can change, though. And be changed.


Seated in a bar in El Raval — having made the exodus, like much of Barcelona, to that den of iniquity and good times — Antonio, surrounded by revellers, was alone in his introspection. Indeed, he seemed a solemn oasis surrounded by a desert flowing with drink. Oblivious though he may have been to the celebration surrounding him, he had been the focus of no small amount of attention earlier in the evening. Even after all attempts to toast him had been met with nothing so much as blank incomprehension, he still commanded more than the passing attention of several merrymakers, including a young barmaid eager to find a hero of her own and two young men anxiously glancing in his direction.

Since the public proclamation of Catalonia's support for the bid of the Austrian Archduke for the throne of Spain and its subsequent secession from the illegitimate Bourbon state ruled from Madrid by the impostor Philip, the city had been in celebration. The prospect of another Habsburg King of Spain was less the cause for celebration, though, than the prospect of a King permanently indebted to the Principality of Catalonia for his throne. Imagine— a truly Catalan King of Spain, at last: King Carlos III! Or, indeed, Carles III, as the fantasy Catalan monarch would, of course, have to be called — even by his Castillan lords and advisors! How the Catalan name would grate on them as the words of flattery dripped from their tongues. Words spoken in Catalan, of course! Just imagine it...

Although the prospective King would be a German-speaking Austrian, this was the thinking that led to the hasty decoration of countless bars, houses and plazas throughout the port city of Barcelona with the red and gold of Catalonia that afternoon. It was the same thinking that led to the celebrations in which Antonio was a reluctant participant. Indeed, 'participant' is perhaps too generous a title for a man occupied only with his own thoughts, feeling out of place and unable to truly celebrate the independence of the homeland that he had been ignoring since his employment at court.

The celebrations were becoming too loud and too enthusiastic for the reserved Antonio, and he was making inconspicuously for the exit when he was accosted by two men, not as young as they seemed at first glance, who had been watching over him for some time. The larger man, a boyish-looking fellow who was routinely called "son" by his peers and whose cheeky grin could make every joke seem hilarious and every annoyance seem insurmountable, grabbed Antonio firmly by the elbow. He was not grinning now, and had not since seeing his charge curiously unresponsive to the praise lavished upon him and the drinks raised in his honour.

"Where are you going?" The boyish man whispered, urgently, "You're a bloody hero to these people! What's it going to look like if you sneak out?"

"It wasn't supposed to look like anything, Lluis, you idiot." Antonio said, resignedly, "Hence the 'sneaking' part." Lluis did not reply to this display of sophistry. "Anyway, what's it looked like with me sitting in the corner the past hour? You know I can't take any of this adoration."

"I know," the smaller man whispered urgently, as Lluis turned to fend off questing glances from the other patrons, "But couldn't you at least be happy with them? Or even for them? I'm unhappy about it all, too, but the story is just so neat this way. You, a native son, leave court in disgust when the Bourbon is proclaimed King and then convince the Generalitat to secede — for love of mother, country and fellow man, no less — the story's far too perfect to be true, but perfect enough to get a life of its own."

"But I never wanted this!" Antonio exclaimed, "None of us did!"

"Shut up," hissed the smaller man, "Whether or not we wanted it, this is what's happening. Understood? You can't change things, Antonio. You've just got to make the best of it. And besides, being a hero might not be so bad. You're set up for life, if you're a hero."

"You remind me of someone, Jaime." Antonio observed, sadly.

"Who's that? And it's Jaume around these people."

"Just some complete bastard from before. You don't understand, do you? I had principles. I had a cause. I wasn't a hero and I'm damn sure not one now but I swear to God I had principles."

Seeing that Antonio's despondency was beginning to reach an audible level, Lluis chose that fortuitous moment to introduce the new friends he had made with his customary speed. "Antoní! I don't believe you've had the pleasure of meeting my friends! Who, in turn, have not had the pleasure of meeting you!" He grinned, and, steadying the more visibly intoxicated of his newfound comrades, introduced them as Xavier and Nicolau.

"Wonderful," groaned Antonio, "Congratulations isn't secession great and so on off you go now."

"To you, sir, and King Carles of Aragon and Castile! Not th'other way 'round! Haha." The one who was probably Nicolau decided that this was the time to wax eloquent. "He'll be brilliant, you know. He'll probably make us the capital, too. And... and he'll give us medals an' everythin'."

There was a pause, as Nicolau's brain caught up with it's alcohol content. Antonio took it upon himself to fill it, "Carlos? You think the Austrian is the answer to everything?"

There was a longer pause. Operating on the basis that silence brings consent, Antonio continued, "When Carlos' army has taken Madrid — and a fine Catalonian army it will be then, full of servants of the Doge: Dalmatians, Candians and Mantovans, to say nothing of the Austrians and Hungarians — that Habsburg lord will proclaim himself King of all Spain and her Empire, and become as Castilian as Philip and as was his cousin. To him, as to all great princes, we are but an expedient: a means to an end." Giving the impression of speaking through clenched teeth while still being perfectly audible, he continued, "Once Carlos' end has been achieved, our utility will be compromised. At this juncture, he will dispose of you: heap praise upon your generals, erect monuments to your dead and then ignore you as thoroughly as every monarch since the accession of the first Carlos. Trust my words; the only thing more lacking in a prince than a sense of friendship is that of gratitude. Expect nothing from Carlos."

Lluis frowned in concern, Jaume raised his eyes heavenward in exasperation and probably-Xavier ventured, "So... you mean we shouldn't fight on his side, then?"

Antonio paused, frozen, for a second, and then straightened — assuming, for the first time, the bearing that was expected of him. He moistened his lips, and then, with the intensity of an orator, began to speak.

"Certainly, fight. Fight until the blood of Catalan heroes runs thick through the streets of Madrid. Do not bow before the Bourbons of France and of Castile! Though they burn your crops, kill your beasts and despoil your women—" Antonio seemed at last to notice that the crowd had fallen silent, waiting on his next word, drinking him in. With a careful pause, he continued, "Though these agents of oppression try all they may, they will no, nay, cannot achieve their goal: they will not turn you, men of Catalonia, into their slaves! These lands are not theirs for the taking, and we will not mutely work them like beasts: dumb dependable servants to our Castilian overlords! Such a thing will not happen, for I say that it shall not!"

Amid the cheers of assent that greeted his assertion, a grim smile flickered on his lips, noticeable only to one observing with rapt attention, not the words, but the man himself.

"I know that we will not bow to these overlords, my friends, for I see within each of you the same passion I feel inside of me. I see indomitability of spirit marked in every eye, in every jaw, in your proud posture and in the roar of your voices. Against our collective will, no army can stand; no fortress can hold! Therefore, fight I say, and fight well! With valorous Archduke Carles by your side and with God leading you, fight for family, country and yourselves: the men of Catalonia!"

As the tumult greeting this final, resounding pronouncement swelled and grew, none noticed Antonio mutter, as he slumped back into his chair, "... But do not pretend that you will benefit any man of Catalonia but me."

* * *​

Avalanches begin with a snowflake. Journeys begin with a single step.

If the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, on what do the saints lightly tread when they make their way to meet Saint Peter?

The contents of one bar emptied onto the unsuspecting streets, and quickly became two, three, five, and soon what seemed like most of Barcelona was on the pavements and in the plazas. Even the most cynical and the most genial of men found themselves swept up in the wave. Incensed by rhetoric of war, they took their patriotic fervour and righteous rage out wherever they could.

Under civilised house arrest since the secession, the Bourbon viceroy of Catalonia, Luis Fernandez, Count of Palma, was woken by the roar of the mob, rolling like thunder around the city. The storm was breaking.

And in a bar now deserted, General Antoní, the great liberator of Catalonia and hero of Aragon, sat and partook of the greatest liberator of all, drinking determinedly until dawn.​

 

[The Swert]

I already like Antonio. Although, I know nothing about the War of Spanish Succession, didn't even know it occurred. So I'm eager to read on about it.

One critque: I think that sentence "Since the public proclamation..." has too many clauses and is biting off more than it can chew. Maybe splitting it into two sentences could've been better there.

 

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I'm glad! We'll be seeing a bit more of good old Antonio in the future. And I agree with your criticism — that sentence just didn't know when to say die, did it?

I've got exams this week and next, so don't expect the third update before, probably, Friday or Saturday.