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The Ghost of Veggius van Bronckhorst

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Everything posted by The Ghost of Veggius van Bronckhorst

  1. At least the striker selection has become easier, with Agugu's Annual Hospital Vacation So guys I can uh I can have a Newcastle player right Right
  2. Yes, except for the minor flaw where 7 of my players didn't play
  3. Coda, for Joost and others when they have the INTERNET again and can read this: I have discovered that in the 1066 start, you can start as King Sancho of Castille In his court is a certain DIEGO RODRIGUEZ of the obscure VIRAR house You can grant him a county or two, and then switch characters to this man But who is this man, and why does he start with 26 Martial and as a friend of King Sancho? Because he is none other than our friend, our heroe,
  4. I am VILMOS, the MASTERMIND PHILOSOPHER also all round COOL GUY. I am just RAD. Some people don't get it. They don't get how awesome I am. They say I'm Arbitrary, Fickle, and Craven. But you know what? I'm the king. I'm the EMPEROR. And they can SUCK IT, as my late dad once said in a cabinet meeting. Actually, I lied. I know I'm just Vilmos the Village Idiot. I know. I just don't want to admit it. I'm just so fucking useless. I'm Arbitrary, Fickle, and Craven. I just can't do it, I can't. I can't suck it. While I battle my inner emo, the country is finally rumbling apart after a century of stagnant peace. My vassals tell me that I can no longer fire them, take away their titles, or ask them to pour me orange juice in the morning. I reply that man without freedom is but a pig without his sty. For some reason, they took that as a refusal, and rebelled en masse. Ungvar sees blood like it hasn't seen since the days of Lamps. Even the unwashed peasants, here seen wearing decidedly unpeasantlike attire, are rebelling. You know, back in the day, we used to just murder all of you. The good old days, when we had law and order. My concubine birthes my son and heir, as is the recent Arpad tradition. I name him "Attila", in hopes that he will bring peace to this troubled realm. The rebels have captured me! This is very embarrassing. I wasn't able to bring all my horn figurines to the jail. Now what will I do philosophy with? Oh, now, that's rude. I thought you guys wanted a society where employment is secure. The rebels decide that the one-year-old Attila will make a better Emperor than me. I mean, alright, but it's still rude. I watch on from my jail as Attila is immediately coerced into signing away our taxes, our titles, and half our territory. It's impressive how they put all those quills on his toes. The farce does not last long, however. The same rebels that rebelled against me to put Attila on the throne, subsequently rebelled against Attila to put me on the throne. God bless primogeniture laws. But how to prevent this from happening again? First, we try imprisoning the entire realm. This actually works very well for a while. The jails are full, and people have begun to write books about the Prison-Feudal Complex, but I'm still Emperor. I can even enjoy royal life again a little, like jousting my vassals in good fun, and my vassals losing on purpose to make the Emperor feel good. Wait, I thought you were going to lose on purpo- My horn! My horn! Things are getting worse and worse. I'm bleeding all over, and my vassals are once again clamouring for rebellion. It pains me to do this, but there's only one way to stop the unrest. Can't depose me for my son if I have no son. Eh? Eh? Vilmos, you're a genius. After that, nobody wants to join me on weekly horn night. My life is now reduced to constantly being on the run from roaming rebel forces, executing whoever I can manage to get my hands on. It's a tough life, the roadie life. One day, we just run out of food. There's nothing to eat on the march. Oh, sure, we still had vegetables, and grains, and potatoes, but that's not food. Who the hell eats potatoes? The only source of meat to be had was, well.. It turns out that cannibalism solves both of my problems: my hunger problem, and my rebellious vassal problem. Vilmos, you're a genius. Such a genius, really, that I can't handle it. The history books will write that Vilmos Arpad, born to a heretic faith, educated in witchcraft, deposed by his own infant son, murderer of his own infant son, cannibal, and all-round village idiot, would finally set fire to his own realm. But I'm a genius. That's all it was. Just... things went wrong, somewhere. Horribly wrong. I even suspect things went horribly wrong long before I was born. The Grand Empire of the Arpads is disintegrating before my eyes into a dozen Hippocampic Nation-States. My realm is reduced to a tiny slice of the Hungarian wasteland, and a few dozen servants as my retinue. A pitiful number. Especially since I'll have to eat most of them. I can see it in their eyes, their lack of conviction, their lack of horn. They just wish I would go ahead and die already. Well, leave, all of you! Leave me be! Be gone! Except you, you and you. Stick around for dinner, won't you? And so it ends: first as tragedy, then as farce, then as crimes against humanity. The Arpads, rising from Hungarian obscurity to Emperordom, recede again into the pages of history, after 250 years of largely murderous adventuring. Vilmos, the Last Emperor, is long remembered for his pettiness and spite. And what of the Hippocampic faith? Without its Empire, it would splinter and fade under persecution, driven underground, until all had believed its teachings lost in time. Lost, that is, until a long time later, in a land far away...
  5. The Temujin lost an arm somewhere, and promptly decided that white people weren't worth the bother The Twisty Tales of the Latter Day Arpads Hi, I'm Sz...cz...szcz...scv...shillvester. I'm the Emperor now. I'm also the spiritual vanguard of the great Hippocampic awakening against the Catholic conspiracy. Or that's what my dad told me, before he crocked it. I don't really understand, myself. This is my cat, Moushe. He's just the nicest animal in the whole wide world. He keeps going into the kitchen and staring at the fire, though. I think it soothes him. My wife hates Moushe, and says he must go. Sorry, lady. Moushe will always be with me. Always. Moushe occasionally rubs other people the wrong way, and brings back their ribbings. Something about 'covens of witches'. Sounds like utter balderdash, don't you think? Nothing to do with us. Wait, what was that? A woman's voice, but she is nowhere to be found! She speaks to me of the Horned God. I am mesmerised. A voice without body - what could it be but powerful celestial beings? Totally can't have anything to do with that frumpy lady Moushe rubbed the other day. It all makes sense now. This must be what my dad was always telling me about, inbetween all the strange Hippocampic rites with asparagus. The Hippocampic faith finally begins to spread outside the Empire, first catching on with the inhabitants of some miserable swampland on the other side of the continent. I suppose they must really be desperate. They even have some Copts. But as for me, my life has purpose now. I have a mission. The lay, casual, popular version of the Hippocampic faith may be good enough for the unwashed servants. But we, we few, we the chosen, we the servants of the HORN GOD, are special. You, too, can be part of the Horny Cabal, Duke Zsolt. I knew you wouldn't refuse. I wanted to invite Mark to the Horny Cabal, but he just winked at me and showed me his horn. I'm a little disturbed, but that's OK. Even as I spread the elite Hippocampic faith, I must also steward the broader doctrine. A failure to intercourse deserves the harshest of public transgressions. Duke Vladimir is commanded to fornicate until his balls turn blue, or be excommunicated. Speaking of fornication, my concubine birthes Vilmos, the Next Great Arpad. The Arpad line at this point is entirely carried on through a rotating chamber of concubines. Oh no. Oh, no. After decades of improbably long life, Moushe has turned into mush. My friend, my only friend. There is nothing in this world for me now, but the Horny God. Some of my advisors found out about the Horny Cabal, and accuse me of witchery. Excuse me, but it's not an occult conspiracy if it's real! You want to see my horn? Huh? Do you? The plan for the Cabal is simple. I will fornicate until I have half a dozen children. Then I shall school them in the ways of the horn from a young age. After twenty short years, we are a family of hornies. The Hippocampic Faith shall conquer all. There's just one problem. Vilmos, my heir, is apparently a world-renowned idiot. Will Vilmos be able to complete the Hippocampic destiny? I must confess, I have moments of doubt. Perhaps the Horny Cabal was all a lie. I know it's crazy, but I doubt his existence every time I put on the Horny costume to start weekly cabal night. Maybe this was all a mistake. I just can't stop myself. The other day I started talking about my sagging enthusiasm for horns in the middle of a cabinet meeting. I'm not sure everybody understood what I was talking about. Oh, Mouche. You understood me. Where are you, Mouche? I just couldn't bear it any longer. Reports indicate that I screamed about the many sins of the Arpads, and that the Empire was "just a bunch of idiots sucking on a bigger idiot", and many other things, before they eventually took me away. People are starting to talk. "Maybe having a witch Emperor, right after a heretical cult founder Emperor, after a serial kinslayer Emperor, isn't so great", they'd say. "I mean, they haven't actually done any governing for decades now", they'd say. Crazy talk, I know. But that's peasants for you. Well, in the end, none of this is my problem anymore. Vilmos the Idiot will have to restore the glory of an old and tired dynasty. Mouche, will I see you in the afterlife?
  6. The Sixth? Tale of the Increasingly Heretical Arpads YOU. You're not with them, are you? Are you? I don't believe you. "I'm not with them." That's exactly what they'd say. They're everywhere, you know. They offed my dad, too. 'Didn't you see him throw himself off the castle', you say? Oh, that's exactly what they'd say. They're out to get me. I know it. My wife just can't conceive. "It must just be bad luck, dear," she says. Horseradish. There's no such thing as luck. Everything is engineered by them. I sometimes hear eery sounds at night in the castle, on rainy nights. People call me it's "thunder", but I know better. It's invisible waves in the air, turning people's genitals into frogs. They are trying to end the Arpad line. My advisors gently try to point out that perhaps the real reason is that my brilliant wife is also a raving lunatic. I have my advisors killed. "We demand our independence as ethnically and culturally distinct Galician-Volhynians", they say. Pumpernickel. There's no such thing as Galicia-Volhynia. The flags they wave, they're false. Yet I have no choice but to accept. Beset by endless foes, I turn to God for deliverance. A man named Nicolaus says he has all the answers. He tells me that everything is the fault of the god damned heathens, and if only we kick them out of our lands, all shall be well. It's so obvious to me now. My bedside troubles were just manifestations of the illegal infidels preying on my dong. Yes, Nicolaus! I accept the Crusade. Take my money, take all my money, and wage war on the infidel lands of... "Pomerania". I take a pilgrimage to prepare myself for the Holy War, or as Nicolaus calls it, the "boogie loo". But on the way, I contract some kind of horrible illness, no doubt a gift from them. The symptoms are distressing: a giant pimple now protrudes from my forehead. It might be infidel cancer. I contracted a foreign physician, but she turned out to be one of them. I knew it. Those god damned foreigners. I would never have hired her, except the only skilled physicians were all foreigners. I'm sure that was a coincidence. From a distance, I hear tales that the Crusade went ahead without me. We received some compensation, but I feel empty inside. Was I right to listen to Nicolaus? Was I just being played for some other fat fuck to grab himself a Kingdom? Is God really with this channel? No, no. Even Nicolaus must be with them, I realise. They are all with them. They are all them. Them they them. There is only one answer. If the Church too is corrupt, I must build my own Church. My advisors have sent me a nice little catalogue: "Your First Religion: All the Mortgage and Financing Options". Ooh, astrology, that sounds fun. Carnal Exaltation also sounds great. It's very expensive, but you know what they say - buy it for life. Finally, my new religion will feature a professional class of nerds tasked to argue about the different interpretations of each message from an anonymous prophet that goes by a single letter of the alphabet. Nothing can go wrong. If your wife won't conceive, then you, too, can just create your own religion with a concubine orthodoxy! Let no one say that we are not an inclusive religion. We hate heretics, infidels, the gays, women, and Catholics, but otherwise, everyone is welcome. But what shall be the name and symbol for our new, totally genuine Christian sect? Sounds right. My vassals quickly join me in Hippocampic Salvation. A few resist, but they eventually convert. Or I assume they do, just before the beheading. Being the leader of a new religious sect has given me so much freedom and confidence. I gaze out onto the stars for meaning, confident that they no longer control my destiny. Every week, I summon one of my vassals to my court. There, standing on my custom-made podium designed to make me look tall, I DEBATE my vassals civilly on the finer points of why they are despicable and I am the defender of the faith. Oh, they give it a good go, but eventually, I DESTROY them, and put up an artist's rendering in the public square for all to see. Every week. The Hippocampic faith has also galvanised my dormant Arpad predilection for conquest, admittedly dormant as my dad and granddad spent 30 years fucking and murdering each. The Crotchs, who once briefly usurped the Hungarian throne, shall finally have their just desserts. All this flurry of activity is starting to get to me. But I can hold it together. I must. Every night, I continue to write for hours about their demonic plot to take over Hungarian society. It is my duty, and I shall persevere. What's that, you say? We've captured the Crotch Queen? Bring her to my chambers. She will have lost Crotch, but will gain another as my concubine. All this concubining has finally given me a son and heir, Szil. His mother is some harlot from god knows where, but it matters not. You, sonny, will make Carpathia Great Again. More vassals join the one true Hippocampus. But strangely, all this success only seems to bring more worries. I cannot stop thinking about them. They are still out to get me. They are, they are. This pickled head shall protect my feet from their machinations. No longer will they use toe worms to infiltrate my brain. I'll call this head "John". The Hippocampic Faith spreads quickly across the Empire, like some kind of cross-continental oil spill. The war for my soul continues. I continue to write the Hippocampic Manifesto each day, writing the holy words that shall hold our faith for a Thousand Years of Glory. Bring me more corpses, more ink! More! I take to burning large chunks of my enemies as midnight oil. In their fleshly purgatory shall I perceive the divine. Thick in the fumes, I am safe from them. Surrounded by my pickled John, my corpse ink, my many pages of divine scripture, I am... Dead? Of natural causes? No, no, no, no. Maybe it was my all-meat diet.
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