Allevatore_dicapre

In a usurped kingdom , amid a war-torn and  blood-soaked Italy, Conradin's battleground is set. To reclaim his birthright the crown of Sicily,  he must tread a path paved with blood, learning that he must do whatever it takes to ascend the throne.




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In the year 1266, the tale of Conradin, the last scion of an ancient imperial dynasty, unfolds. His once-great kingdom, Sicily, has been ruthlessly usurped first by his own uncle and now rests in the hands of the cunning French Count Charles. Through a treacherous plot involving the Pope, Charles managed to oust the Hohenstaufen from the Kingdom of Sicily and crowned himself as its king.

In the East, powers such as the Despotate of Epirus are keenly observing the instability in Sicily, poised to seize any advantage that may arise from the chaos. Meanwhile, the small Italian communes are caught in the political crossfire, aligning themselves with one side of the conflict or the other based on the prevailing political party in power and their vested interests. These shifting allegiances turn the Italian peninsula into a powder keg, where all-out war seems inevitable.

As the shadows of history close in around Conradin, the world watches with bated breath. Will he emerge triumphant, his name forever etched in the annals of Sicilian glory as the rightful king who defied insurmountable odds, toppling both the Pope and the usurper? Or will he, in his valiant struggle, become a tragic figure, a symbol of lost opportunities and shattered dreams? The future of Sicily hangs in the balance, and Conradin's destiny remains uncertain, poised on the precipice of history.

The return of the fallen king

As the tavern's raucous laughter and clinking mugs filled the air, Conradin turned to Frederick, a curious glint in his eye. "Tell me, Frederick," he began, his words slightly slurred from the ale, "when did you start... this peculiar hobby of blending in with the lesser born?"

Frederick's voice grew softer as he delved into his past, his eyes filled with the distant memories of a younger, more curious version of himself. The flickering candlelight seemed to dance in the shadows cast by their hoods as he started his tale.

"You see, when I was just a child, there was a knight in our service who hailed from humble beginnings. He was a man of great skill and unwavering loyalty, but he had a peculiar habit. Every week, he would return to the palace with fresh wounds, sporting black eyes and tattered attire. As a young and inquisitive boy, I couldn't help but be both fascinated and somewhat afraid of this enigmatic figure."

Drinking like peasent(2)