- Pronouns
- He
[X] Tilting
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Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest
- Thread starter Rolman
- Start date
- Mature Historic
Rolen von Keng
Sleeping Green Bear
- Location
- The Wilderness
[X] Tilting.
We absolutely need to do more martial things until we grow desensitized to it. I'm a bit sad that I wasn't here for the earlier votes though.
We absolutely need to do more martial things until we grow desensitized to it. I'm a bit sad that I wasn't here for the earlier votes though.
Sertorius on Orsza and Offices
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
Orsza actually has some history behind it. A border town, it was the site of 3 battles against Muscovy (1508, 1514, 1564). The most famous of these is of course the great victory in the second battle, where the Grand Lithuanian Hetman Prince Konstanty Ostrogski crushed a numerically superior enemy force. Fun fact: a few years earlier he was taken prisoner by Moscow, but managed to escape after feigning cooperation and swearing oaths before the Moscow Metropolitan (he was Orthodox) to serve the local Grand Duke. Keep in mind, such changes in allegiance happened surprisingly often, with Ruthenian Princes from both sides of the border going over to the enemy. Prince Mikołaj Radziwiłł the Red commanded in that last battle from ten years back.
The place is right next to the Dniepr river. It's Starosta is Filon Kmita-Czarnobylski (or just Filon Kmita, the second part is due to him becoming the owner of Czarnobyl... yes, that Chernobyl), an Orthodox middle nobleman from Ruthenia-Ukraine, that stayed in the service of the GDL after his home became part of the Crown. He was a frontier fighter of great skill and renown that raided Muscovite lands more than once during the Livonian Wars, now he sits there and guards the border, while collecting any useful intel.
A few words about the office:
There are a lot of offices for the rich and mighty (well, not that many, but they are diverse) and even more for the regular nobles (but still not enough for everyone).
You see, because titles have been banned, the nobles wished to elevate their names by holding an office. The vast majority of offices were only titular and symbolic. They had to do literally nothing. Even so, with that many nobles in the Commonwealth, there was still a great hunger for more titles because there weren't enough posts for everybody. Therefore the country has developed an unprecedented rule (again). Children and grandchildren of an office holder held their own honorary titles based upon the post of their ancestor. So, a son of a Starosta was a Starościc, and a grandson of one was a Starostowicz. Of course this rule was for the regular nobles, since the rich were always guaranteed to have some offices of their own so they did not bother with this nonsense.
A Castellan (Kasztelan) was mostly a symbolic office, but of senatorial rank (he was a member of the Senate, that sat and discussed with the King during parliamentary sessions). It's an office given mostly to the middle nobles and some rich ones (the Kasztelan of Kraków was formally the highest secular senatorial office, but it was mostly for prestige). The military formally had only Hetman offices (high command), while a Regimentarz was a temporary substitute chosen by a Hetman, the King as Commander-in-Chief or by the soldiers themselves, when the regular ones were unavailable for one reason or the other. The highest regular rank in the military was one of Colonel (Pułkownik). Above him were the Hetmans. A noble cannot be forced to serve, unless in the levée en masse, therefore the King cannot send us to an obscure post if we don't want it, since with our money and private armies we can do whatever we want militarily. As for an office to govern, 9/10 a rich noble never even visited the place, being happy with the title and letting a subordinate do the hard work, while he spends time in his estate drinking and partying.
Once a powerful office and now but a shadow of itself, the Castellan gets to only do one thing. To lead the local levée en masse to its concentration point designated by the Voivode. Since rich nobles have better things to do, this was almost never exercised. Castellans also have two branches: major and minor. The major ones (more important cities) had their own chairs in the Senate, while the minor ones sat in the very back of the gathering, next to the wall on a common bench. I couldn't find the info, by I'm fairly certain that Orsza is the latter. Furthermore, Castellans couldn't become Starostas and hold other Senatorial offices (unless they step down).
In general, Lithuanians serve on the Muscovite and Livonian border, while the Crownlanders serve in Ukraine.
I would also like to use the opportunity to say a few words about the Starostas, since they come up quite often. There are two kinds of them: Starosta grodowy (Town Starosta) and Starosta niegrodowy (Estate Starosta). The town one is the Starosta I've said about before, with administrative duties and law enforcement powers. Whatever income came from the Crown-owned lands and insitutions there were used to pay the Starosta and to keep the local administration running. The Estate Starosta was the classic sinecure found in other countries. Lands and estates, that were given to the holder by the Crown as tenancy. The rewarded noble paid the agreed upon sum in money or in kind, while keeping the rest for himself. Such a Starosta had none of the rights and duties of the regular one, being happy with the title and the hefty pay that came with it.
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[x] Tilting.
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
[X] Tilting
We need to show some good old Macho in front our peers before heading out for Orsza, especially with it being a border assignment, we need to make sure we're not rusty in case we have to fight
We need to show some good old Macho in front our peers before heading out for Orsza, especially with it being a border assignment, we need to make sure we're not rusty in case we have to fight
Solarstream
It's all in the cards
- Location
- Zombie World
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Tilting.
[X] Tilting.
- Location
- NY
[X] Feasting
X-III. March 1, 1574. Wawel, Kraków, Polish Crownlands.
- Location
- United States
Do you really want to do this? You're not quite sure. But you're sick of being looked down upon, and what red-blooded Polonian can't respect a jousting man? Stories of old King Henri with a splinter of lance in his eye swirled through your head, though. Nevertheless, you trained at the sport in France and, while not incompetent, you certainly found the chevaliers and gendarmes readier than you. And the manly atmosphere helps you at least pretend to know what you're doing.
You used some family coin to get yourself a set of good plates in a hurry, made by a Milanese expatriate working in his city's famed style. They've got some absolutely beautiful embossing, too: in the sun one can hardly see it on account of the shine, but scenes from the Iliad and floral motifs abound, framed in bronze and brass trim. With the coming of some good armor you feel a protection forming around you, a certain readiness, as the freshly-painted Radziwiłł livery on your shield makes you feel a stirring pride. But that doesn't quiet the sweat-soaked stirring.
A tilt is arranged with a Tęczyński sworn man by the name of Lacza. He's been wandering around talking rot about the pro-Imperial faction for some days now and apparently brought up your name. You sent out a herald with a challenge once the armor was fitted. It's a dangerous match: a Tęczyński man was murdered by your brief acquaintance, Samuel Zborowski — considered a Radziwiłł associate to a degree — just a few days prior. They walk with their honor on the line, embittered and vengeful. "Your Serene Highness, I'll try to not to batter you too badly," he says with a sanguine smile. "For I've heard you're the one as glass-like as your bottles."
There are spectators, as there always are. They hoot at the insult. You must return fire. "My lord, then you have never tussled with a real Lithuanian, clearly! It won't be my wine spilling." You tap your crooked nose. "This wasn't gained in an accident!"
"Ah, well, noses break easily, Your Serene Highness."
"I'm sure I'll be shaking when you come at me, clad in pots and pans, sir." Despite his sinful ways, you channel Sir Marszowski.
"And gold does not buy victory! It's a rather soft metal." But he's good at this.
"Soft, like yourself! But where are your riches?"
You're not sure if you came out on top, but you found yourself consulting with old Marszowski on jousting and verbal sparring alike. You hadn't talked to him for a few days; it's normal since Gosiewski, so he seemed surprised.
"Remember, lord prince: an unhorsing is an instant victory, more points for hits on the head and shield, fewer points for splintering or shattering your lance," he explains.
"Right, I recall that."
"I've never tilted before, though, I'm afraid, so I may not be much help." He shrugs and smiles. "You're young; be strong." He adds: "ehm… And go with God." It almost sounds like a question.
"Thank you, Sir Marszowski, may He keep me."
That was very little help, and van Gistel's a lifelong footman-artillerist. With no French friends in the city, it seems as if you must go in blind. You gulp.
The hour comes. You and Lacza circle the track, hailing the king and lords and ladies in attendance. You make sure to raise your lance extra high, head turned, as you pass a nail-biting Mariana and a cool-faced Marszowski; he just nods and gives a small wave. Was that cold?
But there's no time to think on that. The day is crisp, cold, and cloudless; you looked up and prayed before being suited up an hour ago. You salute Lacza and the time has come. Things feel far away through the slit of your visor, freshly-lowered, and your mind grows one-tracked. The blood whooshes through your ears. A cousin of the sensation during the ambush, perhaps, or maybe you're finally forming some callouses. His plates are actually quite nice (not as nice as yours, of course), and he glitters on the opposing end. And begins to move.
You spur your horse onward and the tunnel vision sets in, the fear doesn't so much dissipate but rather finds itself veiled. You see his shield and his head and the point of his lance.
Your lances barrel into each other perfectly, snapping on each other's points. Your arm jerks back slightly painfully. You let out a dry, breathless laugh of disbelief. Tie game.
A French squire hands you a new one. Time for another. The wind rushes over you once more, the thundering begins anew.
That one looks — crack! You fly backwards and kick up into the stirrups, unbroken lance flying from your hands. The crowd roars. Your back on your horse's, you swing your arms over your head for balance and manage to sit yourself up. Thankfully a hit to the shield; no more headaches, please, you think. Do not look at poor Mariana.
Nonetheless, You're rattled, and you thank God for the few moments' delay of getting your lost lance off the strip and returned to you. Once more.
This time, you feel the depth of your vision, of his charge toward you; your mind burns, you angle your lance up and are realize you're just a bit too low.
It shatters where his breastplate meets his helm and you get to see what he just did to you, holding firm through a glancing hit on your shield, splintering his lance-tip. You notice a faint swaying from Sir Lacza as the next tilt approaches, his glint tilting left and right slightly. You're up in points now, you reckon, but barely.
Something's off with him as you unhorse him with shocking, anticlimactic ease, his lance far off-track. He hits the earth with a rattling thud and takes a while to sit up. He rips off his helmet and jogs toward you. You raise your visor and look down at him.
"Goddamn you, Radziwiłł!" he roars in between coughs. "You little throat-punching bastard."
"Radziwiłł!" you repeat, filling with offense.
He wheezes. "Merely… Knocked my wind out — I'll…"
He seems to notice the booing; you do with him. He swings head about wildly. He shouts to be heard to those nearby: "I'll show you what I can really do, little boy — a duel with Hungarian sabers!" The older man raises a fist. "By Vespers, coward, in the courtyard."
People gasp and a hushed relating of information spreads through the stands. You look for Mariana and Marszowski and van Gistel but cannot see them. The King rises from his seat but a native minister whispers in his ear and he waves: go on.
[] "I refuse for the moment, on account of it being Saint David's Day; it would be a particular sin to kill you, sir."
Good work with adding some flair! While you're sincere, this also is an obvious delaying tactic and would seem mortifyingly cowardly otherwise; good Catholics, of which there are many, will say nothing. It'll still have to happen tomorrow, for Lacza's answer is all but certain and cannot be deferred. You'll at least have some time to train, though, which lowers a whole different kind of risk somewhat.
[] "Very well, sir. I will find satisfaction in having first blood."
The most flamboyant Sarmatians will balk, but honorable enough. You could be wounded, though, obviously.
[] You don't truly want to say it, but: "to the death, then, cur."
Let every man see what you're capable of! Quiet them all. You could be wounded or worse.
You used some family coin to get yourself a set of good plates in a hurry, made by a Milanese expatriate working in his city's famed style. They've got some absolutely beautiful embossing, too: in the sun one can hardly see it on account of the shine, but scenes from the Iliad and floral motifs abound, framed in bronze and brass trim. With the coming of some good armor you feel a protection forming around you, a certain readiness, as the freshly-painted Radziwiłł livery on your shield makes you feel a stirring pride. But that doesn't quiet the sweat-soaked stirring.
A tilt is arranged with a Tęczyński sworn man by the name of Lacza. He's been wandering around talking rot about the pro-Imperial faction for some days now and apparently brought up your name. You sent out a herald with a challenge once the armor was fitted. It's a dangerous match: a Tęczyński man was murdered by your brief acquaintance, Samuel Zborowski — considered a Radziwiłł associate to a degree — just a few days prior. They walk with their honor on the line, embittered and vengeful. "Your Serene Highness, I'll try to not to batter you too badly," he says with a sanguine smile. "For I've heard you're the one as glass-like as your bottles."
There are spectators, as there always are. They hoot at the insult. You must return fire. "My lord, then you have never tussled with a real Lithuanian, clearly! It won't be my wine spilling." You tap your crooked nose. "This wasn't gained in an accident!"
"Ah, well, noses break easily, Your Serene Highness."
"I'm sure I'll be shaking when you come at me, clad in pots and pans, sir." Despite his sinful ways, you channel Sir Marszowski.
"And gold does not buy victory! It's a rather soft metal." But he's good at this.
"Soft, like yourself! But where are your riches?"
You're not sure if you came out on top, but you found yourself consulting with old Marszowski on jousting and verbal sparring alike. You hadn't talked to him for a few days; it's normal since Gosiewski, so he seemed surprised.
"Remember, lord prince: an unhorsing is an instant victory, more points for hits on the head and shield, fewer points for splintering or shattering your lance," he explains.
"Right, I recall that."
"I've never tilted before, though, I'm afraid, so I may not be much help." He shrugs and smiles. "You're young; be strong." He adds: "ehm… And go with God." It almost sounds like a question.
"Thank you, Sir Marszowski, may He keep me."
That was very little help, and van Gistel's a lifelong footman-artillerist. With no French friends in the city, it seems as if you must go in blind. You gulp.
The hour comes. You and Lacza circle the track, hailing the king and lords and ladies in attendance. You make sure to raise your lance extra high, head turned, as you pass a nail-biting Mariana and a cool-faced Marszowski; he just nods and gives a small wave. Was that cold?
But there's no time to think on that. The day is crisp, cold, and cloudless; you looked up and prayed before being suited up an hour ago. You salute Lacza and the time has come. Things feel far away through the slit of your visor, freshly-lowered, and your mind grows one-tracked. The blood whooshes through your ears. A cousin of the sensation during the ambush, perhaps, or maybe you're finally forming some callouses. His plates are actually quite nice (not as nice as yours, of course), and he glitters on the opposing end. And begins to move.
You spur your horse onward and the tunnel vision sets in, the fear doesn't so much dissipate but rather finds itself veiled. You see his shield and his head and the point of his lance.
Your lances barrel into each other perfectly, snapping on each other's points. Your arm jerks back slightly painfully. You let out a dry, breathless laugh of disbelief. Tie game.
A French squire hands you a new one. Time for another. The wind rushes over you once more, the thundering begins anew.
That one looks — crack! You fly backwards and kick up into the stirrups, unbroken lance flying from your hands. The crowd roars. Your back on your horse's, you swing your arms over your head for balance and manage to sit yourself up. Thankfully a hit to the shield; no more headaches, please, you think. Do not look at poor Mariana.
Nonetheless, You're rattled, and you thank God for the few moments' delay of getting your lost lance off the strip and returned to you. Once more.
This time, you feel the depth of your vision, of his charge toward you; your mind burns, you angle your lance up and are realize you're just a bit too low.
It shatters where his breastplate meets his helm and you get to see what he just did to you, holding firm through a glancing hit on your shield, splintering his lance-tip. You notice a faint swaying from Sir Lacza as the next tilt approaches, his glint tilting left and right slightly. You're up in points now, you reckon, but barely.
Something's off with him as you unhorse him with shocking, anticlimactic ease, his lance far off-track. He hits the earth with a rattling thud and takes a while to sit up. He rips off his helmet and jogs toward you. You raise your visor and look down at him.
"Goddamn you, Radziwiłł!" he roars in between coughs. "You little throat-punching bastard."
"Radziwiłł!" you repeat, filling with offense.
He wheezes. "Merely… Knocked my wind out — I'll…"
He seems to notice the booing; you do with him. He swings head about wildly. He shouts to be heard to those nearby: "I'll show you what I can really do, little boy — a duel with Hungarian sabers!" The older man raises a fist. "By Vespers, coward, in the courtyard."
People gasp and a hushed relating of information spreads through the stands. You look for Mariana and Marszowski and van Gistel but cannot see them. The King rises from his seat but a native minister whispers in his ear and he waves: go on.
[] "I refuse for the moment, on account of it being Saint David's Day; it would be a particular sin to kill you, sir."
Good work with adding some flair! While you're sincere, this also is an obvious delaying tactic and would seem mortifyingly cowardly otherwise; good Catholics, of which there are many, will say nothing. It'll still have to happen tomorrow, for Lacza's answer is all but certain and cannot be deferred. You'll at least have some time to train, though, which lowers a whole different kind of risk somewhat.
[] "Very well, sir. I will find satisfaction in having first blood."
The most flamboyant Sarmatians will balk, but honorable enough. You could be wounded, though, obviously.
[] You don't truly want to say it, but: "to the death, then, cur."
Let every man see what you're capable of! Quiet them all. You could be wounded or worse.
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Sertorius on Duels
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
To call a Prince (or indeed any noble with influence) by his last name so blatantly was an offense. No wonder our hero is angry.
Duels were forbidden by law (a fine and 6 months of prison time for the very act of a challenge or accepting it), however the King had the exclusive right to allow them. Truth be told, there is only one historical example of a monarch using this privilege. Mostly because nobody ever asked him for permission and did the thing unofficially. Besides the King, the Great Crown Marshal also had to agree, since he was the man responsible for the protection of the Court and it was he, who mercilessly punished any idiot, that shed blood near the King, as said before. An unofficial duel near the Court is a death sentence.
The monarch usually stipulated some rules, like time to prepare, weapons, etc. However, duels to the death were prohibited at all times and killing the opponent in a fight was treated as murder, thus our head will roll, since it would have been done near the King. The best part? Lithuanian law was very severe and had the death penalty for the very act of dueling, although it was not executed.
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[X] "I refuse for the moment, on account of it being Saint David's Day; it would be a particular sin to kill you, sir."
I imagine our boy would have a bit of a complex about killing people on saints' holy days
I imagine our boy would have a bit of a complex about killing people on saints' holy days
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Ultimatum
The Cruel
- Location
- King's Landing
[X] "I refuse for the moment, on account of it being Saint David's Day; it would be a particular sin to kill you, sir."
This way, even if the duel is allowed by the King, it'll be up to our opponent to ask for it, while we've excused ourselves for the moment, at least.
This way, even if the duel is allowed by the King, it'll be up to our opponent to ask for it, while we've excused ourselves for the moment, at least.