Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest
- Thread starter Rolman
- Start date
- Mature Historic
Theaxofwar
Definitely not a Bunny Cat in disguise.
- Location
- Standing right behind you
[X]No!
[x] No!
- Pronouns
- He
[X] Yes!
[x] No!
- Location
- United States
Gonna leave the vote open til tomorrow unless an extraordinary lead appears. Regardless of outcome, the "yes" update will posted late U.S. Western time tomorrow as I've already written it up -- either as the main update or as fun apocrypha. If "no" wins, bear with me til Thursday or Friday.
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
[X]No!
Too risky. While Tatars respect emissaries, rubbing it into their face, that we personally captured the Khan's grandson and came for ransom is a poor decision. We risk capture ourselves (who's to stop them from going after us the moment we step foot out of their capital?). There is also the matter, that a mighty Prince should have capable servants to do his job... going personally shows we don't have such men, making us look poor in the eyes of the court.
Too risky. While Tatars respect emissaries, rubbing it into their face, that we personally captured the Khan's grandson and came for ransom is a poor decision. We risk capture ourselves (who's to stop them from going after us the moment we step foot out of their capital?). There is also the matter, that a mighty Prince should have capable servants to do his job... going personally shows we don't have such men, making us look poor in the eyes of the court.
[X]No!
Solarstream
It's all in the cards
- Location
- Zombie World
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] No!
Kir the Wizard
The Sun King
- Location
- Ukraine
[X]No!
The Crimean raiders' main goal for raids is getting hostages for ransom (which is why they particularly target rich households, and communities like Jewish and Armenian ones, and were esp. happy for noble hostages), moreso than use as chattel slaves by themselves. Basically, the captives were kept in imprisonment in the slave port of Caffa on a timer of expectant payment, before being given (with "compensation) to the Ottomans as "lawbreakers" for galley duty (from which one's relatives could still buy one's way out - Bohdan Khmelnytsky learned Ottoman Turkish during such a compulsory service), or sold off to the Ottoman nobility, who would then either keep them as household slave servants, or further sell/gift the slaves to Harem or the Janissaries (though that's very much depending on timeframe; the most famous example of the Harem kind is Roxolana/Hürrem Sultan, born Lisowska, so likely of lower or former nobility, since her father was a priest, again, a figure of expected ability to pay a ransom, and when that didn't happen, she was sold to an Ottoman noblewoman for household service, who would then gift her to the Imperial Harem). Due to this being their "business practice" some things were steady and expectant: during Khmelnytsky's war, when Khmel got the Cossacks drunk on religious motives and the Jews got heavily oppressed, the Jewish communities would seek out to surrender to the Crimeans, whose prices and ransom policies were stable, rather than to the Cossacks, who could just kill them and take their money in the name of religious bullshit. The Crimeans, on the other hand, would enslave even other Muslims, like the Circassians, despite that being specifically forbidden by religion, because, by Crimean law interpretation, they were only "taking captives for ransom", and those would only "become slaves" if the time limit for ransom was missed and they would be given to the Ottomans with compensation (who also had their own "not a slave" formulations for forced labor to side-step the whole "enslaving other Muslims" problem). Of course, a lot of time it was useless to expect compensation from a village that was impoverished/burned during a raid, so the poor peasantry was also taken with no actual hope for ransom, because the Turks would pay for strong galley oarsmen and beautiful women anyway.
Since slave raiding was a "death or riches" kinda lifestyle that costed little to the Khanate, many mirzas participated in it even during the times of relative peace and agreement, and it was a sort of "Are you a bad enough dude to risk brutal death to capture some folks for riches???" atmosphere that got them to sign up. However, getting captured themselves, and having to live through the shame of being ransomed is something the Crimean lords rarely had to go through, and, maybe, just maybe, it is something that could work to make the Khan think twice about allowing wanton raiding. If you look at the 1430s Crimea, when the Khanate first rose up, it was a de-facto Lithuanian vassal, because the first Geray Khans were educated in Lithuanian half-captivity. Crimea mostly became a problem when it got vassalized by the Ottomans, who used them to a) weaken Poland-Lithuania, Hungary, Circassia via raids; b) threaten Muscovy into following the Porta's geopolitical agenda via punitive expeditions. Should more Crimean princelings be subverted from Ottoman control and eventually ascend as Khans, it would be a great boon for the Commonwealth, and a return to the Crimean Khanate's origins, in a way.
...All that being said, sending a Radziwill on a track to Bağçasaray is asking to be taken for ransom (and possible galley duty, see Khmel) anyway. That's too juicy a target, and if you think the Crimeans won't be able to make a bullshit narrative about "being confused by the flags of treaty and capturing a prince by mistake", think again.
The Crimean raiders' main goal for raids is getting hostages for ransom (which is why they particularly target rich households, and communities like Jewish and Armenian ones, and were esp. happy for noble hostages), moreso than use as chattel slaves by themselves. Basically, the captives were kept in imprisonment in the slave port of Caffa on a timer of expectant payment, before being given (with "compensation) to the Ottomans as "lawbreakers" for galley duty (from which one's relatives could still buy one's way out - Bohdan Khmelnytsky learned Ottoman Turkish during such a compulsory service), or sold off to the Ottoman nobility, who would then either keep them as household slave servants, or further sell/gift the slaves to Harem or the Janissaries (though that's very much depending on timeframe; the most famous example of the Harem kind is Roxolana/Hürrem Sultan, born Lisowska, so likely of lower or former nobility, since her father was a priest, again, a figure of expected ability to pay a ransom, and when that didn't happen, she was sold to an Ottoman noblewoman for household service, who would then gift her to the Imperial Harem). Due to this being their "business practice" some things were steady and expectant: during Khmelnytsky's war, when Khmel got the Cossacks drunk on religious motives and the Jews got heavily oppressed, the Jewish communities would seek out to surrender to the Crimeans, whose prices and ransom policies were stable, rather than to the Cossacks, who could just kill them and take their money in the name of religious bullshit. The Crimeans, on the other hand, would enslave even other Muslims, like the Circassians, despite that being specifically forbidden by religion, because, by Crimean law interpretation, they were only "taking captives for ransom", and those would only "become slaves" if the time limit for ransom was missed and they would be given to the Ottomans with compensation (who also had their own "not a slave" formulations for forced labor to side-step the whole "enslaving other Muslims" problem). Of course, a lot of time it was useless to expect compensation from a village that was impoverished/burned during a raid, so the poor peasantry was also taken with no actual hope for ransom, because the Turks would pay for strong galley oarsmen and beautiful women anyway.
Since slave raiding was a "death or riches" kinda lifestyle that costed little to the Khanate, many mirzas participated in it even during the times of relative peace and agreement, and it was a sort of "Are you a bad enough dude to risk brutal death to capture some folks for riches???" atmosphere that got them to sign up. However, getting captured themselves, and having to live through the shame of being ransomed is something the Crimean lords rarely had to go through, and, maybe, just maybe, it is something that could work to make the Khan think twice about allowing wanton raiding. If you look at the 1430s Crimea, when the Khanate first rose up, it was a de-facto Lithuanian vassal, because the first Geray Khans were educated in Lithuanian half-captivity. Crimea mostly became a problem when it got vassalized by the Ottomans, who used them to a) weaken Poland-Lithuania, Hungary, Circassia via raids; b) threaten Muscovy into following the Porta's geopolitical agenda via punitive expeditions. Should more Crimean princelings be subverted from Ottoman control and eventually ascend as Khans, it would be a great boon for the Commonwealth, and a return to the Crimean Khanate's origins, in a way.
...All that being said, sending a Radziwill on a track to Bağçasaray is asking to be taken for ransom (and possible galley duty, see Khmel) anyway. That's too juicy a target, and if you think the Crimeans won't be able to make a bullshit narrative about "being confused by the flags of treaty and capturing a prince by mistake", think again.
XXVII. August 12-28, 1575. Eastern Bracław Voivodeship.
- Location
- United States
The mood lightens slowly as the amputees are evacuated back to their homes on the outgoing supply wagons. It's hard to celebrate a victory when every fifth man, depending on the case, is dead or maimed. But now, after four days, the drowning of sorrows is turned to the celebrating of survival and valorous, honorable triumph over a heathen foe.
The kobzari and lymiki stop being so furtive, and step forward from the little followers' quarter to play their instruments, sing their songs, and tell tall and bawdy tales. Tense and having trouble sleeping for the past couple nights, you decide that God will have to work to forgive you just this once as you throw back another gulp of fiery, spiced gorzała. Before you lies a table of hearty soldier's' fare, however spartan: amply-buttered black bread, salt pork, dried fish, some foraged vegetables and herbs. You'd kill for some wine, but for now you're stuck with the hard stuff.
"Chase it with some water, lord prince!" says a more than tipsy Marszowski, handing you a skin. Across the table, a red-faced Colonel van Gistel starts grinning.
You cock it back and – what the Hell?! The drink sprays from your mouth. "Goddamn you, Sir Marszowski!" you shout with a smile, as your old fencing master laughs maniacally. "Who puts beer in a waterskin anyways? Madman – it gets warm!" You grab a slice of buttered bread and take a big bite, hoping to wash out the flavor of that strong, hideously warm Warka. "Bleh."
"Well, it's not like we've got a lager cave!" says Marszowski in between fits of laughter.
"And I saw you smile, van Gistel! You were in on it, too!"
Your poor infantry captain was so glad to at last spend some good time with you again – he's not one for politics so he sat out Stężyca, and then for this campaign he was shunted mainly into a quartermaster's role,.on account of no Radziwiłł infantry being present. "No, no," he says, "I only knew about it 'cause he pulled it on me, too!"
You roll your eyes. "You two are getting demoted as this rate," you tease. "Betrayal of your lord and master? That'd be getting off light."
You all laugh. That damned German mercenary boss is conspicuously absent: Zamoyski and the Ostrogscy brothers you can understand – for they've got their own people – but him? He's under your command. He obeyed well enough when you told him that his company's pay was to be docked for insubordination during the battle, but clearly he's making a statement here. Bedst to keep an eye on them, you think. It's not like they'd mutiny or anything drastic like that, you estimate, but they may find ways to quietly take their revenge for missing out on the frontliner's doppel.
Best not to think about that right now! You pour up some more gorzała from a pewter flagon into all three cups. "To proper Sarmatian heroes, sworn men of noble families, people who fight for God and honor!" Oh, whoops, van Gistel is Netherlandish, and technically a mercenary. Yes, alright, you're drunk. He still toasts to it, though.
"Hear hear!"
More fire down your throat. By God, you forgot how good this stuff is. And it hits fast: as your belly warms, so too does your head become lighter, the tingling glow in your body spreading through you. And you can feel your mind ease itself up like a tense muscle being massaged, turning into a liquid sort of thing of its own, allowing you to think and feel more freely than you could in the aftermath of the great ritual murder. The men are singing and dancing outside, and you'd join in were it not for this stitched-up, black and bliue leg. Life may be full of death and terror, but it's full of pleasures and glories and beautiful things, too. You wince as you forget about the Lord and His Saints, for it's somewhat consciously-done, and you exhale through your nose, close your eyes, and lean back. You can pray on all of this later.
"Lord prince? Your Serene Highness?" It's Marszowski. You open your eyes. They were talking, weren't they?
"Yes? Sorry."
"We wanted to know: how'd that first battle feel?"
[] "As terrifying as it was exciting."
[] "Exciting."
[] "Terrifying."
[] "Like I had a job to do."
"Heh, that's how first times feel, I reckon," nods Marszowski with a smile. "Mine mainly felt like some sort of terrible game or sport, but I came to love it."
"Aye," agrees van Gistel. "Like your first lay with a woman!"
You all laugh.
The rest of the night is a little blurry, but good times were had by all, certainly. You can't quite remember the last half-hour or so before falling asleep, but indeed blessed rest did come to you. A deep, dreamless, dry-mouthed sleep, the kind you feel particularly in your eyes upon waking. You're glad you weren't met with a dream – they surely wouldn't have been good ones, and Mariana's not here to soothe you.
Oh, Holy Spirit, Mariana…Saint Mariana she ought to be, making you smile before you Cross yourself for minor blasphemy. You cannot wait to return to her, to return to what is, perhaps, a sanity of sorts, a quieter world without blood and screaming and baggage trains. The world you, fool as you were, thought you left behind in France. You just didn't think it could be possible elsewhere. But it's possible everywhere. You'll be home soon, you tell yourself.
That morning, you see Amurat and his Lipkas off, their wagons and saddlebags laden with the loot you gave them, missing over a hundred men and boasting more than a few armless or legless. You made sure to give them a Radziwiłł banner and a Pogoń as a sign of your esteem, heathens as they may be. You hope they shall return to Wilno and Troki as heroes and victors, as well as provide Father or your brothers with an update on the goings of the campaign – and a recounting of your heroism. The more people know the better, and you're not thinking that from a prideful heart. Let the people of the Sister-Nations hear that it was Radziwiłł, not Zamoyski, who won the day. You're sure the bastard, however friendly and cooperative he may be for the duration of all this, will try and spin things his way in due time.
Meanwhile, you say farewell to the selected Tatar emissaries – mirzas and sons of mirzas – and their escort of some fifty hussars. You hope to hear from them in just over a month, if everything goes according to plan. If they're gone for more than two moons, Saadet and the other captives will be hanged and burned, to spite the Mohamatan requirement for burial.This fate is an open threat to the Tatars, who for the most part hold their heads high, and you can't help but admire their bravery. "In any event, lord bey, we will be judgedjudged by almighty Allah sooner or later; we welcome martyrdom in these foreign lands," says Saadet Mirza. This impressed you, and as a mercy you permitted them to pray beside the Lipkas (an odd sight), but now they are adrift without an imam. It makes you feel odd, pained, even, but you try to shake it off. They're barbarians and infidels and that's that.
Prince Janusz comes to see you one night after dusk.
"Your Serene Highness," he bows in the threshold of your tent.
"Oh, come in, come in, my lord, we're comrades, aren't we?"
"Thank you." He approaches and speaks in a lowered voice. "I just wanted to thank you for commanding that flank and saving my brother's hide."
"Think nothing of it," you say. "We all did what we had to do to get each other out in one piece, no?"
"Yes, indeed, glory to God. But it's about Prince Konstanty," he says, looking grave. "He's really not well. Not eating, not sleeping, terrible nightmares."
"Hm," you say, thinking back to the days after your first battles, to the nights in the wake of Saint Bartholomew's Day and of the slaughter at Moncontour.
"Some of the men are whispering that he's a coward. He's not. He's my brother."
"He faced some of the worst fighting there was," you say, internally unsure if that melee beat the ambush at the camp. But there's no point keeping score. "Of course he'd be rattled. I had terrible dreams about my first fight for months. No shame in it." Right? Right.
"Well, what is it that got you to snap out of it?" Janusz asks.
"Prayer, and if he drinks, tell him to stop for a while. It's bad for the nerves, produces more black bile after an initial rush of blood," you say, a bit surprised at your authoritative tone, the speed of your answer. But you know this well. "Let him find solace in God and his all-forgiving Son and in the miracles of the Saints. One can't lose sight of that in a world that hurts and kills and maims: we are watched over and guarded and guided."
"Yes…" says Janusz, thoughtful. "Yes, of course, for there is nothing more high. I'm not the most pious, I admit, but…"
"As God the Father gave us victory, the Mother of God, too, will provide solace."
"I'll remind him of that."
The waiting drags on as you wait for reinforcements that never come, finding safety behind a reformed tabor. Days pass digging new latrines, heading to the Southern Bug for water, and awaiting new supply trains from the west. The probing scouts report nothing again and again, with the charred remains of the Tatar camp left undisturbed and rained on by a summer thunderstorm so as to make it an ashy slurry.
Until one day, close to end of the month and right around when the emissaries should be reaching Bakczysaraj, a group of riders return to camp kicking up dust.
Their leader, a rather young hussar, dismounts and drops to one knee. "There's a chambul approaching from the east, Your Serene Highness, around four miles* from here! Riding slow, along the riverside."
"How many?" you ask.
"Many. Certainly more than five hundred, led by mirzas in armor. They were riding abreast in rows of ten, good order; I counted ten by forty before they drew too close for comfort."
"Smart man! Thank you, sir," you say. He looks familiar, carries himself well. "You're one of Lord Zamoyski's lieutenants?
"Yes, Your Serene Highness."
"You best go and grab him, then!"
The man nods and runs deep into camp.
Quickly, Lord Zamoyski and the Ostrogski princes appear, and you explain the situation to them. Konstanty grips his coattails; it looks like his jaw's locked up. Maybe some exposure will help him, in fact.
"Well, let's move then!" exclaims Lord Zamoyski. "Another day, another victory, and it sounds like we have them more than outnumbered."
"But to attack or to ambush," you ponder, letting them draw close…"
"We ought to let them go," says Janusz to cocked eyebrows. "Let them find their ruined camp and spread the news. I'm not sure if we're here for glory," he says, glancing at his brother. "I think we're here to end this great and terrible raid."
"Your Highness?" asks Zamoyski, looking to Prince Konstanty.
The lad blinks. "Any of it. Any of it."
He's trying very hard not to crack up. You're not sure to step in for him or to let him go at it again. You recall how Marszowski used to bruise you up in sparring back when you were a tyke.
[] "Perhaps the noble Prince should stay back and keep an eye on our camp?" you ask the men.
[] "Join us, then, lord Prince."
The others agree with you, Janusz shooting you a look of some sort. Not a bad one, but not a good one either. Just a look.
Then you state your opinion:
[] "I agree with Lord Zamoyski; let's smash them."
Keep on cultivating glory and stacking up dead Tatars — it's what you came here to do, after all. Besides, the more of them are slain, the quicker things draw to a close.
[] "I truly think an ambush at the burnt campsite is our best option here. It's our turn to use that hill."
It might not be the most flashy way of doing it, but it's the traditional style, and also ensures that it'll be harder for the Tatars to quit the field or even withdraw before the fight can even start.
[] "Let them come and see the funeral pyres, the graves, the remains of their camp."
Fear and confusion is stronger than any weapon; let them go back the way they came with panic in their hearts and warnings on their lips.
[] write-in
Written as a verbal statement.
*17.4 Imperial miles, or 28 kilometers.
The kobzari and lymiki stop being so furtive, and step forward from the little followers' quarter to play their instruments, sing their songs, and tell tall and bawdy tales. Tense and having trouble sleeping for the past couple nights, you decide that God will have to work to forgive you just this once as you throw back another gulp of fiery, spiced gorzała. Before you lies a table of hearty soldier's' fare, however spartan: amply-buttered black bread, salt pork, dried fish, some foraged vegetables and herbs. You'd kill for some wine, but for now you're stuck with the hard stuff.
"Chase it with some water, lord prince!" says a more than tipsy Marszowski, handing you a skin. Across the table, a red-faced Colonel van Gistel starts grinning.
You cock it back and – what the Hell?! The drink sprays from your mouth. "Goddamn you, Sir Marszowski!" you shout with a smile, as your old fencing master laughs maniacally. "Who puts beer in a waterskin anyways? Madman – it gets warm!" You grab a slice of buttered bread and take a big bite, hoping to wash out the flavor of that strong, hideously warm Warka. "Bleh."
"Well, it's not like we've got a lager cave!" says Marszowski in between fits of laughter.
"And I saw you smile, van Gistel! You were in on it, too!"
Your poor infantry captain was so glad to at last spend some good time with you again – he's not one for politics so he sat out Stężyca, and then for this campaign he was shunted mainly into a quartermaster's role,.on account of no Radziwiłł infantry being present. "No, no," he says, "I only knew about it 'cause he pulled it on me, too!"
You roll your eyes. "You two are getting demoted as this rate," you tease. "Betrayal of your lord and master? That'd be getting off light."
You all laugh. That damned German mercenary boss is conspicuously absent: Zamoyski and the Ostrogscy brothers you can understand – for they've got their own people – but him? He's under your command. He obeyed well enough when you told him that his company's pay was to be docked for insubordination during the battle, but clearly he's making a statement here. Bedst to keep an eye on them, you think. It's not like they'd mutiny or anything drastic like that, you estimate, but they may find ways to quietly take their revenge for missing out on the frontliner's doppel.
Best not to think about that right now! You pour up some more gorzała from a pewter flagon into all three cups. "To proper Sarmatian heroes, sworn men of noble families, people who fight for God and honor!" Oh, whoops, van Gistel is Netherlandish, and technically a mercenary. Yes, alright, you're drunk. He still toasts to it, though.
"Hear hear!"
More fire down your throat. By God, you forgot how good this stuff is. And it hits fast: as your belly warms, so too does your head become lighter, the tingling glow in your body spreading through you. And you can feel your mind ease itself up like a tense muscle being massaged, turning into a liquid sort of thing of its own, allowing you to think and feel more freely than you could in the aftermath of the great ritual murder. The men are singing and dancing outside, and you'd join in were it not for this stitched-up, black and bliue leg. Life may be full of death and terror, but it's full of pleasures and glories and beautiful things, too. You wince as you forget about the Lord and His Saints, for it's somewhat consciously-done, and you exhale through your nose, close your eyes, and lean back. You can pray on all of this later.
"Lord prince? Your Serene Highness?" It's Marszowski. You open your eyes. They were talking, weren't they?
"Yes? Sorry."
"We wanted to know: how'd that first battle feel?"
[] "As terrifying as it was exciting."
[] "Exciting."
[] "Terrifying."
[] "Like I had a job to do."
"Heh, that's how first times feel, I reckon," nods Marszowski with a smile. "Mine mainly felt like some sort of terrible game or sport, but I came to love it."
"Aye," agrees van Gistel. "Like your first lay with a woman!"
You all laugh.
The rest of the night is a little blurry, but good times were had by all, certainly. You can't quite remember the last half-hour or so before falling asleep, but indeed blessed rest did come to you. A deep, dreamless, dry-mouthed sleep, the kind you feel particularly in your eyes upon waking. You're glad you weren't met with a dream – they surely wouldn't have been good ones, and Mariana's not here to soothe you.
Oh, Holy Spirit, Mariana…Saint Mariana she ought to be, making you smile before you Cross yourself for minor blasphemy. You cannot wait to return to her, to return to what is, perhaps, a sanity of sorts, a quieter world without blood and screaming and baggage trains. The world you, fool as you were, thought you left behind in France. You just didn't think it could be possible elsewhere. But it's possible everywhere. You'll be home soon, you tell yourself.
That morning, you see Amurat and his Lipkas off, their wagons and saddlebags laden with the loot you gave them, missing over a hundred men and boasting more than a few armless or legless. You made sure to give them a Radziwiłł banner and a Pogoń as a sign of your esteem, heathens as they may be. You hope they shall return to Wilno and Troki as heroes and victors, as well as provide Father or your brothers with an update on the goings of the campaign – and a recounting of your heroism. The more people know the better, and you're not thinking that from a prideful heart. Let the people of the Sister-Nations hear that it was Radziwiłł, not Zamoyski, who won the day. You're sure the bastard, however friendly and cooperative he may be for the duration of all this, will try and spin things his way in due time.
Meanwhile, you say farewell to the selected Tatar emissaries – mirzas and sons of mirzas – and their escort of some fifty hussars. You hope to hear from them in just over a month, if everything goes according to plan. If they're gone for more than two moons, Saadet and the other captives will be hanged and burned, to spite the Mohamatan requirement for burial.This fate is an open threat to the Tatars, who for the most part hold their heads high, and you can't help but admire their bravery. "In any event, lord bey, we will be judgedjudged by almighty Allah sooner or later; we welcome martyrdom in these foreign lands," says Saadet Mirza. This impressed you, and as a mercy you permitted them to pray beside the Lipkas (an odd sight), but now they are adrift without an imam. It makes you feel odd, pained, even, but you try to shake it off. They're barbarians and infidels and that's that.
Prince Janusz comes to see you one night after dusk.
"Your Serene Highness," he bows in the threshold of your tent.
"Oh, come in, come in, my lord, we're comrades, aren't we?"
"Thank you." He approaches and speaks in a lowered voice. "I just wanted to thank you for commanding that flank and saving my brother's hide."
"Think nothing of it," you say. "We all did what we had to do to get each other out in one piece, no?"
"Yes, indeed, glory to God. But it's about Prince Konstanty," he says, looking grave. "He's really not well. Not eating, not sleeping, terrible nightmares."
"Hm," you say, thinking back to the days after your first battles, to the nights in the wake of Saint Bartholomew's Day and of the slaughter at Moncontour.
"Some of the men are whispering that he's a coward. He's not. He's my brother."
"He faced some of the worst fighting there was," you say, internally unsure if that melee beat the ambush at the camp. But there's no point keeping score. "Of course he'd be rattled. I had terrible dreams about my first fight for months. No shame in it." Right? Right.
"Well, what is it that got you to snap out of it?" Janusz asks.
"Prayer, and if he drinks, tell him to stop for a while. It's bad for the nerves, produces more black bile after an initial rush of blood," you say, a bit surprised at your authoritative tone, the speed of your answer. But you know this well. "Let him find solace in God and his all-forgiving Son and in the miracles of the Saints. One can't lose sight of that in a world that hurts and kills and maims: we are watched over and guarded and guided."
"Yes…" says Janusz, thoughtful. "Yes, of course, for there is nothing more high. I'm not the most pious, I admit, but…"
"As God the Father gave us victory, the Mother of God, too, will provide solace."
"I'll remind him of that."
The waiting drags on as you wait for reinforcements that never come, finding safety behind a reformed tabor. Days pass digging new latrines, heading to the Southern Bug for water, and awaiting new supply trains from the west. The probing scouts report nothing again and again, with the charred remains of the Tatar camp left undisturbed and rained on by a summer thunderstorm so as to make it an ashy slurry.
Until one day, close to end of the month and right around when the emissaries should be reaching Bakczysaraj, a group of riders return to camp kicking up dust.
Their leader, a rather young hussar, dismounts and drops to one knee. "There's a chambul approaching from the east, Your Serene Highness, around four miles* from here! Riding slow, along the riverside."
"How many?" you ask.
"Many. Certainly more than five hundred, led by mirzas in armor. They were riding abreast in rows of ten, good order; I counted ten by forty before they drew too close for comfort."
"Smart man! Thank you, sir," you say. He looks familiar, carries himself well. "You're one of Lord Zamoyski's lieutenants?
"Yes, Your Serene Highness."
"You best go and grab him, then!"
The man nods and runs deep into camp.
Quickly, Lord Zamoyski and the Ostrogski princes appear, and you explain the situation to them. Konstanty grips his coattails; it looks like his jaw's locked up. Maybe some exposure will help him, in fact.
"Well, let's move then!" exclaims Lord Zamoyski. "Another day, another victory, and it sounds like we have them more than outnumbered."
"But to attack or to ambush," you ponder, letting them draw close…"
"We ought to let them go," says Janusz to cocked eyebrows. "Let them find their ruined camp and spread the news. I'm not sure if we're here for glory," he says, glancing at his brother. "I think we're here to end this great and terrible raid."
"Your Highness?" asks Zamoyski, looking to Prince Konstanty.
The lad blinks. "Any of it. Any of it."
He's trying very hard not to crack up. You're not sure to step in for him or to let him go at it again. You recall how Marszowski used to bruise you up in sparring back when you were a tyke.
[] "Perhaps the noble Prince should stay back and keep an eye on our camp?" you ask the men.
[] "Join us, then, lord Prince."
The others agree with you, Janusz shooting you a look of some sort. Not a bad one, but not a good one either. Just a look.
Then you state your opinion:
[] "I agree with Lord Zamoyski; let's smash them."
Keep on cultivating glory and stacking up dead Tatars — it's what you came here to do, after all. Besides, the more of them are slain, the quicker things draw to a close.
[] "I truly think an ambush at the burnt campsite is our best option here. It's our turn to use that hill."
It might not be the most flashy way of doing it, but it's the traditional style, and also ensures that it'll be harder for the Tatars to quit the field or even withdraw before the fight can even start.
[] "Let them come and see the funeral pyres, the graves, the remains of their camp."
Fear and confusion is stronger than any weapon; let them go back the way they came with panic in their hearts and warnings on their lips.
[] write-in
Written as a verbal statement.
*17.4 Imperial miles, or 28 kilometers.
Alternate Universe Part XXVII. August 12-29, 1575. Zawadówka to Bakczysaraj, Crimean Khanate.
- Location
- United States
[Red denotes untranslated dialogue, which, were this posted, I would not have revealed]
Lord Zamoyski and the princes seemed more than a little shocked when you offered yourself up to be swallowed by Leviathan. But there's no better way to add some serious weight to what otherwise would be a mere ransom run: to potentially negotiate a Tatar withdrawal, or to set them upon the Muscovites to savage them as they had three years ago — it'd be a triumph. If they don't just take you hostage, that is. A risk of the mission,it is, and of your occupation and station in general, but you reckon with just fifty good hussars you could fight your way out of their Goddamned tent-filled hole.
That's another thing, too. Is it really a hole? You're curious, there's no denying it, and you do enjoy travel. The air of mystery makes you excited. Not many commoner Christians leave Bakczysaraj as free men, and the Crimeans tend to come north and west for diplomacy and trade, and only invite Turks into their depths. You want to see how the savages live, like how you'd want to see the Indians of Asia or of the New World and the Antarctic, or the reindeer herders of far Finland. Do they truly spend all their lives in those circular tents? Surely not, yes? But there's only one way to find out.
You depart into the edges of the Wild Fields feeling very small: five well-esteemed Lipkas, fifty hussars, and a few dozen support staff is all you bring. You spend days and nights on watch, fearing ambush at any moment, but as you snake around abandoned villages and small settlements, you find no sign of anything besides the odd group of Tatar herdsmen – no threat from them. You and the men theorize that, this late in the season and in this remote of an area, the chambuls have all moved deeper into the country, further from the Dniepr. And it's not as if the Tatars need supply wagons.
Which is what you thought, until your heart leaps out of your chest at the sight of a dustcloud on the horizon on the seventh day, with the river nearly in sight. Pistols and sabers are drawn and, judging from the size of the approaching mass of mounted men, a decision is made to move to engage, rather than flee and lose precious time. As you ride toward the foe, sun hot on your helmet, you wonder if you'll make it out of this one, too. You squeeze the trigger on your pistol as they come into range; your men do, too. A few slump off of their horses, and arrows begin to fly at you, killing the man to your left with an arrow in the eye. You scream a curse.
It's only just before contact is made that you realize that you're staring in the face not Tatars once more, but Zaporozhians! Suddenly, everyone is screaming to stop, and the air is filled with grunting and swearing as horses everywhere rear up or collide into each other. "Stop, by God, stop! All of you! We are Christians!"
"Who's in charge here?!" bellows a long-mustached man with a half-shaved head.
"Me, my lord, and I must heartily apologize for–"
He slaps you hard across the face. You haven't been hit like that since you were a boy.
Your men lunge for him but he produces a pistol and brandishes it wildly, sending them leaning back into their saddles. "You rich bastard! Do you have any idea how many of my men you just killed? I know I don't, but I've never taken so much pistol shot in my life!"
"You… You're of the Sich," you say, rubbing your jaw and cheek.
"That I am! A free man from a free land, peacock. Clearly, you didn't see the flag," he says, gesturing up to a banner with a white cross on a maroon field, framed by suns and crescent moons. "Does that look Crimean blue to you, God damn you? If we had our war wagons with us…"
You raise your fist for your men to cease their swearing and spitting. "We have an Orthodox priest among us; let us bury your dead and we'll be on our way. I sincerely apologize."
"A Christian burial's a start," he grunts. "What the Hell is a peacock doing out here anyway?"
"On a mission to see the Khan. We took valuable prisoners and are moving to negotiate," you say. "It's for your people's sake, too. We either weaken their coffers or force them to withdraw."
The Zaporozhian lets out a "Ha!" His men laugh despite the circumstances. These are some real tough bastards. "Good luck with that. He'll cut your Christian head off. But, you know what? That's brave. Suicidal, but brave. I can respect that."
"Got any coin?" chimes in another Zaporozhian.
"Yeah!" says another.
Their leader smirks. "You know, burying my men makes me liable to forgive you. But compensation makes me liable to forget."
You sigh and curse the man heartily in your head. You look back to Marszowski. "What have we got?" you ask in Polish. "We're being extorted."
"I've got my pimply ass for him, then!" he exclaims. Those who can understand him laugh. Even some of the Zaporozhians.
"Come on, not now."
"Fine," says Marszowski. "We have a couple hundred złoty for bribes and 'gifts.' That's all."
"One hundred złoty," you say. "For what? Five men. That's more than enough for their families."
"Surely you've got more than that between all of you."
Stop being annoying. "We have pistols, too, you know. And armor. You have not."
He looks you up and down. A moment passes. You place your hand on the hilt of your blade. His men look fierce. But then they all laugh. "Good man! Good man! You're young but you've got a fire. You could be a real kozak!" He sighs. "How terrible it is that we meet under such circumstances. Fork it over so I can give the widows something, and get your men to start digging."
Funerals are conducted out on the steppe. Five men. Everybody sings Vichnaya Pamyat. The grasslands and gentle hills and sparse shrubbery stretch for a mile. Crosses are fashioned from a rare tree. You and the Zaporozhians part ways. How fierce do you have to be to shrug off the deaths of five of your comrades? They're a different breed, alright, like that Filon Kmita.
You manage to find some peasant ferrymen the following day, and make it over the Dniepr, then you turn southward for Crimea. More than once, the Lipkas must talk down armed Tatars, who always part at the mention of their Khan. Praise God that simple bandits were never encountered at any point.
To your surprise, you find the Tatars here on the peninsula living in houses like anybody else, unlike the nomads of the steppe. As you ride toward the Crimean capital, now back on defined roads, you notice that the thoroughfares are lined with what look like shallow graves. A Tatar peasant explains that it's all slaves who died being marched to the sea. Barbarians. But they seem to live as any other kind of people.
Bakczysaraj makes your head spin a little – it looks straight out of an engraving of Turkey! Minarets loom over the rooftops as you ride into the city, greeted by local noblemen who speak hurriedly with the Lipkas. One turns to you and smiles. "They were not expecting this," he chuckles. Curious Tatars and Greeks line the streets and stand atop the near-flat roofs, pointing and discussing amongst themselves with hushed voices. Only the rare Orthodox priest is friendly — they allow Christians to abide? — most people seem confused at best.
A column of shackled Ruthenians on the main thoroughfare are beaten with canes to make way. They begin to beg and plead and pray, asking to be bought – now there's an idea – but you can only feel a tightness of sorrow and anger in your breast as you proceed to the center of the city. There's still business to attend to.
A great mosque sits astride the Khan's palace, which looks halfway like an Italian villa (from the woodcuts you've seen), except the walls are all done up with beautiful murals and, when there isn't paint, mosaic tiles. Floral motifs abound, creeping vines and rose-wheels of blue and yellow and green, interspersed with what you recognize to be Mohamatan calligraphy – you saw a forbidden Koran once, shown to you furtively by the philosopher Montaigne back in France. The savages are capable of such beauty? You knew Turks to be civilized heathens, and formidable ones at that, but these monsters of the steppe? It's food for thought.
A blonde man in Tatar garb greets you at the threshold of the palace's sanctum. "My name is Fetih, honored guest, translator-slave of the great Devlet Khan, he who sits upon the Throne of Crimea and Desht-i Kipchak, Lord of the Great Horde and of the Circassians and all the Nogai," he says in Ruthenian, a thick southern peasant's accent forcing you to listen closely. Fetih… the poor man must have been renamed. A voice calls out in a throaty language from deeper in the room, behind the curtain. "My master bids you enter."
You are ushered into the room and briefly drop your jaw at the sight of its many colors. Beautiful carpets of Persia and Turkey and the more familiar Armenian kind adorn the floors and walls almost completely, cast brightly and beautifully beautifully by the light shining through oblong windows. A turbaned man in flowing green and blue robes sits atop a mat surrounded by brightly-dyed pillows; he beckons you toward him and his chainmailed guardsmen. As you approach, you recognize now that he is an older man – perhaps sixty – with deep wrinkles and crow's feet, wearing a large graying beard. He almost looks kindly, but there's something in his eyes. This is a genteel barbarian and a heathen king.
You're unsure how these people salute each other, so you drop to a knee and try to say what you've been muttering to yourself over and over again:
"Assalamualaikum, Khan muazzam. Bik zur räkhmät sêzgä, ḩäm ozak yashäy sezgä telim," you enunciate slowly. The Lipkas taught you for hours the day before, and said it's an honorable address, thanking him for the audience and wishing a long life. ["Peace be upon you, noble Khan. I offer up my thanks, and may you live long."]
The Khan laughs dryly and claps his hands. "Oh, that's marvelous, truly. He can talk. Allah help me, he sounds like those Northerners; I can hardly understand them, let alone this one. Slave, tell the infidel fool 'welcome.'"
"My master welcomes you to his home," says Fetih. It seems like the Khan said a lot more than that.
"And ask him why he's here before I have him clapped in irons and traded for his weight in silver."
"He wishes to know why you honor him with your coming. A Christian prince in Bakczysaraj is a –"
"Just translate. I can tell you're talking too much," snaps the Khan.
"Yes, of course, my apologies," replies the interpreter meekly.
Your eyes dart between the two of them. "I am here to parlay for the lives of around a hundred mirzas," you say, deciding to just rip the bandage off. "Including His Majesty's grandson, Saadet."
The Khan perks up at the mentioning of the name. "Did he just say 'Saadet?' What of my grandson?"
"I…" the translator sounds hesitant, almost wincing. "I am afraid to say, great Khan, that a blow has been struck against our mighty armies. A hundred noblemen are prisoner to him, including Saadet Mirza."
The Khan lets out a little gasp, leans back, and hums. He rumbles out angry words. "May Allah give you troubles, infidel… Seven living sons and thirty-nine grandsons, and he captures my firstborn's firstborn." He shakes his head and laughs, sounding weary. "That boy's heels were always too hot. And here I thought a treasure trove just walked himself into my palace." He mutters: "and my beys would be furious about their sons and brothers…"
Fetih is grimacing. "The Khan is troubled by this news." He looks to his master.
You swallow. The Khan is staring daggers into you, but you feel as if that must be a thinking face as much as it is an angry one; perhaps you ought to protect yourself. "And I wish to inform His Majesty that if I am not back to my people within a moon, the mirzas will all be killed."
"He threatens their lives, great Khan, and sets a deadline for his safe passage home: one moon hence." The Ruthenian translates with a hurried tone now.
Devlet Khan swats at the air, not looking so stately. "Just ask him what he wants, then."
"My master asks for your terms."
What do you say?
[You literally got so lucky that the Giray at picked at random happens to be close in line to the throne. I would then prompt you to ask for money, peace, or both.]
Lord Zamoyski and the princes seemed more than a little shocked when you offered yourself up to be swallowed by Leviathan. But there's no better way to add some serious weight to what otherwise would be a mere ransom run: to potentially negotiate a Tatar withdrawal, or to set them upon the Muscovites to savage them as they had three years ago — it'd be a triumph. If they don't just take you hostage, that is. A risk of the mission,it is, and of your occupation and station in general, but you reckon with just fifty good hussars you could fight your way out of their Goddamned tent-filled hole.
That's another thing, too. Is it really a hole? You're curious, there's no denying it, and you do enjoy travel. The air of mystery makes you excited. Not many commoner Christians leave Bakczysaraj as free men, and the Crimeans tend to come north and west for diplomacy and trade, and only invite Turks into their depths. You want to see how the savages live, like how you'd want to see the Indians of Asia or of the New World and the Antarctic, or the reindeer herders of far Finland. Do they truly spend all their lives in those circular tents? Surely not, yes? But there's only one way to find out.
You depart into the edges of the Wild Fields feeling very small: five well-esteemed Lipkas, fifty hussars, and a few dozen support staff is all you bring. You spend days and nights on watch, fearing ambush at any moment, but as you snake around abandoned villages and small settlements, you find no sign of anything besides the odd group of Tatar herdsmen – no threat from them. You and the men theorize that, this late in the season and in this remote of an area, the chambuls have all moved deeper into the country, further from the Dniepr. And it's not as if the Tatars need supply wagons.
Which is what you thought, until your heart leaps out of your chest at the sight of a dustcloud on the horizon on the seventh day, with the river nearly in sight. Pistols and sabers are drawn and, judging from the size of the approaching mass of mounted men, a decision is made to move to engage, rather than flee and lose precious time. As you ride toward the foe, sun hot on your helmet, you wonder if you'll make it out of this one, too. You squeeze the trigger on your pistol as they come into range; your men do, too. A few slump off of their horses, and arrows begin to fly at you, killing the man to your left with an arrow in the eye. You scream a curse.
It's only just before contact is made that you realize that you're staring in the face not Tatars once more, but Zaporozhians! Suddenly, everyone is screaming to stop, and the air is filled with grunting and swearing as horses everywhere rear up or collide into each other. "Stop, by God, stop! All of you! We are Christians!"
"Who's in charge here?!" bellows a long-mustached man with a half-shaved head.
"Me, my lord, and I must heartily apologize for–"
He slaps you hard across the face. You haven't been hit like that since you were a boy.
Your men lunge for him but he produces a pistol and brandishes it wildly, sending them leaning back into their saddles. "You rich bastard! Do you have any idea how many of my men you just killed? I know I don't, but I've never taken so much pistol shot in my life!"
"You… You're of the Sich," you say, rubbing your jaw and cheek.
"That I am! A free man from a free land, peacock. Clearly, you didn't see the flag," he says, gesturing up to a banner with a white cross on a maroon field, framed by suns and crescent moons. "Does that look Crimean blue to you, God damn you? If we had our war wagons with us…"
You raise your fist for your men to cease their swearing and spitting. "We have an Orthodox priest among us; let us bury your dead and we'll be on our way. I sincerely apologize."
"A Christian burial's a start," he grunts. "What the Hell is a peacock doing out here anyway?"
"On a mission to see the Khan. We took valuable prisoners and are moving to negotiate," you say. "It's for your people's sake, too. We either weaken their coffers or force them to withdraw."
The Zaporozhian lets out a "Ha!" His men laugh despite the circumstances. These are some real tough bastards. "Good luck with that. He'll cut your Christian head off. But, you know what? That's brave. Suicidal, but brave. I can respect that."
"Got any coin?" chimes in another Zaporozhian.
"Yeah!" says another.
Their leader smirks. "You know, burying my men makes me liable to forgive you. But compensation makes me liable to forget."
You sigh and curse the man heartily in your head. You look back to Marszowski. "What have we got?" you ask in Polish. "We're being extorted."
"I've got my pimply ass for him, then!" he exclaims. Those who can understand him laugh. Even some of the Zaporozhians.
"Come on, not now."
"Fine," says Marszowski. "We have a couple hundred złoty for bribes and 'gifts.' That's all."
"One hundred złoty," you say. "For what? Five men. That's more than enough for their families."
"Surely you've got more than that between all of you."
Stop being annoying. "We have pistols, too, you know. And armor. You have not."
He looks you up and down. A moment passes. You place your hand on the hilt of your blade. His men look fierce. But then they all laugh. "Good man! Good man! You're young but you've got a fire. You could be a real kozak!" He sighs. "How terrible it is that we meet under such circumstances. Fork it over so I can give the widows something, and get your men to start digging."
Funerals are conducted out on the steppe. Five men. Everybody sings Vichnaya Pamyat. The grasslands and gentle hills and sparse shrubbery stretch for a mile. Crosses are fashioned from a rare tree. You and the Zaporozhians part ways. How fierce do you have to be to shrug off the deaths of five of your comrades? They're a different breed, alright, like that Filon Kmita.
You manage to find some peasant ferrymen the following day, and make it over the Dniepr, then you turn southward for Crimea. More than once, the Lipkas must talk down armed Tatars, who always part at the mention of their Khan. Praise God that simple bandits were never encountered at any point.
To your surprise, you find the Tatars here on the peninsula living in houses like anybody else, unlike the nomads of the steppe. As you ride toward the Crimean capital, now back on defined roads, you notice that the thoroughfares are lined with what look like shallow graves. A Tatar peasant explains that it's all slaves who died being marched to the sea. Barbarians. But they seem to live as any other kind of people.
Bakczysaraj makes your head spin a little – it looks straight out of an engraving of Turkey! Minarets loom over the rooftops as you ride into the city, greeted by local noblemen who speak hurriedly with the Lipkas. One turns to you and smiles. "They were not expecting this," he chuckles. Curious Tatars and Greeks line the streets and stand atop the near-flat roofs, pointing and discussing amongst themselves with hushed voices. Only the rare Orthodox priest is friendly — they allow Christians to abide? — most people seem confused at best.
A column of shackled Ruthenians on the main thoroughfare are beaten with canes to make way. They begin to beg and plead and pray, asking to be bought – now there's an idea – but you can only feel a tightness of sorrow and anger in your breast as you proceed to the center of the city. There's still business to attend to.
A great mosque sits astride the Khan's palace, which looks halfway like an Italian villa (from the woodcuts you've seen), except the walls are all done up with beautiful murals and, when there isn't paint, mosaic tiles. Floral motifs abound, creeping vines and rose-wheels of blue and yellow and green, interspersed with what you recognize to be Mohamatan calligraphy – you saw a forbidden Koran once, shown to you furtively by the philosopher Montaigne back in France. The savages are capable of such beauty? You knew Turks to be civilized heathens, and formidable ones at that, but these monsters of the steppe? It's food for thought.
A blonde man in Tatar garb greets you at the threshold of the palace's sanctum. "My name is Fetih, honored guest, translator-slave of the great Devlet Khan, he who sits upon the Throne of Crimea and Desht-i Kipchak, Lord of the Great Horde and of the Circassians and all the Nogai," he says in Ruthenian, a thick southern peasant's accent forcing you to listen closely. Fetih… the poor man must have been renamed. A voice calls out in a throaty language from deeper in the room, behind the curtain. "My master bids you enter."
You are ushered into the room and briefly drop your jaw at the sight of its many colors. Beautiful carpets of Persia and Turkey and the more familiar Armenian kind adorn the floors and walls almost completely, cast brightly and beautifully beautifully by the light shining through oblong windows. A turbaned man in flowing green and blue robes sits atop a mat surrounded by brightly-dyed pillows; he beckons you toward him and his chainmailed guardsmen. As you approach, you recognize now that he is an older man – perhaps sixty – with deep wrinkles and crow's feet, wearing a large graying beard. He almost looks kindly, but there's something in his eyes. This is a genteel barbarian and a heathen king.
You're unsure how these people salute each other, so you drop to a knee and try to say what you've been muttering to yourself over and over again:
"Assalamualaikum, Khan muazzam. Bik zur räkhmät sêzgä, ḩäm ozak yashäy sezgä telim," you enunciate slowly. The Lipkas taught you for hours the day before, and said it's an honorable address, thanking him for the audience and wishing a long life. ["Peace be upon you, noble Khan. I offer up my thanks, and may you live long."]
The Khan laughs dryly and claps his hands. "Oh, that's marvelous, truly. He can talk. Allah help me, he sounds like those Northerners; I can hardly understand them, let alone this one. Slave, tell the infidel fool 'welcome.'"
"My master welcomes you to his home," says Fetih. It seems like the Khan said a lot more than that.
"And ask him why he's here before I have him clapped in irons and traded for his weight in silver."
"He wishes to know why you honor him with your coming. A Christian prince in Bakczysaraj is a –"
"Just translate. I can tell you're talking too much," snaps the Khan.
"Yes, of course, my apologies," replies the interpreter meekly.
Your eyes dart between the two of them. "I am here to parlay for the lives of around a hundred mirzas," you say, deciding to just rip the bandage off. "Including His Majesty's grandson, Saadet."
The Khan perks up at the mentioning of the name. "Did he just say 'Saadet?' What of my grandson?"
"I…" the translator sounds hesitant, almost wincing. "I am afraid to say, great Khan, that a blow has been struck against our mighty armies. A hundred noblemen are prisoner to him, including Saadet Mirza."
The Khan lets out a little gasp, leans back, and hums. He rumbles out angry words. "May Allah give you troubles, infidel… Seven living sons and thirty-nine grandsons, and he captures my firstborn's firstborn." He shakes his head and laughs, sounding weary. "That boy's heels were always too hot. And here I thought a treasure trove just walked himself into my palace." He mutters: "and my beys would be furious about their sons and brothers…"
Fetih is grimacing. "The Khan is troubled by this news." He looks to his master.
You swallow. The Khan is staring daggers into you, but you feel as if that must be a thinking face as much as it is an angry one; perhaps you ought to protect yourself. "And I wish to inform His Majesty that if I am not back to my people within a moon, the mirzas will all be killed."
"He threatens their lives, great Khan, and sets a deadline for his safe passage home: one moon hence." The Ruthenian translates with a hurried tone now.
Devlet Khan swats at the air, not looking so stately. "Just ask him what he wants, then."
"My master asks for your terms."
What do you say?
[You literally got so lucky that the Giray at picked at random happens to be close in line to the throne. I would then prompt you to ask for money, peace, or both.]
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- Pronouns
- She/They
Hopefully our loyal servants can get similar results - or at least peace - with their own wits and the same news.
[X] "As terrifying as it was exciting."
Seems truthful. Our boy is fully conscious of his mortality, but in the thick of it I think he finds some meaning, humanist or no.
[X] "Perhaps the noble Prince should stay back and keep an eye on our camp?" you ask the men.
Someone's gotta do it. Softballing may bite us later given the habit of people in this universe to read ill intent into our actions, but it's safer than risking an officer freezing up on the front lines because he hasn't had a chance to process.
[X] "I truly think an ambush at the burnt campsite is our best option here. It's our turn to use that hill."
And regardless of how our negotiators are doing, we're still at war, and we should do it by the book now that our numbers started dwindling.
[X] "As terrifying as it was exciting."
Seems truthful. Our boy is fully conscious of his mortality, but in the thick of it I think he finds some meaning, humanist or no.
[X] "Perhaps the noble Prince should stay back and keep an eye on our camp?" you ask the men.
Someone's gotta do it. Softballing may bite us later given the habit of people in this universe to read ill intent into our actions, but it's safer than risking an officer freezing up on the front lines because he hasn't had a chance to process.
[X] "I truly think an ambush at the burnt campsite is our best option here. It's our turn to use that hill."
And regardless of how our negotiators are doing, we're still at war, and we should do it by the book now that our numbers started dwindling.
I concur with Nerdorama.
[X] "As terrifying as it was exciting."
[X] "Perhaps the noble Prince should stay back and keep an eye on our camp?" you ask the men.
[X] "I truly think an ambush at the burnt campsite is our best option here. It's our turn to use that hill."
Also, holy shit. We really did get extremely fuckin' lucky.
[X] "As terrifying as it was exciting."
[X] "Perhaps the noble Prince should stay back and keep an eye on our camp?" you ask the men.
[X] "I truly think an ambush at the burnt campsite is our best option here. It's our turn to use that hill."
Also, holy shit. We really did get extremely fuckin' lucky.
- Pronouns
- He
[X] "As terrifying as it was exciting."
[X] "Perhaps the noble Prince should stay back and keep an eye on our camp?" you ask the men.
[X] "I truly think an ambush at the burnt campsite is our best option here. It's our turn to use that hill."
[X] "Perhaps the noble Prince should stay back and keep an eye on our camp?" you ask the men.
[X] "I truly think an ambush at the burnt campsite is our best option here. It's our turn to use that hill."
Noroboro
Consistency is key and I’m consistently tired :)
- Location
- Canada
[X] "As terrifying as it was exciting."
[X] "Perhaps the noble Prince should stay back and keep an eye on our camp?" you ask the men.
[X] "I truly think an ambush at the burnt campsite is our best option here. It's our turn to use that hill."
[X] "Perhaps the noble Prince should stay back and keep an eye on our camp?" you ask the men.
[X] "I truly think an ambush at the burnt campsite is our best option here. It's our turn to use that hill."