Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest

One more thing.

While I wholeheartedly embrance the idea of allying with the Ruthenians, I have to remind everybody, that they are the weakest political group in the Commonwealth. Sure, the individual magnates might be some of the richest in the country (Ostrogski, Zbaraski, Wiśniowiecki, etc.), but their political power is far below that of the Crownlanders and that's just in the everyday political fights of the time!

Their strength in the election is even more prominent and the reason is very simple: who is the most likely to come to Wola (barring the rich and powerful) at a time, when travelling wasn't as easy as it is today and many people weren't fond of it? Those closest of course. And since this is Masovia, it has many, many villages full of poor hołota. Indeed, they loved elections for the simple fact, that it is a great time to earn some cash in the form of bribes from each and every representative present. Foreign diplomats were usually baffled at the fact, that once a noble gets his money, he goes to the next representative for another bribe, then to another and another... hence, there was never a guarantee, that the hołota in question will vote for their chosen man.

Many poor nobles were also a reason, why good oratory could do wonders to win some political support among such people. As to the procedure itself: a vote was called a kreska (line, dash) in favour of a particular candidate and it was public. Nobles from each land (administrative unit, above powiats/counties, sometimes they were one and the same) would vote separately, then the results of the whole voivodeship would be announced and the man, who got the most votes would be the chosen candidate of said voivodeship. The procedure would continue until all the voivodeships of the Commonwealth would announce the victory of a single man (in line with the unanimity required).

It was sinful to take yesterday off, even if it was for the one you hold dearest, or to strengthen the bonds of marriage. For God frowns upon idleness, and more than one Saint cautions against foolish game-playing or the ostentatious or even excessive joy, of which existed too much of all three. There is cause to be guilty, and there is cause to redouble one's efforts. Though, and the Lord knows this well for he knows the hearts of all men, there is nothing more sinful than politics. The Savior warned of such things. But it is your earthly task, the reason why God made you a prince by fate. In any case, you must be doing something right, you venture to guess, fearful of it curdling into pride: your fever hasn't returned for nearly a week now, and no blood seeps through the plaster-stump.

When the Austrian Baron (unofficially) polled the Sejm regarding the staffing of the Military Frontier, the result was unsurprising: the proposal of foreign colonists was met with a mixture of confusion and roaring boo's, while the resettlement and parceling out of modest land grants for the destitute, landless or near-landless nobility was met with resounding cheers and caps raised on the ends of sabers, with many of the patch-jackets swearing before God on the spot that they'd go. The Baron cried out, masterfully: "Very good, very well, it shall be so, it shall be yours!" A good diplomat such as he knows how to fire up a crowd as well he can learn a new dance on the fly or learn a court's etiquette.

You smile in your senatorial chair, rather pleased with yourself: you just made an Imperial diplomat politick like a genuine man of the Twin Nations, and the very positive reception – both at the proposal itself as well as its democratic handling – is palpable. God willing, this may make elements of the reformist gołota defect in their own self-interest. Of course, the Senators and high men of the court grumble and worry about how all this will be paid for, while some of the Ruthenians, though overjoyed in theory, express apprehension about an influx of Catholic Poles into their patrimony – though just as many are excited to staff the forts themselves or line their pockets through the sale of what is, in many places, almost empty space. But these are problems for another day, another year, even. The most important thing is securing the election of the Archduke by any means necessary.

While your father and brothers hold down the Senat, the Prussians, and the churchmen, you decide to send out messengers to discreetly round up a few handpicked members of a peculiar class of noble, passing over the Firlejowie on account of their staunch Protestantism and your Sapieha brothers-in-law due to existing ties. Meanwhile, another likely target, Hieronim Ossoliński, that high-ranking Senator, near-landless, is at death's door, barely able to keep up with the proceedings. Maybe you can speak with his sons once the old man's gone? And the notable Ruthenian Prince Czartoryski won't be a grown man for another year or two. So all of that is for some other day; it's more important to focus on those who sent your messengers back to you with good news. You shall meet with the respondents the following morning.

One could perhaps call the four men who answered your call magnates minor – the upper-middle, or perhaps the lower-upper: rich in land but lacking in prestige and titles, or likewise enjoying high esteem despite relative poverty. They sit before you in your chamber in Warszawa's palace, drinks in hand, despite the early hour – two Poles, two Ruthenians, and all at least a decade older than you. Only one possesses extant ties to Lithuania. They've already offered up the customary congratulation-condolences regarding your amputation, and now await your briefing. You preside at the foot of your bed, gripping your crutches tightly and going over notes in your head, ever-so-slightly nervous. It's been a while since you've had to give a speech – even if it's just to four (albeit consequential) men.

There's the Field Crown Hetman and onetime rotmistrz of the defunct Obrona Potoczna, Mikołaj Sieniawski: fifty-five, broad-shouldered, scar-faced, and big-bearded, staring you down with a smile of illegible meaning. He took up the defense of the borderlands in a separate army to the east, while your little coalition took care of the westernmost voivodeships. A lifelong and consummate soldier, he holds several estates with his kinsmen east of Lwów. Sieniawski is here primarily because he's a friend and herb-brother of…

…Stanisław Tarnowski, who leans forward in his chair, seeming eager at his relatively youthful thirty-something. Distant kinsman of the late great Grand Crown Hetman Jan Amor Tarnowski, one of the finest Polonians of the century, he represents a house in decline: with the death of Jan Amor's son, Jan Krzysztof, at a youthful and childless thirty in 1567, the main line of the family was rendered extinct and their expansive eastern estates forfeit to the princes Ostrogski. Now limited to their modest ancestral holdings in Sandomierz Voivodeship, it's up to relatively obscure cadets like Stanisław to carry on the family name.

Prince Andrzej Wiśniowiecki, Voivode of Bracław, represents both Protestant and Ruthenian interests in equal measure. Perhaps fifty years of age, he arguably wields the most political power of the four men present, a brother and inheritor of the famed hero Dymitr "Bajda." As for the man before you, you know his name well: he's an old comrade of your father's and, though you never personally have met him, he played an instrumental role in provisioning your army in its campaign against the Tatars. He ensured that your forces would be provided with extensive material aid from both Bracław city proper and his extensive holdings in Volhynia.

And, finally, boasting a Zaporozhian-style, half-shaved head is Teodor Skumin Tyszkiewicz, about forty but with a weatherbeaten, deeply-wrinkled face. He shares his herb with Sieniawski and Tarnowski, but knows little of them besides that. Lord Tyszkiewicz is master of the mid-sized Ruthenian town of Berdyczów – which you relieved from Tatar raiding just a few months ago – and other, sparsely-populated tracts of land in southwest Kijów and northern Bracław Voivodeships. However, a smattering of his kinfolk occupy middling posts in the Grand Duchy, and his family is one of the few remaining to hold sway in both of the Twin Nations. Though perhaps the lowliest man present in terms of holdings and titles, he is nonetheless of regional (that is to say, borderland) significance, and was primarily drawn to you, your agents tell you, by your defense of his premier holding.

"My noble lords," you begin, "I thank you all greatly for allowing yourselves to be called upon by a man as young as I, and so early in the day. I stand before you because…"

[] "...I am in need of your help."

Why lie? Some men may find it a brave thing to admit it

[] "...the coming of the Archduke will benefit us all."

For these men, you ought to get straight to the point.

[] "...you are men deserving of esteem, of riches, and of the highest seats of government."

A bit of flattery never hurt anyone — it's just a preamble.

[] "...no more shall these Twin Nations be dominated by the men of the heartlands."

Three of these men hail from Ruthenia or the southeast more generally – Tarnowski is of Lesser Poland, but he's certainly no Masovian churl.

[] write-in.

Phrased as a completion to the above sentences.