Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest

[Rolman]

You were closing in on Orsza by late March.

Marszowski, van Gistel, Friar Gosiewski, dear Mariana, and just short of a hundred attendants, bodyguards, and ladies-in-waiting. Your little village is on the move; the baggage train is loaded-down with bedframes and tables, a kitchen's worth of cookware, gingerly-handled paintings and tapestries. All are aware that they are going home, a near-punishment to last until the King finds satisfaction. There's no telling how he feels about the outcome of the duel – or maybe it doesn't need to be told. After all, alive and (relatively) unscathed or not, you're still bound for a frontier town where a man named Kmita – probably a minder – awaits you.

The forests and marshes of the west give way to the scrublands, birch forests, and rolling hills of the east. Of course, given the season, everywhere has turned to mud, and the beauty of the land lies dormant behind gray skies. But there is always some excitement to see lands undiscovered.

You couldn't find any suitable high ground to view the city from afar, but its stone castle rose above it – your new home for the time being. A good deal smaller than Dubinki and rather unimposing, yet shining-clean and well-maintained on account of its relative youth and proximity to the hated Muscovite. At the intersection of the little Orszica and the mighty Dniepr, it holds a defensible position and hangs over the city as a symbol of Grand Ducal authority, to be executed by your hand.

It's weighty, to be sure, but at least the town is small. A few thousand cramped into muddy lanes and hugging the twin rivers behind half-wood half-stone city walls. They're a diverse bunch: like a microcosm of Kijów, one could find as many Jews, Armenians, and Calvinist transplants from the Crownlands and Lithuania proper as they could Ruthenians. Things seem harmonious enough, with only a few rabble-rousers and gangs bothering the townsfolk, the threads of the quilt holding, praise God.

You quickly come to understand that this is a river city. Despite its upstream position on Dniepr, Orsza bears the distinction of being great Smolensk's only downstream neighbor – everything that city produces, bound for Kijów and beyond, must pass through Orsza.

As your servants get to work unpacking a new life into Orsza Castle, the local officials begin to file through, introducing themselves: the military tribune, the magistrate, the steward, the standard-bearer. It's the Starost, this Kmita fellow who so intrigues and frightens you, who comes last.

He looks like a damned Zaporozhian! A fantastically drooping mustache adorns his weathered face, and it seems like there may be very little hair under his cap. He bows with a flourish. "Your Serene Highness: your starost, sir, Filon Kmita of my family's Radwan banner. I have been most eager to meet you."

"Likewise, Lord Kmita." He seems more like a hussar than a web-weaver. "Your reputation precedes you!"

"Does it now?" he grins. "Dashing or duplicitous, Your Serene Highness?"

"Well, they frequently come tied together, no?" you joke; he laughs. "A courageous horseman is a cunning one."

Kmita brushes off his shoulders, feigning modesty. "Well, I am good with the cavalry…" he looks to you for a laugh which you willingly provide. Even if he's a threat.

"I'm told you're most capable, Lord Kmita," you emphasize. "In subterfuge and in battle; I'm glad to have you on our side, sir."

Nothing wrong with buttering him up. "And it is good to make the acquaintance of Your Serene Highness!" he points and chuckles like an uncle. "Look at that ear! That's fresh."

"Indeed. I'm learning fast," you say with some weariness.

"Clearly! Well, Your Serene Highness, if I may get down to business?"

"Please."

"Well," he begins, looking to the ceiling in a search for words. "Well… It's been a long while since we've had a castellan here. Really doing castellan's work, that is. So, well…"

"Yes?"

"Well, the Voivode — you've met him?"

Lord Stanisław Pac, in Witebsk. No, you haven't. Perhaps he's waiting for you to come to him. "I have not."

"He reckons me to be the authority around here and, to be frank, I agree," Kmita says. "I've done eight years here now, and have done and seen a very good deal against Iwan; the soldiers, the spies, I even manage the courts."

You decide to answer directness with directness. "So you're saying I'm in your house, sir?"

"In a word — yes, Your Serene Highness. But I know your superior rank and title and so I very much hope to work closely with you."

"That can be done. Well, so, the first thing you can do is tell me of this place, as one who truly lives here." You want to let him know here and now that there isn't an imperious bone in your body, such is a man born under Cancer. So say those apostates, that is.

And Lord Kmita does: it's a proud diatribe about his spies in the high halls of Moskwa, his crack squadrons of Zaporozhian riders and noble hussars, capable of stopping any raid by Tatar or "Caesar" alike. He points a thumb at himself: "and the taxmen hardly dare skim off the top anymore!"

After a few weeks, it's apparent that it wasn't bluster: this section of Witebsk Voivodeship runs like clockwork. The peasants leave each other be, the taxes are paid, the ferries come and go on time and do so unmolested. Muscovite riders dare not cross the border, but are taken care of when they do — the hanging trees your brother Krzysztof once boasted of are scattered across the scrublands.

This is a predicament. Are your hands bound?

[] Let's to Witebsk to meet with Voivode Pac.

While not necessarily coming in appeal, showing some deference in spite of your princely rank to your colleague and pseudo-superior could open doors, unfog some stunned eyes. Kmita would accompany and there would likely be the tone of a summit.

[] Begin working with Kmita closely.

Attempt to learn more about this character of a man from the source itself; he'd be spying on you in any event should he indeed be a spy, you figure. This is his little fiefdom and, while refusing open deference, you're sending a clear message of cooperation and consensus, however naïve you may wind up being.

[] Investigate Kmita.

A spy is a spy and may just be a *spy.* But where to begin? Who to find out from? As far as you're aware, there's no French liaisons in town. Right? Embedding some of your men amongst Kmita's riders — framed as an act of good faith — could yield answers. Or is this paranoia for nothing, risking angering a true spy's spy?

[] Kick back and relax.

This is a gilded cage. Or maybe a bronze cage or some such. Maybe just a cage. Why not make the best of it? After all, you have your own little castle, Mariana, your retainers, and most importantly God. Focus on personal ties, spirituality, and sport as you wait out the Frenchman.

 

[Sertorius]

[X] Begin working with Kmita closely.

I mean, he is the man we will be cooperating with a lot. Best get it done.

You quickly come to understand that this is a river city. Despite its upstream position on Dniepr, Orsza bears the distinction of being great Smolensk's only downstream neighbor – everything that city produces, bound for Kijów and beyond, must pass through Orsza.

Click to shrink...

By the way, a quick strategic lesson:

Smoleńsk was the most important border fortress for either country. It has been called the Gate or Key to Lithuania or Muscovy, depends on who currently owns it. It is situated on the most direct and easiest route to and from Moscow, that leads conveniently between two great rivers: Dniepr and Dźwina (Daugava). It was therefore ideal for large-scale marches of troops, without any serious topographic obstacles along the way. Hence the powerful fortress to guard this strategic road. Smoleńsk was always well defended, heavily fortified and constantly upgraded with better walls, towers and cannons. It was a number one priority of any larger war (Livonia was an exception, since this front was of secondary importance, therefore raids by Kmita were enough to keep the enemy tied up here) between Lithuania and Muscovy to take the city and own it.

 

[Rolman]

Weeks pass. The time is spent riding through the countryside with Lord Kmita, familiarizing yourself with villages and roads and little river tributaries, the winding of the Dniepr and Orszica, and the popular infiltration points for Muscovite riders. All the while, Kmita never did anything even slightly suspicious, and you found yourself increasingly taken with the man: a talented administrator, soldier, and spymaster, forthright and congenial.

The trees were in bloom when the calm was disrupted.

Lord Kmita is ushered into your tent. "Your Serene Highness," he says, holding up a wax-sealed piece of parchment, "orders from the King, by way of the Voivode."

You feel a kind of sucking sensation as your stomach drops. Your mind can't keep up with your body. Heat begins to form behind your sternum. You knew it! Are you being ridiculous? No time to wonder. Act now. "And why is it that you and the Voivode get them before I?"

Kmita looks taken back. "Because I happened to receive the courier, and because the King opted to dispatch the message to Voivode Pac," he answers. "Is there a problem?"

Unwrap that bandage. "Are you spying on me, Lord Kmita?"

"No, Your Serene Highness. The King told Voivode Pac to tell me to keep an eye on you," he says matter-of-factly. "If I was spying on you, I'd be offering you new retainers and the castle maids would throw themselves at you."

You grip your tunic-tails tightly, your jaw like a beartrap. "And I'm meant to believe this?"

"No, not at all, Your Serene Highness," shrugs Kmita. "In fact, it's a testament to your good instincts to have never trusted me in the first place." He really means that, he's paying a genuine compliment. "But tabs I've kept, and the tabs look good. Who cares about Frenchie anyway?"

"Me. Do you understand I'm more or less exiled at the moment?"

"Nobody told me, but it seemed apparent, lord prince. You're a long way from Wilno or Kraków," Kmita says. "But the King means very little out here. You're not a wastrel or an extortionist and that's good enough for me, by God."

Well, you're here. There's no way to avoid him, this Kmita. It's his country. "Well," you say, pausing to grind your teeth. "What's the letter say?"

He speaks in-between mouthing words to himself, half-preoccupied. "It says… ya-da-da-we-the-King… Ah! Oooo. Now that could be clever."

"What?" you ask, anxious; he hands you the letter, which you read quickly and hungrily. "I don't understand. A mission to Smoleńsk to discuss the issue of river piracy?"

"Yes, our new King is being a little naïve." Glad it's him for once. "As if Iwan has any interest whatsoever in receiving diplomats on his side of the border. Especially over something so petty!" Kmita looks almost giddy.

Seeing him smile through his Zaporozhian mustache is endearing, and you exhale. "What's got you so excited, then?"

"Oh, don't tell me you can't figure it out, Your Serene Highness."

"It's got to do with spying?"

"Naturally! An innocuous, seemingly-foolhardy mission to Smoleńsk?" Kmita claps his hands. "Do you realize the contacts we'd gain? Plus, I've got a man in need of exfiltration."

"Don't you think you're getting a little ahead of yourself, Lord Kmita?" you ask, putting some pieces together. "Won't they recognize you? And where Kmita goes…" …everybody knows he's a bastard spy. But that will have to wait.

He groans. "Hellfire, you're right." He places a hand to his chin. "Hmmm. Well, Your Serene Highness, are you up for some skullduggery?"

"I suppose I have to be," you smile grimly.

"It's not dishonorable work! Not in my mind, that is."

"It's more so that I've never done it before."

"Well, then, Your Serene Highness," says Kmita, reentering thought, "the man's a cavalry lieutenant named Bielski. Has cousins on our side of the border and wants out, mapped out their patrols and corridors for raiding." He smiles. "No worries about making new spies, I'll live. We're lucky about Prince Szujski, too."

"Prince Szujski?"

"Their Voivode of Smoleńsk. Wishes he was a Sarmatian; a lot of them do."

You've heard of their reverence for the Commonwealth, their respect and envy mixing with wartime hatred. "So where do I come in, exactly?"

"We'd be needing Your Serene Highness to create a distraction of some sort." He shrugs. "I'd feign a raid and scoop up Sir Bielski when they ride out to meet us — always an option — but the conditions of the visit may call for something more subtle."

"You'll send some of your men with me?"

"Of course. They know that city like the back of their hand. Which means you could always try and take him right out from under their noses, if a scrape seems too loud." Lord Kmita's more gleeful than thoughtful now. "Isn't this fun, Your Serene Highness? Being a spy is about creativity, not low cunning."

"Maybe. This is all somewhat… different."

"And novelty is the pepper to the chicken of life!" he laughs. "There's a call-and-response my men know for finding him. I'm sending you with my best, Your Serene Highness."

"Thank you, Lord Kmita." You scrunch up your face. "How do I know this isn't a trap?" You envision Muscovite captivity, life as a hostage, out of the King's hair until you're ransomed.

"They can't risk renewing war, and the King can only toss you about so much. I would enter guardedly, of course, I always do," says Kmita. "Iwan disbanded his murder-monks a year or two ago, but the men themselves persist. They're vicious and smart, too. They fold in a real fight, though," he snorts. "The thugs. Some of my distortions made a whole city get wiped out by them." He doesn't seem to care very much.

Ignore that, that's how all your fellows seem to all be. "So, I would expect a few of them in town," Kmita warns you. "A severed dog's head means they're watching, sniffing you out, Your Serene Highness."

"Christ," you say before popping a hand over your mouth and crossing yourself.

Kmita cracks a grin. "That's one for Confession, lord prince," he jokes. You laugh sheepishly. "My men will be as honest as I am; they'll help you with plans and, yes, they've been told to watch you, too," he says. "But I reiterate: I see no need, but if the King can sleep at night…"

"Certainly," you say, mildly defeated. "Well, I suppose I'll mount up in a few days and try to come up with some ideas."

"Godspeed, Your Serene Highness," he says, giving you a handshake. "Don't underestimate them. It's not Prince Szujski, it's his men. They've tangled with me enough to keep their hackles raised. Get our Bielski home, lord prince."

Indeed, that is the plan. Borders are a funny thing: the villages and birch forests simply keep going, the peasants speak the language, yet here you are in Muscovy, the belly of the beast. Were it not for their red-coated palatials with their fierce bardiches waiting on the road to escort your party, you'd have been none the wiser.

Smoleńsk, too, lent an impression of merely being a transplanted Kijów, well-fortified and boasting stone churches that survived the Tatar hordes in the Dark Age. A fine city; perhaps only their false Caesar is a barbarian.

The entry shall set the tone. How do you arrive at Smoleńsk?

[] with fanfare.

Raise the Radziwiłł colors high and enter the city as highfalutin diplomats. Sure to impress Prince Szujski and lower his guard, a loud entrance will also allow Muscovite spies — who are surely present — to easily take down names and faces. Settle into their kremlin as honored guests and work under their noses.

[] more furtively.

Obviously, a baggage train of richly-dressed foreigners is always going to yield ooo's and aaa's. But by arriving at dawn on an unexpected date, you could quite literally catch their Polonophile Prince in his bed-clothes, raising implications of poor hospitality from a man likely eager to please Westerners. As they scramble to make arrangements, the spies could get to work.

As for the tone of your plans, discussed on the journey, they trend in the direction of…

[] the silent.

Bribes, blackmail, disguises, for example.

[] the quiet.

Pebbles thrown at windows. Chalk-marks on walls. An evacuation under the cover of darkness, perhaps. Take advantage of Prince Szujski.

[] the loud.

Something that would dispatch Smoleńsk's riders into the country, like false-flag banditry or some such. Bielski goes *missing.* Maybe cause some chaos in the city itself?

 

[Sertorius]

Shoutout to Sertorius, whose two passages on Fantasy inspired me to seek out help and be creative with this plan. In my interpretation, Fantasy is equivalent to the old Hellenic Arete, which is just another way of saying Based.

@Sertorius, is this plan sufficiently Fantastic?

Click to shrink...

Aye, your plan reeks of fantasy, I'll admit. Bold actions are always well regarded by the nobility.

At the same time, I would advise caution. Smoleńsk was the most important border fortress for a reason, therefore it's Voivode and commander was always a man who's loyalty cannot be questioned, so wooing him is rather unlikely to succeed.

I've been trying to figure that out actually, and embarrassingly enough I cannot. @Sertorius @Kir the Wizard send help!!!

Click to shrink...

Ok, after some quick research, here are my conclusions:
The only Shuysky to be a voivode of Smoleńsk at the time was Prince Ivan Andreevich (1569), yet he was recalled less than a year later after his servant fled to Lithuania. There is a strange gap between 1570 and 1576, when the next voivode pops up. Not only that, Prince Ivan gets killed in battle with the Swedes in 1573. For the record, he is the father of Vasili IV, the one who gets crowned Tsar later. The family (and this Prince in particular) was also part of the Oprichnina, the secret police of Ivan the Terrible and was thus spared the majority of the terror, that reigned in Muscovy, before the organization was disbanded in 1572. While the Commonwealth enjoys peace with Muscovy, the Livonian War still rages between Sweden and the Muscovites as of now.

As for our dear Prince. His sons are a bit young (unless you wish to give the untested 22 year old Vasili such an important post), therefore I would suggest, that Ivan never went to war with the Swedes and regained his posting as voivode of Smoleńsk, where he still is. A very minor butterfly really. Even funnier for a guy from the secret police, that loves Sarmatism.

Fun fact: A Lithuanian branch of the Shuysky family exists: another Prince Ivan escaped Muscovy in 1539, starting a line in the GDL.

Fun fact #2: The Shuyskys name comes from the town of Shuya. Funnily enough, since the time of the aforementioned Vasili IV, the Polish language has adopted the insult szuja in his "honour". It can be translated as: bastard, scoundrel, backstabber, SOB and a few other classic jabs. It is said, that it's because of his role in taking down the first False Dmitry to take over the throne, only to be humbled in Warsaw before King Sigismund III after his capture.

 

[Rolman]

You make a point of picking your finest clothes, vain and offensive to God as it may be, as you decide that ostentatiousness is a good veil for this mission's true purpose. The men who can fit in your other duds are dressed in them, and the result is a column of princely-looking figures, under a canopy of Radziwiłł yellow shining in the high-noon sun, triumphantly entering the fortress-city to heralds' trumpets and intrigued boyars waving their fur caps, eager to practice their Polish and learn of the latest Western innovations. Marszowski and van Gistel even throw low-denomination coins into the street — somewhat to your consternation. "Like chickens! Like chickens! Peck peck peck!" laughs van Gistel as child and adult alike scoop them up. And yet you cannot help but crack a smile. Do you miss them?

Prince Szujski is a good deal older than you yet beams at you from his horse, bouncing slightly on the saddle in excitement like a boy. "Your Serene Highness!" he exclaims in well-practiced Polish. "It is so good to at last meet you!"

"Likewise, lord prince," you reply, realizing you're unsure of his styling. He doesn't flinch and handshakes and bows are exchanged from the saddle.

"Were our people not enemies, I'd love to be a Radzivil," he says. "Your father and brothers are amongst the fiercest foes we've ever seen, true warriors that could put a khan to shame!"

"You honor us, sir," you nod sheepishly, knowing you're not in the canon of great Radziwiłłowie quite yet. "And very sporting of you, my lord!" you add.

Prince Szujski laughs. "Well, I must call it how I see it, no, Your Serene Highness?" He points to the kremlin's towers. "Please, please, let us offer you our hospitality, and discuss business."

The Muscovite prince is brimming with questions as you enjoy the best fare in the city. France, the Empire, Kraków and Wilno: who lives there, what are they like, what the thinkers and natural philosophers study these days. He can't wait to buy himself a lifelike painting from Italy. He's proud of Muscovy's first printing press, and is curious about how they work — you couldn't answer that one.

"So you mean to say that they kill each other over religion in France?" asks Prince Szujski, dismayed. "I don't know if we ever heard of this…"

"Yes, my lord. The West is not all it's chalked up to be."

"But, surely, we may only take the good bits?" he flaps his hand. "I know something about finding chaff-people and beating them out of the grain, but I thought things were a pinch more… genteel out there." That's a little sinister. Kmita's men told you he used to ride with a dog's head on his saddle. You know what that means; murderers can be amiable.

"Sadly, no. At least your folk are united under one church — I envy it," you say, your mind on Saint Peter and the Holy Church's struggles.

"Mmm," replies Prince Szujski, placing a finger to his temple and rubbing at a sideburn. "It's true, praise God, but you haven't the slightest idea about the amount of rats our Tsar had to contend with."

He's no Caesar. He's a jumped-up maniac of a Grand Prince. You're not going to say it, of course. "I heard that drastic measures were taken, sir."

He nods grimly. "And I'd do it all again. That being said, Your Serene Highness — and do forgive me — I've read a copy of His Royal Majesty's dispatch, and it's a matter best suited for our Tsar. I must ask you to proceed to Moskwa."

You scrunch your eyebrows and try to keep cool. This is an issue, nevermind that the man seems to be a proud oprichnik. "But surely, the issue of piracy on the Dniepr is an issue for governor-types such as ourselves?"

"My master wishes to handle all things himself, such is his wisdom." Prince Szujski blinks rapidly. "You… You must understand, Your Serene Highness, that some of my cousins have defected to your side. I am under rightful scrutiny. I'd rather not take liberties, despite it being my utmost pleasure to meet a young man of such a high station."

You nod understandingly. Such tyranny! Praise the Lord you were born on the right side of the border. Scores of boyars met poison or the headman, after all, not to mention an entire city. "Certainly, my lord, I sympathize with you." We've got to salvage this. "But may we at least stay here a while?"

He looks almost offended. "Of course! Of course. Your men and horses deserve rest, Your Serene Highness."

When it comes to skullduggery, there are no two better sinners than Andrzej Marszowski and Karol van Gistel. You find them picking their teeth and sipping strong liquor together, interrupting one of the Netherlander's war stories. You frown at the gorzała, and make sure the door to their quarters are latched tight.

They used to not be so formal with you, but they both rise and bow. Marszowski looks a little sad. He's not wearing it on his face, yet you can tell somehow.

"Your Serene Highness," they say in unison.

"Gentlemen, I need to fill you in. We're on a timetable: Prince Szujski's nervous about handling us, and is trying to forward us on to Moskwa. We'll need to find Bielski and get him out quickly and quietly," you explain.

Van Gistel lights up immediately as Marszowski begins to think. "Netherlanders like me may well be waterdogs. The river, Your Serene Highness!"

"You mean to smuggle him out?" you ask; he confirms with a nod. "Then we'll need a distraction." You smile wearily, and admit to yourself that you do miss the old dog. "Sir Marszowski, you're good at being loud."

You've never seen him so subdued. He rustles up a little chuckle. "That I am, Your Serene Highness, that I am."

"Perhaps at tomorrow's feast you'll have too much to drink and pick a fight with some boyar cur?" The idea came quick, thinking back to the great diversion that was your bout with Lacza.

Sir Marszowski nods. "I'm your man, Your Serene Highness. We can steal our spy away while they watch me saber-dance."

"And that's where you'll come in, van Gistel." You swallow. Sin-Sin-Sin. "Steal a barge and float off with Kmita's men down the Dniepr. Leave eastwards at dawn the following morning and double back to the border before they can figure anything out."

Marszowski smiles. "You're a natural, Your Serene Highness."

"I wish I wasn't," you reply flatly. "The Lord does not take kindly to this work, this deception."

Your old fencing master looks tired again. "Indeed," is all he says.

You clap your hands. "Well then — it's settled?"

"Yes, Your Serene Highness."

The following night comes quickly; the diversions of daylight mean nothing compared to the fear and anticipation of the stratagem awaiting its deployment. Prince Szujski vacillates between nervous hand-wringing and singing the praises of Polonia and beyond.

The evening feast means that your eyes are locked on Marszowski. van Gistel and his team are out and about – you hope their absence from the table won't be noticed – slipping money to guardsmen in exchange for the cavalryman Bielski's whereabouts and calling out code phrases in harsh, quiet voices. At least that's what you'd reckon should be happening. It's in God's hands now, may He forgive us. Though, it's undeniable that there's a certain thrill to all this.

The mark is a big fat boyar with a bushy, food-flecked beard to match. His penchant for loud profanity and grabbing at anything with an ass made it very clear to that fox Marszowski that he's an utterly disinhibited man. "Stick the pig and it'll squeal," he says into your ear, before bowing flamboyantly as if he just delivered an official message.

"Very well, Marszowski," you say, "thank you for bringing this to my attention. Do return to your seat."

He thanks you customarily and begins to make his way back to the lower tiers, a marvelously full goblet of wine in hand. Maybe it's just because you know him so well, but you already find yourself nearly compelled to half-nervous laughter: he's a little drunk yet moves like he's on a balance-beam – he always does – nothing in his stride bouncing or slouching or loping, he's the picture of grace and agility, even as he ages. The poised dancer moves as a ghost.

…Which is why you must cover your mouth when Marszowski theatrically flies forward, almost diving, dousing the boyar's face and beard in wine and landing head-first into his belly. The Muscovite roars and slams his fists on the table.

Marszowski probably said something witty to him, but he's drowned out by a torrent of swearing from the man. Prince Szujski snaps up into a standing position and words are exchanged between the two. Your fencing master's got no mastery of the Eastern tongues, so he merely smiles evilly and looks back and forth. His victim's seat-neighbors put hands on his shoulders which are quickly swatted away, trying to calm him in vain.

The language of the Muscovite is hard to understand, requiring much concentration and recollection of your Ruthenian. You can maybe catch every other word – the simple ones, at least. Through the growing chaos, from what you can gather – besides cursing and "NO! No-no-no!" – is that the big fellow is sick of "pz-sz-szcz," insists that all Poles are liars and spies, and then says something about honor.

Prince Szujski turns to you, rattled. "Oh, please, Your Serene Highness, forgive all this, this man was in the war and–"

"DMITRI!" he screams. "Come!" you think that's the word.

Prince Szujski buries his face in his hands and mutters oaths.

A young man, already standing and scowling at the scene, runs over. He speaks angrily with the boyar and announces in accented Polish: "my master insists that this was done on purpose, and offers me as champion in a contest of honor!"

"With pleasure!" replies Marszowski. "It's been too long since I've got to run an Eastern barbarian through!"

The feasting table collectively groans and several boyars stand up angrily. "Gentlemen!" cries out Prince Szujski, "please!" He launches into rapid speech in his native tongue.

This Dmitri fellow laughs and begins to – of all things – disrobe. "In this country we use our fists, sir! Serf-style!" he's already down to his undershirt. "Your Mongol scimitar will not help you!"

"Here and now?" asks Marszowski.

"Here and now!"

Sir Marszowski starts undressing, too. Dmitri starts singing couplets. You catch "blood," "teeth," "fist." Your heart beats faster.

Szujski turns to you. "Do something, lord prince! Call your men off!"

In the meantime, the scene is turning into one of those Netherlandish paintings. Your men, filled in on the farce, are pretending to hold each other back as the Muscovite side does so truly. A plate of food takes flight. Wine and liquor arcs through the air.

Marszowski and Dmitri start swinging as you channel every play you've ever seen. "And what is it you expect me to do about it, man?" you snap at Szujski. "It's your man who started it over a little mistake! Get your people, by God!"

Something's taken over the ex-oprichnik Prince as he begins to yell something in his tongue about being hanged and shot; you pay him no mind.

You leap up onto the table, knocking over a candelabra. You project at your men, keeping up with the ruse: "calm down! Calm down!" An apple flies past your head.

"I will kill you! I will kill you!" screams Prince Szujski as you twirl around, seeing him point into the crowd of boyars. Or, at least, he's saying something to that effect in his language, you hear him mention the Tsar more than once. The Muscovites begin to deflate somewhat.

Your men, naturally, easily, heed your calls for quiet. You turn your attention to the two pugilists, both rapidly bloodying, before–

"FIRE!" someone yells. You look down. Yes, fire. On the tails of your tunic. And the tablecloth. You tumble down to the ground, and your men start thwacking at you with capes and coats. One of your fellows, in what may be a stroke of genuine genius, splashes a flagon of spirits onto the fire, sending a great spit of bright orange toward the ceiling with a rush of air. Everyone's yelling.

You hop to your feet and look over toward the cluster of Muscovites. Prince Szujski is shaking the fat man by the collar, spittle flying.

A maid races to the fire with a basin of water and throws it with all her might. Servants come with pitchers and buckets to do the same.

Crack! You turn around and Dmitri – praise God! – is on the ground. Marszowski stands over him, heaving, before squatting down and flipping the unconscious man onto his side. He looks at you: "man'll choke on his own blood if I don't–"

A red-faced Szujski interrupts, having come over in a huff. "Your Serene Highness! Though it may be no fault of your own, I must insist you leave by the morrow lest this city fall into rioting!" He exhales through a clenched jaw. "I sincerely apologize for such conduct, such a mess!" He turns to the wine-soaked big boyar and points. "I will personally behead you! Ya tebya zakhuyaryu, ublyudok, blyad! Ty znaesh' kto ya!" He turns back to you. "I CANNOT believe this." He balls up, flexing every muscle, and screams. You try not to laugh, despite the buzzing of battle engendered into you; some of your men can't help it, though. "Control your men!" he shrieks. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Your Serene Highness. I get so…"

"Nevermind it, sir, we'll see ourselves out. What a pity this all is." Hahahahaha!

"I will do my utmost to ensure my Tsar hears not of this, though he hears of everything. Heads will roll, God damn it, and may it not be mine."

Well, that was something. Your men cackle and take turns shaking a black-eyed Marszowski's hand as you retire under armed guard – perfect! Let them be here! – into your kremlin quarters. You're assured the local boyars are under similar lock and key. Perfect-perfect-perfect. That is, if they snagged Bielski before the soldiers were called in to keep things cool. The lack of van Gistel and his detachment's return is either very good or very bad. There will be only one way to find out.

You hate that you had fun. Confession will be long and Friar Gosiewski long-winded – and rightly so.

You must leave before a morning headcount of the garrison cavalry, before someone realizes that Bielski has disappeared. No word of captured Polonians lends you confidence as dawn begins to peek over the city walls.

But how to leave Smoleńsk?

[] nonchalantly.

We know nothing, heh. Act natural as you move to catch van Gistel and company floating down the river.

[] with haste!

They're silly idiots, maybe, but not fools. They will put the pieces together quickly. Loop up and around the city and gun it towards the Dniepr.

 

[Rolman]

It's the middle of the night. The escape shall take place soon.

"May the Lord bless you and keep you. Son, what ails you? It's an odd hour for this."

You cross yourself. "Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last Confession."

You swallow. "I have been neglectful of my prayers these past few days; I have missed more than a few Hours. I have said the Lord's name in vain and more than once. I have lied to my enemies without repentance, injuring them with my words. My schemes have brought men real pain – a man was beaten nearly to death because of me. I have ordered my subordinates to steal and lie on my behalf. I have imbibed intoxicating drinks. I have thought of laying with my wife for the pleasure of it alone. I have communed with sinners, and continue to do so. I am sorry for all of these things and seek repentance before almighty God. All of this just days after Paschal."

"Some of these are grave, my son," says the Friar. "Some of these not so much. You are, as ever, honest before your Lord. This is very good indeed." Gosiewski thinks. "Indeed, you ply a sinful profession, for God tests you each day with the designs and vanities of princely life. Regarding your wife, you mustn't be so stiff. Chastity is for the coveting of other women."

"But the Rule says…" That feels lax.

"Indeed, there is always a sliver of impurity in sex. But a happy union is a godly one. Do you still quarrel with her?"

"Sometimes. She has fallen silent for the most part."

"The cultivation of a harmonious union is a virtue. It is good that she knows her place, but you cannot reject her. The marriage bed is for more than merely the propagation of man." The Friar cocks his little tonsured head. "You no longer wear the Mother's blue."

"I fear that I was as a Pharisee."

He nods. "Insightful. I have meditated on this indeed; you must not let your faith become a point of pride, a thing for outward showing. Zealotry is not piety – God cares not for the color of your clothing. It is a vanity and He sees through it. Ward off false faith as you do gold and silver and fine furs."

What does it mean when a Benedictine friar tells you to calm down?

"Yes, Father."

"Go to her as a compassionate husband, not a pretender-monk. You must forgive yourself to receive the highest forgiveness. Yet you have sinned mortally in other ways, and I need not explain them to you for you have offered them as clear-eyed as you were when you committed them. You shall swear off the flesh of animals and wine – save for when it is made into the Blood – for all of the month of May. For each deception you can recall, and for each blasphemy, recite an Ave Maria and a Pater Nostrum."

"Yes, Father."

"God understands your temporal position – you walk as an acrobat upon his tightrope. And you live among the astray. Cultivate the Holy Church wherever you go if you wish to change the world itself, as opposed to the inner one," says Friar Gosiewski. "Walk among the sinners as the Savior did. Love them and call them friends, but never give in again to their ways. Ensure that you recite the Psalms correctly for each Hour, and spread this glory to all. You must never take pride from your piety, for that would make a false Christian. I have observed these things and waited for self-correction – now I tell you."

"It will be done, Father." Tears well up as they always do as you pray the Act of Contrition, feeling the weight rising off of you. "My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart. In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against You whom I should love above all things. I firmly intend, with Your help, to do penance, to sin no more, and to avoid whatever leads me to sin. Our Savior Jesus Christ suffered and died for us. In his name, my God, have mercy."

And he replies as he always does: "God, the Father of mercies, through the death and the resurrection of His Son has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit."

You cross yourself. "Amen."

Shed the outer layer. Spread the Gospel. Find love. Open your heart once more. It seems that you have gone too far.

 

[Rolman]

Książę Stanisław Radziwiłł herbu Trąby na Birżach i Dubinkach
Prince Stanisław Radziwiłł of Dubinki and Birże, of the arms of the Trąby.
Castellan of Orsza.​

It is May 1574. You are currently working to exfiltrate out of Smoleńsk after a mission of espionage against the Muscovites.

You are twenty-two years old; you were born under the sign of Cancer on June 27, 1551, in Dubinki Castle, Grand Duchy of Lithuania.

You are a nobleman of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and therefore call yourself Lithuanian, but modern observers would describe you as culturally Polish. You are of primarily Polish descent; the eponymous Radziwiłł (Lith: Radvila), your paternal great-great grandfather, was probably a full-blooded Lithuanian bearing ultimate descent from the pagan aristocracy.

You are the Castellan of Orsza, Lithuania; although a senatorial rank and an honor on paper, its remote location and close scrutiny from the King provides the position with a punitive cast.

You are a relapsed Roman Catholic, having rejected your father's Calvinism while in Paris. Observant and sufficiently God-fearing but liberal when compared with Spaniards or Frenchmen, in line with the Commonwealth's relaxed culture toward religion. You are one of the few Catholic Radziwiłłowie – indeed, one of the few major Catholic Lithuanian nobles. Most are Calvinists or Socinians tied to the Polish Brethren. You have experienced a religious awakening and taken on a Benedictine friar as your confessor. Your newfound zeal drove a wedge between yourself, your wife, and several retainers – after nearly a year, you perhaps are cooling down a bit.

You have killed two men and severely injured another thus far – you worry about Sin and abhor war and battle, but are not necessarily guilty about it. The things you've witnessed in France and the violence you've experienced at home weigh on you. Your drinking and anxiety are kept at bay with constant prayer and Benedictine discipline.

You have successfully conducted one small ambush and won one duel over the course of your career. You are in the middle of your first spying mission.

Physical Appearance ​

You are a well-proportioned, somewhat burly young man standing about 170 centimeters or 67 inches in height – just a bit above average for the period, but perhaps a little short for a noble. You've long since recovered from your near-fatal flux, and look healthy and hearty. You have inherited some of your father's namesake ruddiness: your pale complexion is rosy and freckle-dusted, though your short hair is darker and more wavy like your mother's. Thick eyebrows, high cheekbones, and a pointy, convex nose come together to set your blue eyes handsomely in your face. Your chin and jaw are dusted with stubble, and you wear a modest Sarmatian mustache. Your nose is slightly crooked from being broken, a thin scar runs along the top of your right forearm, and you're missing the top half of your left ear. You dressed modestly for a time after your religious awakening but have since readopted traditional princely garb, though perhaps with less jewelry: a fur cap with shining brooch, a fine fur-and-velvet cloak to match over a dyed long tunic, and high leather boots. You wear a szabla and dagger on your belt.

Education​

Received a full Renaissance nobleman's education – in your case in the humanist tradition – at the Collège Royal in Paris. You have good knowledge of the Bible, Greek Classics, and the works of the latest humanists and natural philosophers. You have criticized Dark Age philosophers and theologians, and are familiar with their work in an oppositional lens. You can read the stars and know some practical astronomy; you learnt much theoretical mathematics, but it's fading fast.

Solid student with good work ethic. Particular aptitude in military studies and history.

Hands-on experience as a military aide to Lord Filippo di Piero Strozzi, approx. Two years experience. One small battle (~100 total combatants) under your belt – a victory.

Language and Literacy

Polish: Mother tongue, literate. Aristocratic accent.

Chancery Ruthenian: Denoting the Church Slavonic and Latin-infused register of the aristocracy. Second language, full fluency. Subtle Polish accent.

Common Ruthenian: As learned from Tatjana the maid. Northern dialect, what we would perhaps call Proto-Belarussian. Near-fluent. Subtle Polish accent.

Latin: Full fluency, literate. Polish accent.

French: functional fluency, literate, though you lean on Latin vocabulary when discussing high-concept matters. Aristocratic Parisian dialect, Polish accent. A little rusty.

Ancient Greek and Hebrew: You can translate the Classics or Bible but would be hard-pressed to form meaningful sentences of your own.

German: Just barely conversational. High German/Austro-Bavarian dialect.

Italian and Lithuanian: A few key words and phrases.

Practical Skills

General Athleticism: fit, rather strong and fast.

Archery: no formal training. Has used a bow before.

Blades – Longsword: Professionally trained. Some talent.
Blades – Rapier & Dagger: Ditto. Killed a man in close combat with your dagger.
Blades – Sabers: Less training, similar talent. Successfully deployed in one duel, disabling your foe.
Blades – Daggers & Knives: Professionally trained.

Pugilism & Grappling: Ditto.

Firearms – Pistols: basic training, can reload and fire matchlock, wheellock.
Firearms – Carbines & Long guns: ditto. One kill, a "happy" accident.

Hunting & Falconry: some experience. Trained.
Tracking: Some experience. Average perception.
Riding: very skilled.

Rhetoric & Persuasive Writing: Formal training. Average aptitude.
Music: A bit of theory, a bit of instrumental training on lute and recorder.

Personality and Other Traits​

Consult "What the Italian Said" for a divination of your future. At least, how it was looking back in January 1573.

The astrologers would say that you are dominated by your Mars in Leo – you are a highly choleric young man. Brimming with energy, you are diligent, fearless, extroverted, and ambitious, though you sometimes find yourself disorganized or overburdened. On the flipside, you find yourself dealing with bouts of perfectionism, irritability, egotism, and impulsivity. Sir Marszowski did much to foster this within you. You tend to try and suppress this fire, though, opting instead for the traits of your water-cooled birthsign proper.

Ruled by the Moon – and therefore Diana – you enjoy the outdoors, the hunt, and most forms of sport.

Several planets existing under the stars of the Sanguine humor alongside Neptune in Taurus give you a decidedly poetic, romantic, and laid-back demeanor in daily life. It cuts your restlessness, but imbues a sense of anti-authoritarianism and idealism. Your father and eventually your brothers weren't around, your mother died soon after you were born; left alone in Dubinki, you became a bit of a day-dreamer. Allows for a connection with the beyond.

You are additionally cooled by the Crab under which you were born, and its extended estates of Jupiter and Mercury. Combined with a ruling Moon in Capricorn, they leave you firmly loyal to family, along with a sense of how best to serve it. You can calm yourself down under pressure and calm down others, too, possessing empathy and sympathy in equal measure. However, your sensitivity may curdle into touchiness, and your loyalty into naivete and impressionability. Tatjana lives here.

Your time in wartorn France has only redoubled your cultural predisposition to religious tolerance and coexistence. Although your religious awakening now makes you a bit less favorable toward Protestants, you remain a committed humanist and defender of the Warsaw Confederation you spoke so passionately in favor of.

You've seen a little bit of battle and are slowly toughening up. A year of being taken advantage of as a powerful-yet-naive newcomer has similarly engendered a growing political instinct within you.

The water of the Crab has been channeled into religiosity in recent days: your sense of emotionality and imagination have allowed you to establish a close line of contact with the Lord, and the daily rituals of a Benedictine oblate ground you and give you purpose.

 

[Rolman]

Family​

(now-)Princess Mariana Sapieha, 19 (b. October 1554): your wife of nearly one year, married on a wave of attraction (though not a full-on love-match) in spite of its political mediocrity. Born under the Scales, she is romantic, diplomatic, emotionally insightful, and unafraid of sharing her opinion. Her willfulness and intellect butt up with a desire to be a proper, deferential, unquestioning lady. Once more passionate, she doesn't quite know what to make of the new you.

Prince Grand Chancellor Mikołaj "Rudy" Radziwiłł, 59 (b. July 1514): "the Red." Your stern and distant father, a lion like the sign under which he was born. You know very little of him: in your early life, he was a brooding, faithful Calvinist – perhaps not unlike yourself as a Catholic – but the man you've come home to after your years in France treats you more as a subordinate than a son. He does seem to trust you, at least. From the stories, he's a fearsome and fierce leader of men, bane of the Muscovites more than once.

Prince Mikołaj "Septimus" Radziwiłł, 27 (b. September 1546): Your eldest brother, "the Seventh" Mikołaj. Born under the Maiden and consequently cool, quiet, and collected, he's a fine counterbalance to Krzysztof though an equally gifted leader of men. The more politically-minded of your two brothers.

Prince Field Hetman Krzysztof Radziwiłł, 26 (b. December 1547): The middle brother, quickly developing the epithet Piorun – "Thunderbolt." This nickname is far from undeserved: adventurous, bold, and fearless as his birth under the Centaur calls for, Krzysztof is a veritable Marszowski Minor and a phenom on horseback, both as a rider – giving the most flamboyant Zaporozhians a run for their money – and as a commander. A bit more interested in battle and cavorting than politicking, but does his duty.

Prince Court Marshal Mikołaj Krzysztof "Sierotka" Radziwiłł, 24 (b. August 1549): "the Orphan," granted by old King Zygmunt August in jest as a child. Head of the only other branch of Radziwiłłowie and son of the late political titan Mikołaj the Black. A bit of a blabbermouth but (or so they say, you've only ever met him twice) apparently quite intelligent and a pious Catholic revert like yourself, gifted at finding and spreading information.

Lord Paweł Sapieha, 84 (b. 1490): Your father-in-law, who eagerly accepted your proposal of marriage to his youngest daughter and likely final child. Kindly, world-weary, and generally unambitious as he enjoys healthful twilight years – they do call him the Never-Old.

Retainers​

Sir Andrzej Marszowski, 45 (b. March 1529): Your father-figure, trainer in personal defense, dance, riding, and the physical arts. Flamboyant and energetic publicly but much more brooding in private. Also your ad hoc commander of cavalry. Things have grown a bit distant between yourself and he: after your religious awakening, you found many of his once-innocuous bad habits much more disturbing.

Karol van Gistel, 34 (b. April 1540): A Netherlandish lordling and mercenary originally under the direct command of your father, transferred to your retinue as your presumptive colonel-quartermaster. A shaggy dog of a man with a mind for guerrilla warfare and cunning, he claims to have emigrated from his homeland after time with the Calvinist rebels due to poverty and shame.

Friar Jan Gosiewski, 39 (b. February 1535): Your Benedictine confessor. Maintaining a called-for detachment from your immediate personal life, he seems to serve as a politically-independent intermediary between yourself and God. Quick to offer severe, ascetic guidance yet just as likely to calm the soul with compassion and insight.

Friends and allies​

The Brothers Zborowski: Not personally known to you very well, the trio of Andrzej (49), Jan (35), and Samuel (33) — and that's only half of them — are influential and wealthy magnates that form a powerful pro-Imperial bloc. You expect further cooperation with them. Fiery Samuel currently exiled on charges of murder.

Count Grand Marshal Jan Hieronimowicz Chodkiewicz (37): One of the Commonwealth's best generals and a close friend of the family. Implicitly has agreed to mentor you in generalship should war break out anew.

See "the dead" for Jan Firlej.

Peers​

Lord Royal Secretary Jan Zamoyski (32): A fox-like man of unknown intentions. Sharp-tongued and persuasive, he extracted an informal approval of majority rule under viritim from you and spread the rumor far and wide -- even if it went nowhere. Supporter (cynically, they say) of the King and undisputed representative of the middle nobility.

Prince Konstanty Wasyl Ostrogski (48): Stern, pious, and authoritarian, perhaps second in power only to the throne in Crownland Ruthenia. Your only personal interaction with Prince Ostrogski was a visit to Kijow and his estates to meet his fiery-turned-melancholic daughter, Elżbieta. Relatively disinterested in court intrigues, so long as his sprawling estates are left alone and his strong hands remain unbound.

Lord Starost Filon Kmita (44): The amoral yet amiable spymaster for Polonian operations within Muscovy -- and he seems to be quite good at it, too. Both a genuine advisor, your formal second-in-command, and openly (because he likes you) the King's minder, making sure you serve your sentence at Orsza properly. Grew up around the Zaporozhians, from whom he draws his personal troops, and wears a mustache and oseledets.

Political Enemies​

King Aleksandar/Henryk Walezy (22): A formidable intriguer and august presence, the French King of Poland-Lithuania nevertheless finds himself out of his element in a faraway land. He does not view you favorably: speaking against him to his face in France, alongside standing as a firm anti-French advocate during the election, has made you a foe worthy of internal exile. For this, you have been given the backhanded promotion that is the Castellancy of Orsza.

The Dead​

Lord Jan Firlej: Firebrand leader of the Protestants and a political and moral ally. Worked with him closely to guarantee the Warsaw Confederation. Died April 1574 at his estate — you're not aware of this yet, though.

Tatjana the Maid, (d. sometime 1572): Your mother-figure: a humble, considerate, caring, and highly religious Ruthenian nanny. Extremely intelligent and insightful despite a lack of education.

Mother, Lady Katarzyna Tomicka: I wonder what she was like? How can you miss someone you never knew?

Vanquished foes​

Piotr Borkowicz: Outlaw noble defeated in the ambush of "Sparking Powder."

Jan Lacza: hotblooded man and your first duel opponent — defeated with a slice to the arm. Part X-IV.

 

[Rolman]

The light of day is just beginning to bounce off the kremlin towers' peaked rooftops, making the bricks of the walls glow. It is time to go. Prince Szujski is up early to see you off, apologizing again and again, and to (relatively) less fanfare you leave through the city's eastern gates without event. All it'll take is a left turn or two and your party will have doubled back toward the border within eight hours – then the pace can pick up a little.

So far so good. Three days pass as the convoy attracts nothing but the usual attention as steady progress is made toward the country. The birds chirp and the sun shines. The Muscovite serfs are busy harvesting broad beans and weeding the barley and rye fields. It's enough to make a man think he's merely strolling.

Which only made their appearance all the more jarring. You had looped around in a hook-like shape by that point, about halfway to the border, away from the more regular patrols operating out of Smoleńsk. The mass of men and horses ahead sends a little shiver down your spine.

"Are you lost, Prince Radziwiłł?" You note his disrespect immediately, his refusal to use the proper styling. It's a Muscovite noble, alarmingly, in a chain shirt, a stylish coat thrown over it seemingly as an afterthought. A pistol is strapped to his chest. He heads a party of about twenty mounted men, all armed. They guard a felled tree dragged across the road ahead. It's clear what's going on here. "Moskwa is that way," he says, pointing past you. "In fact, you must've gone about three, four, five days in the wrong direction…"

"That's…" you silently curse yourself; you must seem nervous. "That's odd. Then we're quite mistaken, sir."

"Indeed, rather confused, I'd say. And did you not notice your own missing men?"

Hellfire. The Muscovite smirks and barks like a dog. "The Tsar's hounds are keen, my lord. We no longer wear the black or carry dogs' heads, but — you are missing six men from your little parade, and we are missing one cavalryman with cousins in your Lithuania."

This is very odd. They're on to you, no doubt, but wouldn't Prince Szujski send a less… Motley-looking group of lordlings? They look like they're out hunting boar more than intercepting enemy troops. They're lightly-armed and wearing their everyday clothes — the lead's mail shirt aside. Though, you notice that many of the men seem a bit overdressed for this time of year.

One of the Muscovites howls like a hound before laughing. "Any ideas?" asks their leader. "We'd love to help get you back on track and with your whole entourage, lord prince."

Your pulse quickens. You must act.

[] "This is outrageous. Surely Prince Szujski would be mortified by this, sirs. Under whose orders are you here?"

Buy some time and figure out if they have legitimate authority. Continue with legalistic stalling and faux-outrage.

[] "This wagon here is worth as much as a village of serfs. Care to take a look, sirs?"

Pray that they've got a venal streak. It's a good bit of silver, silk, dyed linen, and furs that they're looking at.

[] "Fly, men!" you scream.

A sudden retreat through the fields on the road's flanks will require ditching several carriages of fineries — not an insignificant financial blow. And, of course, they'll be chasing you.

[] Whistle loudly and draw your carbine. "Whatever this is, stop it. Make way. Now."

They're lightly armed but all mounted — mainly swords and lances, a few men with Tatar bows and a pistol or two. On the contrary, the men have their carbines. Your firearms may make all the difference. Hopefully no triggers will need to be pulled.

 

[Rolman]

Shwk-shwk! You whistle as you produce your carbine from its saddle holster. The Muscovites nock arrows and the lead draws his pistol. You don't need to look at your men to know why they're rustling, too. "Whatever this is, stop it. Make way. Now." You notice how foreign speaking in such a tone is.

Muzzles and arrowheads are to the floor and the sky, bowstrings undrawn, matches unlit, wheels uncranked. You hope to keep it that way. The Muscovites look to their chief, whose expression is unreadable at this distance. He holds still, pistol held high, parallel with his head. A few boyars begin to mutter amongst themselves.

He must be thinking. They clearly hadn't thought this through, if these men are even acting upon official orders. "Do you think you can withstand our volley, sir?" They cannot, they wouldn't dare. "Prime your weapons!" you call out, readying the wheel of your carbine as the sound of metallic click-clacking surrounds you. Your eyes are fixed on their bows, the few pistols between them. "At best, we all die," you say, looking for another angle to try.

They conference briefly. Nobody breathes until their leader finally calls out: "Fine then. We shall see what we shall see regarding you and yours. You people can move the tree. Mudaki."

"And swear on God and the Savior and His Mother that you will not pursue us further," you snap.

He sighs and tepidly offers up an oath. His men couldn't be compelled; several said they'd rather die.

They spur themselves away, leaving behind only the barrier-spruce and a little swirling haze of dust. That night was sleepless; nearly every man was willing to stand guard of his own accord.

"You know, I don't see why they wouldn't just follow us, anyways. It's not like they have to let us go," volunteers Sir Marszowski. "Smart fellows to stare down the gun, swear an oath, and still go for the kill — even if it's dishonorable."

He's certainly got a point, even if the Lord would certainly punish them sooner or later. You spend the rest of your time across the border looking over your shoulder, making sure that any man found dozing on guard duty be punished as severely as your conscience could allow. Villages and trade caravans are avoided and men clutch their weapons close.

But God is to be praised: the Dniepr is forded without a distant dust cloud in sight. You've made it. The men chuckle and shake each other's hands at another successful operation.

Or, well, seemingly successful. Some amount of breath is held until you at last spotted van Gistel and his party waiting outside Orsza Castle to welcome you home. It's really, truly over.

"Thank you for your help, Your Serene Highness," says Lord Kmita with a nod. "But from what you've told me, it seems you're a little red-handed. No Muscovite is fooled."

You grimace. "Yes. That's not so good, I'd imagine."

"Well, we should expect a response. And soon."

Indeed, the respite only lasts a few weeks before grim reports begin to come in from the riverside fishing villages. Livestock taken, roofs burned and walls pulled down, serfs hiding in the forest when they avoided being cut down in their own fields.

Lord Kmita says the coming of summer here on the border brings bloodshed as surely as it does horseflies and sunburnt necks; however, he notes, this is earlier and harsher than usual. "You've probably angered Prince Szujski," Kmita chuckles. "Well, not probably, he was made a clown, after all! And I'm sure he's mighty fearful of his mighty Caesar."

You had plans for Orsza, damn it. For the castle, perhaps, or the town itself, or the surrounding starostwos, perhaps for the Holy Church, even. You had plans for yourself, too, but with the countryside increasingly unsafe and the raids only picking up speed, something must be done and fast.

You and Kmita work together to coordinate the defense, calling up noble horse to aid the spymaster's detachment of Zaporozhians, and cobbling together starost's men and peasant militia.

The result is a balanced force of light foot and cavalry. Is this satisfactory?

You possess around 500 foot and a similar number of horse. Your personal guard number around fifty.

The personal guard is of very high quality, well-armed with gunpowder and melee weapons of all shapes and sizes. They are armored in both Western-style and hussar's plate, and can fight as infantry or cavalry.

The quality of the infantry is low-average: peasant militia and starostwo guardsmen, armed polearms, bows, various axes and bludgeons, and a smattering of outdated matchlocks. However, they are well-accustomed to raiding season and should not be mistakenly thought of as unmotivated or fresh-from-the-plow.

The quality of the cavalry is above-average. The experience of the local lordlings and Kmita's Zaporozhians make up for their lack of meaningful armor and overreliance on the saber.

You have a cannon or two at Orsza Castle.

Morale is high. Discipline is high relative to troop quality. Supplies are abundant and easily refilled.

Finances are stable; there's no need to dip into the tax-purse.

[] Go out of pocket — hire a few hundred Lipka Tatars.

Having lived within the Grand Duchy for over a century, Tatars were a common sight in your home turf around Wilno and Trakai as a boy. Although living as farmers and occasionally lampooned as merely Muslim Lithuanians, they have preserved their martial traditions of horse archery and mounted skirmishing. They would therefore would prove invaluable assets to riding down Muscovite raiders, many of whom would be fighting in a similar style.

[] Go out of pocket — hire about a hundred rajteria from the Empire.

Best suited for a pitched battle, these men wear plate cuirasses or even fuller suits of armor, charging into combat with volleys of pistol fire and swords held high. Versatile medium-heavy cavalry, able to tangle with chainmail-wearing boyar horsemen as well as lighter lancers and even horse archers.

[] Request aid from Witebsk, however much they can spare.

Personally ride north to meet with Voivode Stanisław Pac, with the hopes of coming home with professional musketeers and hussars to round things out. Lord Kmita will put in his good word, of course — there's no reason you should be declined — but it would be naïve to assume that Voivode Pac isn't dealing with raids on his section of the border, too.

[] Declare van Gistel your colonel and raise more locals — aim to double the size of the host.

Desperate nobles with horses and swords are a dime a dozen, townsmen can be made into volunteers given the right incentives, and serfs have little say when it comes to defending their village or master's manor. The primary goal will be padding out the cavalry's numbers while creating a frontline of burgher infantry, backed up by ad hoc serf militias. The quickest and cheapest way to raise more troops.

[] Use what we have.

No point in shelling out money, calling in favors, or disrupting the commoners' daily life when you can make do with the force Kmita knows and uses so well. He'll be at your side all the while, after all. Also avoids provoking the Muscovites, who are liable to view troop movements as a prelude to open war.

[] Write-in, keep it about as long as a tweet if you can.

And a posture must be adopted against the Muscovites. What shall it look like?

[] Reactive-defensive.

Infantry would patrol roads and waterways while the cavalry serves as a quick response force, beating raiders back over the border and remaining in position for further speedy interceptions. Prides maneuver. The way Kmita's been running things.

[] Static-defensive.

The infantry would be distributed across the villages and Dniepr choke-points, building outposts and fortifications with the hope of denying easy access in and out of our territory. Also allows for surveillance across the border, spotting campsites and maneuvering parties. Based out of Orsza, the cavalry can respond quickly to anything the waystations can't catch.

[] Retaliatory-offensive.

Effectively the "reactive-defensive" plan but with the extra step (or provocation) of counter-raids over the river, chasing down withdrawing raiders

[] preemptive-offensive.

Relying on a network of observation posts like in "static-defensive," aggressive cavalry raids of our own will strike at Muscovite riders in their tents and bring vengeance for our serfs wherever we may find their villages undefended. Obviously a major diplomatic gamble, but you and your fellow Lithuanians on the offensive would certainly keep Orsza and the surrounding areas quiet.

[] (short-ish please) write-in.