Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest
- Thread starter Rolman
- Start date
- Mature Historic
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "I need to get to the Louvre, figure out what's going on."
Rolen von Keng
Sleeping Green Bear
- Location
- The Wilderness
[X] "I need to get to the Louvre, figure out what's going on."
Comrade Future
Man from Zeerust
- Location
- USSR
- Pronouns
- He/His/Him
[X] "I need to get to the Louvre, figure out what's going on."
[X] "I need to get to the Louvre, figure out what's going on."
Batrix2070
For VI Space Commonwealth of Poland!
- Location
- On ORP Ryzykant, Brenna System
[X] "I need to get to the Louvre, figure out what's going on."
Prologue III. 2:44 A.M., August 24, 1572. Paris, Kingdom of France.
- Location
- United States
"I need to get to the Louvre, figure out what's going on," you said to Pierre. The feeling of assault, of fear, was beginning to be replaced by the feeling of battle, a brutal awakeness you'd felt hitherto only wreathed in clouds of blackpowder smoke, the smell of blood and sweat filling your nose. A focus was setting in. But you knew all too well – even if it wasn't on your mind – that you had yet to join neither charge nor battle-line yourself. Only mere proximity. Now, you almost wished you had gotten closer.
He shifted from foot to foot, keeping a neutral expression. "I suppose – I suppose I'll come with you halfway." The cordon continued backing up in your direction. A few stray fanatics had slipped through, and began to court any bystander they could find, speaking rapidly and excitedly of the holy bloodletting to come. You weren't paying attention to how many were receptive, but new faces walked by wearing white armbands, sober grimness on their faces. The horde was expanding.
"Thank you, Master d'Arces. God knows what's going on out there. Anywhere, by the Christ… It should be a mile, maybe three-quarters," you said, clasping his hand with both of yours in gratitude.
The two of you walked briskly in silence, and your senses slowly returned to you. You heard the gunfire Pierre mentioned now, and a veritable cacophony of the city's churchbells. It seemed like all of them were going now; not just for matins. The word was out.
And you and he descended into madness. As lamps and candles began to appear in windows, so too did screaming and shouting rise over the low rooftops, passing through the tiles and thatching and glassless windows. The trickle of the curious had turned into a veritable flow of young and old men alike out into the street, gripping whatever could amount to a weapon. Peasants of varying excitability ran up and down the street; the sympathetic shouting warnings to any Hugues in earshot, the beggar-crusaders praising their vengeful God, and a few simply crying "Wake up, everyone! Everybody, get up!"
You walked scarcely a few blocks before a young man, judged a burgher from his puffy velvet cap, came staggering out of an alley. Hobnailed footfalls and metallic clinking grew louder from behind. In the darkness, you couldn't see much, but his pained cough and wheezing, his bend at the waist, an arm clamped to his stomach – clearly wounded. "Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, oh Jesus," he muttered breathlessly, and he whipped his head over his shoulder. Out of the darkness came the running-start swing of a blackjack, and you heard the poor boy's nose crunch. He hit the ground hard on his back and his assailant, his back turned to you, wasted no time in straddling his chest, producing something that shined in the moonlight, and getting to work on his face and throat, grunting savagely with each blow. No words came from either, and the Hugues spluttered into silence, each fall of the killer's hand bringing a louder and louder squelch.
The thug swung himself off his victim's chest and began to pat frantically at the body. His Catholic-white headband was stained with blood, its white shock dimmed by moonlight with splotches and splatters. He looked like a soldier, and didn't notice he had spectators. "Goddamn you, where's your bag, where's your bag," he said to himself, "where's your pendent? Where're your rings? You little bastard…"
You and D'Arces were frozen in place. "Go around him, Pierre," you said quietly, involuntarily nearly, and began to chart a wide berth around the murderer, who was now going on to himself madly about the quality of the youth's cap and boots. In the dim by your feet, dark rivulets flowed slowly through the valleys of the cobbles. You involuntarily accused yourself of cowardice, and felt a bodkin fired from your mind piercing your heart and lungs. You convinced yourself that now was not the time for heroics, not at all, especially not for lowborn slaughtering lowborn. You had witnessed enough murders – or their aftermaths, at least – in the University quarter over the years to quickly calm yourself, in spite of everything. And that was before Moncontour.
Someone was shouting from around the street corner. It bounced off walls of wood and stone. "We cannot suffer them to live! We cannot suffer them to live! It is a sin to kill indeed, but sin is contagious, my good men! Like a body shedding its foul air in the street, like a bad apple at the bottom of the basket – it can spread, it will spread! And so it must be cut out! And what is a murder when face-to-face with the devil, with evil walking the earth? To destroy a corrupt body saves Heaven from a corrupt soul, deprives Hell a soldier!" Wild cheering rang out for the orator. You didn't bother to look down the lane. You kept your head down and walked by.
"What is wrong with these people?" you asked yourself. You began to appraise the meaning of everything. The Guises truly killed Admiral Coligny? The King signed off on it? You began to theorize. Something curdled inside you when you thought of the Italians at court, good Catholics that they were – the Queen Mother, Duke Gonzaga, your mentor Strozzi. People you had spoken to, looked up to. Killers. Political animals. Animals? You caught yourself. Peasants aren't the only ones capable of brutality, surely not, it's just that nobles only would truly dirty themselves when it was on their terms: the glory of pitched battle, a duel before court. Not here in the gutter, never here, slashing throats and smashing faces, no honor in this. Still, no time for cynicism. Besides – you couldn't blame them, if the fault even lay with them. The Guises were fanatics, but you knew that the family must be placed above all else. The protection of the crown and bloodline is a noble pursuit indeed. Not now! Not now!
Bóg nam radzi. The words of the Family. It had been a while since you spoke Polish; these days, even your thoughts lapsed into French or Latin at times. The incessant ringing of the bells turned to a drone in your ears, a sea of brass, passing bell, death bell, lych bell again and again from all sides, from all directions. They tolled for dozens, even hundreds. Yet the clappers weren't muffled. Drifting over the rooftops, it now sounded like daytime. Like a fanfare. The screaming of fear and celebration all turned into the unmistakable sound of an entire city groaning. In relief, in horror, in exultation. A murderous Carnival. The gunfire punctuated the ringing, sighing din with cracks and pops like too-moist firewood. A crossroads came up, and you stopped and looked to Pierre; he knew the way. He turned the corner.
He looked over his shoulder, quickly outpacing you. "Don't think me a coward, Prince Radzivilius…"
"What?"
"It's just that – my house, it's over there, just through a few more alleys. You're set on proceeding to the palace?"
Pride swelled up in you. You're no coward, and you needed to speak to someone about this, if the rumors about the Guises' involvement was true. Even if it meant dressing down some Switzer captain or court officer – someone needed to hear it. "Yes, I am, I have to. You've never fought a battle?"
Pierre cast his eyes down and shook his head. No.
"Then I don't blame you for being scared," you continued, trying to ignore the slightest prickles of disdain stirring beneath anger and alertness. Then, a lie: "but I'm not. In fact – I'm getting angry. Do you know they're after women and children, too?"
"But what do you expect to do?" replied Pierre, gesticulating with upturned palms. "There's hundreds of them, and if the people you say are behind it… I mean no offense, friend Prince, but would they listen to you?"
[] "Well, what if they do?"
Mars ruled by the Lion; that's you, alright. A meeting of optimism, egotism, and idealism. By fate you are here and by fate you may stop this.
[] "I want them to know I know. That a foreign Prince witnessed their so-called French honor."
You're certainly speaking a little out of pocket here, but your blood is boiling. Slaughter on the battlefield is one thing, but royal subjects – however astray – murdered in the street? You intend to shame them with all the passion of your sanguine humor.
[] "I just can't believe they could have done this, and I need to ask them to their faces."
"Meeker" may not be the right word here, but this is your phlegmatic foundation coming out to play: earnest, perhaps naive, but based on a strong soul centered upon love of the truth and good conduct. Your conscience is reeling and questions must be answered.
He shifted from foot to foot, keeping a neutral expression. "I suppose – I suppose I'll come with you halfway." The cordon continued backing up in your direction. A few stray fanatics had slipped through, and began to court any bystander they could find, speaking rapidly and excitedly of the holy bloodletting to come. You weren't paying attention to how many were receptive, but new faces walked by wearing white armbands, sober grimness on their faces. The horde was expanding.
"Thank you, Master d'Arces. God knows what's going on out there. Anywhere, by the Christ… It should be a mile, maybe three-quarters," you said, clasping his hand with both of yours in gratitude.
The two of you walked briskly in silence, and your senses slowly returned to you. You heard the gunfire Pierre mentioned now, and a veritable cacophony of the city's churchbells. It seemed like all of them were going now; not just for matins. The word was out.
And you and he descended into madness. As lamps and candles began to appear in windows, so too did screaming and shouting rise over the low rooftops, passing through the tiles and thatching and glassless windows. The trickle of the curious had turned into a veritable flow of young and old men alike out into the street, gripping whatever could amount to a weapon. Peasants of varying excitability ran up and down the street; the sympathetic shouting warnings to any Hugues in earshot, the beggar-crusaders praising their vengeful God, and a few simply crying "Wake up, everyone! Everybody, get up!"
You walked scarcely a few blocks before a young man, judged a burgher from his puffy velvet cap, came staggering out of an alley. Hobnailed footfalls and metallic clinking grew louder from behind. In the darkness, you couldn't see much, but his pained cough and wheezing, his bend at the waist, an arm clamped to his stomach – clearly wounded. "Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, oh Jesus," he muttered breathlessly, and he whipped his head over his shoulder. Out of the darkness came the running-start swing of a blackjack, and you heard the poor boy's nose crunch. He hit the ground hard on his back and his assailant, his back turned to you, wasted no time in straddling his chest, producing something that shined in the moonlight, and getting to work on his face and throat, grunting savagely with each blow. No words came from either, and the Hugues spluttered into silence, each fall of the killer's hand bringing a louder and louder squelch.
The thug swung himself off his victim's chest and began to pat frantically at the body. His Catholic-white headband was stained with blood, its white shock dimmed by moonlight with splotches and splatters. He looked like a soldier, and didn't notice he had spectators. "Goddamn you, where's your bag, where's your bag," he said to himself, "where's your pendent? Where're your rings? You little bastard…"
You and D'Arces were frozen in place. "Go around him, Pierre," you said quietly, involuntarily nearly, and began to chart a wide berth around the murderer, who was now going on to himself madly about the quality of the youth's cap and boots. In the dim by your feet, dark rivulets flowed slowly through the valleys of the cobbles. You involuntarily accused yourself of cowardice, and felt a bodkin fired from your mind piercing your heart and lungs. You convinced yourself that now was not the time for heroics, not at all, especially not for lowborn slaughtering lowborn. You had witnessed enough murders – or their aftermaths, at least – in the University quarter over the years to quickly calm yourself, in spite of everything. And that was before Moncontour.
Someone was shouting from around the street corner. It bounced off walls of wood and stone. "We cannot suffer them to live! We cannot suffer them to live! It is a sin to kill indeed, but sin is contagious, my good men! Like a body shedding its foul air in the street, like a bad apple at the bottom of the basket – it can spread, it will spread! And so it must be cut out! And what is a murder when face-to-face with the devil, with evil walking the earth? To destroy a corrupt body saves Heaven from a corrupt soul, deprives Hell a soldier!" Wild cheering rang out for the orator. You didn't bother to look down the lane. You kept your head down and walked by.
"What is wrong with these people?" you asked yourself. You began to appraise the meaning of everything. The Guises truly killed Admiral Coligny? The King signed off on it? You began to theorize. Something curdled inside you when you thought of the Italians at court, good Catholics that they were – the Queen Mother, Duke Gonzaga, your mentor Strozzi. People you had spoken to, looked up to. Killers. Political animals. Animals? You caught yourself. Peasants aren't the only ones capable of brutality, surely not, it's just that nobles only would truly dirty themselves when it was on their terms: the glory of pitched battle, a duel before court. Not here in the gutter, never here, slashing throats and smashing faces, no honor in this. Still, no time for cynicism. Besides – you couldn't blame them, if the fault even lay with them. The Guises were fanatics, but you knew that the family must be placed above all else. The protection of the crown and bloodline is a noble pursuit indeed. Not now! Not now!
Bóg nam radzi. The words of the Family. It had been a while since you spoke Polish; these days, even your thoughts lapsed into French or Latin at times. The incessant ringing of the bells turned to a drone in your ears, a sea of brass, passing bell, death bell, lych bell again and again from all sides, from all directions. They tolled for dozens, even hundreds. Yet the clappers weren't muffled. Drifting over the rooftops, it now sounded like daytime. Like a fanfare. The screaming of fear and celebration all turned into the unmistakable sound of an entire city groaning. In relief, in horror, in exultation. A murderous Carnival. The gunfire punctuated the ringing, sighing din with cracks and pops like too-moist firewood. A crossroads came up, and you stopped and looked to Pierre; he knew the way. He turned the corner.
He looked over his shoulder, quickly outpacing you. "Don't think me a coward, Prince Radzivilius…"
"What?"
"It's just that – my house, it's over there, just through a few more alleys. You're set on proceeding to the palace?"
Pride swelled up in you. You're no coward, and you needed to speak to someone about this, if the rumors about the Guises' involvement was true. Even if it meant dressing down some Switzer captain or court officer – someone needed to hear it. "Yes, I am, I have to. You've never fought a battle?"
Pierre cast his eyes down and shook his head. No.
"Then I don't blame you for being scared," you continued, trying to ignore the slightest prickles of disdain stirring beneath anger and alertness. Then, a lie: "but I'm not. In fact – I'm getting angry. Do you know they're after women and children, too?"
"But what do you expect to do?" replied Pierre, gesticulating with upturned palms. "There's hundreds of them, and if the people you say are behind it… I mean no offense, friend Prince, but would they listen to you?"
[] "Well, what if they do?"
Mars ruled by the Lion; that's you, alright. A meeting of optimism, egotism, and idealism. By fate you are here and by fate you may stop this.
[] "I want them to know I know. That a foreign Prince witnessed their so-called French honor."
You're certainly speaking a little out of pocket here, but your blood is boiling. Slaughter on the battlefield is one thing, but royal subjects – however astray – murdered in the street? You intend to shame them with all the passion of your sanguine humor.
[] "I just can't believe they could have done this, and I need to ask them to their faces."
"Meeker" may not be the right word here, but this is your phlegmatic foundation coming out to play: earnest, perhaps naive, but based on a strong soul centered upon love of the truth and good conduct. Your conscience is reeling and questions must be answered.
Last edited:
- Location
- United States
Oh yeah! We're back! Oh yeah! Oh yeah! Oh –
Yeah. Welcome back to the old and welcome to the new! Check out the threadmarks or bother me here or on Discord if you need refreshers.
So, this is a little shorter than originally hoped but I realized that I needed to post something lest I never post again. Get the momentum going, you know?
With that in mind, going to try to keep updates in the sub-2,000 word range with a promise that this means there'll be more of them, more often, and more consistently. As fun as it is to crank out those 5,000-word beasts, I need to pace myself if I don't wanna burn out and pull a disappearing act again.
We'll be out of Paris soon! Just one more after this, probably on the bigger side and maybe breaking that newly-set rule of mine, but then one transitional update and then we get home to the Commonwealth and begin in earnest.
Also, if you like my stuff, do check out the new quest I just posted, Riders in the Sky. It's a big change of pace from more sprawling, biographical historical fiction, and the updates will be even teensier and more granular over there. I'm shooting for The Expanse meets Cowboy Bebop, if I had to label. Grounded world-building and tech but with rollicking space opera adventures.
Yeah. Welcome back to the old and welcome to the new! Check out the threadmarks or bother me here or on Discord if you need refreshers.
So, this is a little shorter than originally hoped but I realized that I needed to post something lest I never post again. Get the momentum going, you know?
With that in mind, going to try to keep updates in the sub-2,000 word range with a promise that this means there'll be more of them, more often, and more consistently. As fun as it is to crank out those 5,000-word beasts, I need to pace myself if I don't wanna burn out and pull a disappearing act again.
We'll be out of Paris soon! Just one more after this, probably on the bigger side and maybe breaking that newly-set rule of mine, but then one transitional update and then we get home to the Commonwealth and begin in earnest.
Also, if you like my stuff, do check out the new quest I just posted, Riders in the Sky. It's a big change of pace from more sprawling, biographical historical fiction, and the updates will be even teensier and more granular over there. I'm shooting for The Expanse meets Cowboy Bebop, if I had to label. Grounded world-building and tech but with rollicking space opera adventures.
Ghostdevil
The Devil of Ghosts
- Location
- United States
[X] "Well, what if they do?"
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[x] "I want them to know I know. That a foreign Prince witnessed their so-called French honor."
Nemo malus felix.
Nemo malus felix.
- Location
- Virginia
[X] "I want them to know I know. That a foreign Prince witnessed their so-called French honor."