Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest
- Thread starter Rolman
- Start date
- Mature Historic
Kir the Wizard
The Sun King
- Location
- Ukraine
Aww, I missed the chance for "every Litwin our brother". Didn't get the update.
III. October 31-December 1, 1572. Wawel Palace, Kraków, Polish Crownlands.
- Location
- United States
This is a beautiful land. Your childhood mercifully bubbles up unbidden, overcoming the calluses of war, illness, and strife.
There are no ghost towns here. There are no refugee baggage trains or half-clothed, stunned children living as savages in the woods. Bodies do not line the ditches, men need not ply evil trades to live; highwaymen – though ever-present – were of the mildest concern. The beautiful mire-filled forests of Pomerania instead brought bog iron miners, peat-diggers, and men carrying great vats of pitch in handcarts, your entourage snaking around alder fens until reaching the drier woods of beech, oak, and maple. To the south grazed herds of deer and cattle in wide meadows and pastures, watched over by the ever-present pike-pines.
Hedgerows and rough-hewn fences lined the roads around thatched and wood-shingled little hamlets, modest churches of all confessions (all of them!) changed from village to village. Catholic pilgrims once gave your party directions, a Calvinist reverend spoke on weather and the faith with you and your men, and ever-present were the friendly Jewish tavernkeeps.
Praise God. These were good folk, though you longed for Lithuania more than you ever could admire the Crown. Old Tatjana never left your thoughts; you fretted over whether or not she was alive – none in your entourage could answer the question. Your kind pays no mind to women like her.
Peasants in tunics and wool jackets removed their caps and waved from afar or bowed deeply up close, their women wearing embroidered dresses, capped with kerchiefs and headscarves dyed as brightly as they could afford. Petty nobles would run up to the entourage, bend the knee, and make spirited inquiries on who and why and where to. Even the more desperate ones seemed clean and well-fed, dutifully at work in the field sewing the overwinter crop: "the hardy stuff, like cabbage and turnips," Sir Marszowski explained, "onions or garlic, barley, rye. It'll give them a little half-harvest come springtime."
The poorest were merely goat farmers with holes in their clothes; nearly everybody seemed to own chickens and sheep, ample hogs, an ox – you knew not of that life, but they seemed entirely without misery compared to some places you had seen. The folwark houses and monasteries in which you lodged on occasion were always well-stocked with food and drink, the landlords and abbots never concerned with armies on the march or running out of funds.
Of course, nowhere is perfect. The sight of a bloated hanged man from a great oak tree on the roadside brought you, embarrassingly, out of your skin. You understood why yet cursed yourself for cowardice, and it took a great deal to not display it outwardly. A placard dangled from his neck, written in Polish and Latin:
On October the 23rd, Anno Domini 1573, under lawful torture did I confess to the theft of a draught horse and three steers from my own lord and master. Furthermore did I offer up confession that I ventured to abscond from justice and my master under false pretenses. And, hitherto my confession, I both lied without repentance on these matters and further ventured to falsely implicate my own neighbors. May God have mercy on my eternal soul.
Indeed, the peasantry were unfree here. For all its flaws, many of the peasants of France and at least a few stretches of the Empire were freemen. You thought it odd that this bothered you, and Sir Marszowski explained with a mildly guilty expression about its good for the wellbeing of lord and serf alike. It's a compelling argument, and it's not really something that can change. But much could soon change for the little people and the lords, too, for that matter – you shuddered at the thought of this land falling into war, however necessary one may be.
Your party approached Kraków from the northwest with increasing fanfare. You sought out a vantage point and beheld the Vistula flowing out of view behind the many steeples and red-tiled roofs of the city, Wawel sitting stately in its center atop a hill, as fine a castle as any Dark Age fable's. You reckoned her half as large as Paris with Wawel as fine as the Louvre: people say the city exceeds Prague and competes with Vienna. Although you swallowed at the thought of a return to the maze-like streets of a dangerous, dirty city – however insulated you may be – you also found yourself nearly giddy at the prospect of the new sights, sounds, smells, and people awaiting you.
You entered through the city gate's with a ruckus all around – another wealthy prince in the city, they cried! Royal heralds and armed lordlings rode out to meet you, escorting you up into the palace.
Time for battle! You found yourself confronted quickly by a mighty host of fur-capped noblemen, and you began a desperate battle of managing what very easily could've been a few dozen introductions within minutes.
Ostrogskitarnowskisieniawskkiszkaiossolińskichodkiewiczzamoyskitworowskiskargabudnygonesiuslutherjanfirlej well how about those Mohyłas the Moldavians yes them my brother my sister my uncles and cousins my dog my falcon my horse are you married lord Prince 'no sir' are you Reformed lord Prince 'no sir' but your family is 'yes sir' help help help help help help!
Sierotka was absolutely, completely right. At least three people asked you for money. It feels like hours before your attendants successfully usher you out of the fray. As you attempted to pick at the newly-formed knots in your head, you decided that this place may be more arcane than even the French court's sprawling spiderweb. You'll have to consult Sir Marszowski often until you've got everything sorted out.
Or your Father and brothers. You ought not forget. Though in time you were told that Septimus and Krzysztof – apparently hardened by war since fourteen or fifteen – were still out East in the Grand Duchy screening against Tatar and Muscovite probes.
Your father requested to see you man to man, in private. You were ushered into a spacious suite and the heavy door shut behind you. Standing waiting, at once shining like steel-plate and wholly earthly, was the old man, ruddy as ever, wearing creases dug deeper and a long white beard. He seemed hale as ever, without a hint of a limp or a paunch. You try to ignore your thudding chest and fluttering gut. You feel small.
"Son," he says, giving a smile and a somewhat terse hug. "You've grown well, praise the Lord." He sizes you up. "You're like your brothers but a pinch shorter. And perhaps a bit too skinny?"
"Father," you say, in the brief moment you find your face in his shoulder. You're taken aback by his… Perhaps not coldness, but, well, it's been nine or ten years! You were expecting a bit more, you suppose. "Bad flux on the voyage over," you explain, "it was touch and go for a moment." And, despite some hesitation, you give a summary on your vision – omitting the bit about Mother, of course.
He listens closely and nods along. "Your first time on a ship," he says to himself. "I'm glad you took it to heart, Son. Such mysteries and acts ought never be taken lightly. And, God willing, may it provide you with a little food for thought."
You know what he means by that. "Father–"
He raises a hand. "You need not defend yourself, pay no mind to a wisecrack. You were always a sensitive lad and clearly something imprinted upon you; God works in secret and I need not understand. Though you may know it to be a sore spot for me, we shan't speak on it more as you're of my blood and that is enough."
"I swear to God I am for the family," you stammer. His authority washes over you.
He looks you dead in the eye. "But you're a man grown and your choice is your choice, both in my own eyes and those of the law. And, praise God," he adds, "the rumor mill says you're a veritable little Erasmus." There's a sudden flash of tenderness. "So, I don't feel as if I failed you or the family for that matter. Your cousins are similarly sensible in their own reversions."
"Regarding my reason and my faith, Father, I am an open book," you gently counter. "And Erasmus, though I'll need to read more, is of the humanist sort. And that was how they brought me up – no Jesuits," you joke.
Father grins and lets out a hmph. "That's a fine thing, as I've got work for you. You seem marvelous smart but I'm putting you to the test, son, I won't mince it."
"Anything, Father."
"You were in France. I am told that you have seen things."
"Indeed, Father."
"Could put our Iwan and his barbarians to shame," he grunts. "And I am most glad to see you're of a level head on matters of faith. You see, there is agitation for an edict of tolerance for the safeguarding of the Liberty and of peace itself."
"I see."
"Undoubtedly, you support this, yes?"
"Absolutely."
"Good," he says, placing his hands on his hips. "As do I. Both for obvious reasons and to offer safety to those fearful of an Imperial prince. I'd send Catholic Sierotka were he not bound for Paris." That hurt a little. "To have one of our princes in attendance to any potential convocated sejm that would bring an edict of tolerance. This means you stay here."
"It will be done, Father." You behave properly before man and God.
"You will be well taken care of as is befitting of your station. I will leave you to your doings and a trustworthy man will bring you the princely stamp."
Well, that accounts for the next two weeks to two months. Who's to say? Until Father dies you do as Father orders and that's that, for some things never change.
You find yourself tongue-tied. "Thank you, Father," is what you decide upon. "I'll let down neither you nor our name. Always a Radziwiłl first."
He gives you a single nod of approval. "Very good. God willing, you'll rise to your raising. Do not disappoint us. I'll be here for a few days more before I head back east."
You bow as a vassal and turn to the door.
"Oh," projects Father, just about when you're at the threshold. You turn to face him. "That nursemaid of yours – the Ruskaja – she died about this time last year." He must see the look on your face. "I'm sorry, son," he volunteers, but he said it as if a much-loved hound or horse died. Utter afterthought. "No one told you?"
"No one knew who she was. No one ever knew who I was talking about."
You catch yourself and say something that must've been appropriate with some expected what-a-shame nonchalance. You don't really remember. You hold it together for a half-hour more of pleasantries and introductions with retainers and retainers' retainers before you at last can duck into a servants' hallway.
You cry. A few dry sleeve-muffled sobs, some wheezing and hitching of breath. All three make you cough and you have time for none of it. You dry your eyes, wipe your nose, and continue for a day (the next few days, be honest with yourself) with a sensation in your torso not entirely divorced from the leaden stone of the days after the Massacre. Sir Marszowski dutifully guards the doorway; you told him that Tatjana's dead and he needed no further explanation.
You soldier on and pray for her night and day. A fortunate thing that this is the month of prayer for the departed. A little Marian shrine appears in your chambers as the days turn to weeks, indeed, weeks. The Protestants and politiques continue to mutter about their hopeful declaration of tolerance, and you continue to await it – your copy of the family seal stamp is delivered in due time.
You reaccustom yourself to Polish dress (warmer and more comfortable!) and Polish weather. You learn to enjoy using a fork for all your food, not just fruits and vegetables, cursing chamber pots to the most fiery of the Enemy's pits as you experience indoor plumbing for the first time. You had seen a pomme de terre in France, but you finally ate one baked – same with maize and a new poultry simply called Indicus, and everybody can't stop talking about rumors of a sweat-inducing, energizing hot drink that supposedly belongs to the Turk. You walk and ride through the Kraków streets and alleys, familiarizing yourself with a cleaner and safer city. That's relatively speaking, of course.
But, by Saint Andrew's day, you find yourself itching with boredom. Thankfully, the distractions are as ample as they are important.
You focus your attention on…
[THE BELOW FOUR CHOICES WILL BEGIN A SIDESTORY. Think of it as a highlight from your downtime, to be posted independently (or not) with clock-moving main updates.]
[] The temporal.
Continue to orient yourself. Meet important lords, Senators, and ranking courtiers. Given your name and novelty, pretty much everybody would like to meet you. Again. Maria give you strength.
[] The spiritual.
Meet clergy from all confessions, though mainly the Catholic ones. Piotr Skarga, the arch-conservative Jesuit, the Papal ambassador, and the Archbishop of Gniezno are of high priority. You hope to find a reliable confessor and maybe even a good astrologer, too.
[] The ladies.
You're about five years overdue for marriage, after all. You feel childish for such romanticism, but you begin to fantasize about a love-match. On the contrary, a third son needs all the help he can get – even a Radziwiłl.
[] The rakes.
Louts are underrated. Drunkards frequently pour out prophetic words and earthly secrets. These men and their frowned-upon women know everything, say little, all while throwing parties that would make the most hedonistic of Alexandre's mignons blush. Though it'll prove embarrassing, a deeper acquaintance with the hustling, unsavory side of the court can provide subtle allies and many a rumor-thread to pull on.
And regarding the months to come with its potential agenda, you felt…
[] Ready to fight for the family.
You'll have to balance your conscience and your consciousness. Espouse tolerance while agitating for a Habsburg. Be genuine regarding both. Need more be said?
[] Ready to fight for the Church.
Let us not rip each other apart, but the astray must be herded home again and the truth of God, the inviolable Trinity, Maria, and the Saints returned to primacy. The clergy will smile upon you, while the Protestants and perhaps even your own family rumble and grumble.
[] Ready to fight for the Liberty.
This place may just be exceptional, and not just because it's your homeland. You cast aside petty loyalties in the name of this project, this Res Publica of the noble. Ingratiates you to the crownlander reformist camp and the lesser nobility, but your brother-Lithuanians will surely be taken aback.
[] Ready to fight for the Grand Duchy itself.
For what is the family if not Lithuania? Arguably. That may be dramatic. But it's not untrue. Fight against further union beyond the bounds of the family's position. You will make no friends through this except for back home, but France taught you to make a stand and dig your feet in. An inch given is a mile taken.
There are no ghost towns here. There are no refugee baggage trains or half-clothed, stunned children living as savages in the woods. Bodies do not line the ditches, men need not ply evil trades to live; highwaymen – though ever-present – were of the mildest concern. The beautiful mire-filled forests of Pomerania instead brought bog iron miners, peat-diggers, and men carrying great vats of pitch in handcarts, your entourage snaking around alder fens until reaching the drier woods of beech, oak, and maple. To the south grazed herds of deer and cattle in wide meadows and pastures, watched over by the ever-present pike-pines.
Hedgerows and rough-hewn fences lined the roads around thatched and wood-shingled little hamlets, modest churches of all confessions (all of them!) changed from village to village. Catholic pilgrims once gave your party directions, a Calvinist reverend spoke on weather and the faith with you and your men, and ever-present were the friendly Jewish tavernkeeps.
Praise God. These were good folk, though you longed for Lithuania more than you ever could admire the Crown. Old Tatjana never left your thoughts; you fretted over whether or not she was alive – none in your entourage could answer the question. Your kind pays no mind to women like her.
Peasants in tunics and wool jackets removed their caps and waved from afar or bowed deeply up close, their women wearing embroidered dresses, capped with kerchiefs and headscarves dyed as brightly as they could afford. Petty nobles would run up to the entourage, bend the knee, and make spirited inquiries on who and why and where to. Even the more desperate ones seemed clean and well-fed, dutifully at work in the field sewing the overwinter crop: "the hardy stuff, like cabbage and turnips," Sir Marszowski explained, "onions or garlic, barley, rye. It'll give them a little half-harvest come springtime."
The poorest were merely goat farmers with holes in their clothes; nearly everybody seemed to own chickens and sheep, ample hogs, an ox – you knew not of that life, but they seemed entirely without misery compared to some places you had seen. The folwark houses and monasteries in which you lodged on occasion were always well-stocked with food and drink, the landlords and abbots never concerned with armies on the march or running out of funds.
Of course, nowhere is perfect. The sight of a bloated hanged man from a great oak tree on the roadside brought you, embarrassingly, out of your skin. You understood why yet cursed yourself for cowardice, and it took a great deal to not display it outwardly. A placard dangled from his neck, written in Polish and Latin:
On October the 23rd, Anno Domini 1573, under lawful torture did I confess to the theft of a draught horse and three steers from my own lord and master. Furthermore did I offer up confession that I ventured to abscond from justice and my master under false pretenses. And, hitherto my confession, I both lied without repentance on these matters and further ventured to falsely implicate my own neighbors. May God have mercy on my eternal soul.
Indeed, the peasantry were unfree here. For all its flaws, many of the peasants of France and at least a few stretches of the Empire were freemen. You thought it odd that this bothered you, and Sir Marszowski explained with a mildly guilty expression about its good for the wellbeing of lord and serf alike. It's a compelling argument, and it's not really something that can change. But much could soon change for the little people and the lords, too, for that matter – you shuddered at the thought of this land falling into war, however necessary one may be.
Your party approached Kraków from the northwest with increasing fanfare. You sought out a vantage point and beheld the Vistula flowing out of view behind the many steeples and red-tiled roofs of the city, Wawel sitting stately in its center atop a hill, as fine a castle as any Dark Age fable's. You reckoned her half as large as Paris with Wawel as fine as the Louvre: people say the city exceeds Prague and competes with Vienna. Although you swallowed at the thought of a return to the maze-like streets of a dangerous, dirty city – however insulated you may be – you also found yourself nearly giddy at the prospect of the new sights, sounds, smells, and people awaiting you.
You entered through the city gate's with a ruckus all around – another wealthy prince in the city, they cried! Royal heralds and armed lordlings rode out to meet you, escorting you up into the palace.
Time for battle! You found yourself confronted quickly by a mighty host of fur-capped noblemen, and you began a desperate battle of managing what very easily could've been a few dozen introductions within minutes.
Ostrogskitarnowskisieniawskkiszkaiossolińskichodkiewiczzamoyskitworowskiskargabudnygonesiuslutherjanfirlej well how about those Mohyłas the Moldavians yes them my brother my sister my uncles and cousins my dog my falcon my horse are you married lord Prince 'no sir' are you Reformed lord Prince 'no sir' but your family is 'yes sir' help help help help help help!
Sierotka was absolutely, completely right. At least three people asked you for money. It feels like hours before your attendants successfully usher you out of the fray. As you attempted to pick at the newly-formed knots in your head, you decided that this place may be more arcane than even the French court's sprawling spiderweb. You'll have to consult Sir Marszowski often until you've got everything sorted out.
Or your Father and brothers. You ought not forget. Though in time you were told that Septimus and Krzysztof – apparently hardened by war since fourteen or fifteen – were still out East in the Grand Duchy screening against Tatar and Muscovite probes.
Your father requested to see you man to man, in private. You were ushered into a spacious suite and the heavy door shut behind you. Standing waiting, at once shining like steel-plate and wholly earthly, was the old man, ruddy as ever, wearing creases dug deeper and a long white beard. He seemed hale as ever, without a hint of a limp or a paunch. You try to ignore your thudding chest and fluttering gut. You feel small.
"Son," he says, giving a smile and a somewhat terse hug. "You've grown well, praise the Lord." He sizes you up. "You're like your brothers but a pinch shorter. And perhaps a bit too skinny?"
"Father," you say, in the brief moment you find your face in his shoulder. You're taken aback by his… Perhaps not coldness, but, well, it's been nine or ten years! You were expecting a bit more, you suppose. "Bad flux on the voyage over," you explain, "it was touch and go for a moment." And, despite some hesitation, you give a summary on your vision – omitting the bit about Mother, of course.
He listens closely and nods along. "Your first time on a ship," he says to himself. "I'm glad you took it to heart, Son. Such mysteries and acts ought never be taken lightly. And, God willing, may it provide you with a little food for thought."
You know what he means by that. "Father–"
He raises a hand. "You need not defend yourself, pay no mind to a wisecrack. You were always a sensitive lad and clearly something imprinted upon you; God works in secret and I need not understand. Though you may know it to be a sore spot for me, we shan't speak on it more as you're of my blood and that is enough."
"I swear to God I am for the family," you stammer. His authority washes over you.
He looks you dead in the eye. "But you're a man grown and your choice is your choice, both in my own eyes and those of the law. And, praise God," he adds, "the rumor mill says you're a veritable little Erasmus." There's a sudden flash of tenderness. "So, I don't feel as if I failed you or the family for that matter. Your cousins are similarly sensible in their own reversions."
"Regarding my reason and my faith, Father, I am an open book," you gently counter. "And Erasmus, though I'll need to read more, is of the humanist sort. And that was how they brought me up – no Jesuits," you joke.
Father grins and lets out a hmph. "That's a fine thing, as I've got work for you. You seem marvelous smart but I'm putting you to the test, son, I won't mince it."
"Anything, Father."
"You were in France. I am told that you have seen things."
"Indeed, Father."
"Could put our Iwan and his barbarians to shame," he grunts. "And I am most glad to see you're of a level head on matters of faith. You see, there is agitation for an edict of tolerance for the safeguarding of the Liberty and of peace itself."
"I see."
"Undoubtedly, you support this, yes?"
"Absolutely."
"Good," he says, placing his hands on his hips. "As do I. Both for obvious reasons and to offer safety to those fearful of an Imperial prince. I'd send Catholic Sierotka were he not bound for Paris." That hurt a little. "To have one of our princes in attendance to any potential convocated sejm that would bring an edict of tolerance. This means you stay here."
"It will be done, Father." You behave properly before man and God.
"You will be well taken care of as is befitting of your station. I will leave you to your doings and a trustworthy man will bring you the princely stamp."
Well, that accounts for the next two weeks to two months. Who's to say? Until Father dies you do as Father orders and that's that, for some things never change.
You find yourself tongue-tied. "Thank you, Father," is what you decide upon. "I'll let down neither you nor our name. Always a Radziwiłl first."
He gives you a single nod of approval. "Very good. God willing, you'll rise to your raising. Do not disappoint us. I'll be here for a few days more before I head back east."
You bow as a vassal and turn to the door.
"Oh," projects Father, just about when you're at the threshold. You turn to face him. "That nursemaid of yours – the Ruskaja – she died about this time last year." He must see the look on your face. "I'm sorry, son," he volunteers, but he said it as if a much-loved hound or horse died. Utter afterthought. "No one told you?"
"No one knew who she was. No one ever knew who I was talking about."
You catch yourself and say something that must've been appropriate with some expected what-a-shame nonchalance. You don't really remember. You hold it together for a half-hour more of pleasantries and introductions with retainers and retainers' retainers before you at last can duck into a servants' hallway.
You cry. A few dry sleeve-muffled sobs, some wheezing and hitching of breath. All three make you cough and you have time for none of it. You dry your eyes, wipe your nose, and continue for a day (the next few days, be honest with yourself) with a sensation in your torso not entirely divorced from the leaden stone of the days after the Massacre. Sir Marszowski dutifully guards the doorway; you told him that Tatjana's dead and he needed no further explanation.
You soldier on and pray for her night and day. A fortunate thing that this is the month of prayer for the departed. A little Marian shrine appears in your chambers as the days turn to weeks, indeed, weeks. The Protestants and politiques continue to mutter about their hopeful declaration of tolerance, and you continue to await it – your copy of the family seal stamp is delivered in due time.
You reaccustom yourself to Polish dress (warmer and more comfortable!) and Polish weather. You learn to enjoy using a fork for all your food, not just fruits and vegetables, cursing chamber pots to the most fiery of the Enemy's pits as you experience indoor plumbing for the first time. You had seen a pomme de terre in France, but you finally ate one baked – same with maize and a new poultry simply called Indicus, and everybody can't stop talking about rumors of a sweat-inducing, energizing hot drink that supposedly belongs to the Turk. You walk and ride through the Kraków streets and alleys, familiarizing yourself with a cleaner and safer city. That's relatively speaking, of course.
But, by Saint Andrew's day, you find yourself itching with boredom. Thankfully, the distractions are as ample as they are important.
You focus your attention on…
[THE BELOW FOUR CHOICES WILL BEGIN A SIDESTORY. Think of it as a highlight from your downtime, to be posted independently (or not) with clock-moving main updates.]
[] The temporal.
Continue to orient yourself. Meet important lords, Senators, and ranking courtiers. Given your name and novelty, pretty much everybody would like to meet you. Again. Maria give you strength.
[] The spiritual.
Meet clergy from all confessions, though mainly the Catholic ones. Piotr Skarga, the arch-conservative Jesuit, the Papal ambassador, and the Archbishop of Gniezno are of high priority. You hope to find a reliable confessor and maybe even a good astrologer, too.
[] The ladies.
You're about five years overdue for marriage, after all. You feel childish for such romanticism, but you begin to fantasize about a love-match. On the contrary, a third son needs all the help he can get – even a Radziwiłl.
[] The rakes.
Louts are underrated. Drunkards frequently pour out prophetic words and earthly secrets. These men and their frowned-upon women know everything, say little, all while throwing parties that would make the most hedonistic of Alexandre's mignons blush. Though it'll prove embarrassing, a deeper acquaintance with the hustling, unsavory side of the court can provide subtle allies and many a rumor-thread to pull on.
And regarding the months to come with its potential agenda, you felt…
[] Ready to fight for the family.
You'll have to balance your conscience and your consciousness. Espouse tolerance while agitating for a Habsburg. Be genuine regarding both. Need more be said?
[] Ready to fight for the Church.
Let us not rip each other apart, but the astray must be herded home again and the truth of God, the inviolable Trinity, Maria, and the Saints returned to primacy. The clergy will smile upon you, while the Protestants and perhaps even your own family rumble and grumble.
[] Ready to fight for the Liberty.
This place may just be exceptional, and not just because it's your homeland. You cast aside petty loyalties in the name of this project, this Res Publica of the noble. Ingratiates you to the crownlander reformist camp and the lesser nobility, but your brother-Lithuanians will surely be taken aback.
[] Ready to fight for the Grand Duchy itself.
For what is the family if not Lithuania? Arguably. That may be dramatic. But it's not untrue. Fight against further union beyond the bounds of the family's position. You will make no friends through this except for back home, but France taught you to make a stand and dig your feet in. An inch given is a mile taken.
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- Location
- Your pantry
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] The ladies.
[X] Ready to fight for the Liberty.
Dude needs to get married. I also find the Commonwealth to be something I'd like to see succeed, so the Liberty sounds the best path towards that.
[X] Ready to fight for the Liberty.
Dude needs to get married. I also find the Commonwealth to be something I'd like to see succeed, so the Liberty sounds the best path towards that.
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Theaxofwar
Definitely not a Bunny Cat in disguise.
- Location
- Standing right behind you
[X] The ladies.
It's probably the most politically necessary I think.
[X] Ready to fight for the family.
It's probably the most politically necessary I think.
[X] Ready to fight for the family.
- Location
- Virginia
[X] The ladies.
[X] Ready to fight for the family.
[X] Ready to fight for the family.
[X] The ladies.
[X] Ready to fight for the family.
[X] Ready to fight for the family.
- Pronouns
- He
[X] The ladies.
[X] Ready to fight for the Liberty.
[X] Ready to fight for the Liberty.
Good to be back to a more civilized land.
[X] The spiritual
I feel like this fits very well with our character, the Church being no joke at all. Making friends with them will benefit us politically, personally and may well help us set up an advantageous marriage four ourselves. It's one thing if we're a random prince trying to woo the ladies, it's another if a bishop recommends us to a good family.
[X] Ready to fight for the Grand Duchy itself.
[X] The spiritual
I feel like this fits very well with our character, the Church being no joke at all. Making friends with them will benefit us politically, personally and may well help us set up an advantageous marriage four ourselves. It's one thing if we're a random prince trying to woo the ladies, it's another if a bishop recommends us to a good family.
[X] Ready to fight for the Grand Duchy itself.