- Location
- United States
[x] Kill Them All
Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest
- Thread starter Rolman
- Start date
- Mature Historic
Solarstream
It's all in the cards
- Location
- Zombie World
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Bylba's Plan
- Pronouns
- He
[X] Bylba's Plan
Kir the Wizard
The Sun King
- Location
- Ukraine
[X] Plan Snipers
Still don't think the peasants should be wasted at all.
Still don't think the peasants should be wasted at all.
"Sparking Powder." Pt III. May 20-21, 1573. Białowieża Forest, Crown-Lithuanian Borderland.
- Location
- United States
The barley hisses, an eagle-owl chants its call just a bit faster than your racing heart. The sun's been down for an hour or two. You take your hand off your carbine to wipe the sweat on your tunic. You check for your saber. You check for your dagger. You check for the truncheon a peasant handed you. Of course they're still there.
The sheer border between the opposite field and the moonlit sky. Van Gistel stifles a cough. The very Calvinist man on your left continues to whisper martial Psalms to himself.
…touch the mountains, and they shall smoke. Cast forth lightning and scatter them, shoot out thine arrows and destroy them…
The Netherlander hisses at him to shut it. Someone is running down the trail chk-chk-chk. You hear a procrastinator crank his gun's wheel, the faint tapping of powder into the pan.
"Sirs!" cries out a voice in his mova. It's a serf boy, about as tall as the scythe he carries. "They're coming, sirs!" Nobody needs a translation.
The men know to wait for the opening shot. Your opening shot, a booming order from their prince.
That familiar underwater-muffled thumping rises in your ears and the next minutes are breathless. You look down the trail, through the waving stalks.
Light. Lanterns, you suppose. Maybe half a dozen, swinging like pendulums. They're smaller than candle-flames at first but as the seconds pass they grow and grow. You begin to be able to hear them, their laughter, the clopping of hooves.
Van Gistel growls something to himself in his language. He leans over to you. "Your Serene Highness – find that Borkowicz cunt. He's probably first in line. They seem nice and arrogant."
"Understood."
"Nervous, Your Serene Highness?" you don't answer; you don't want the men to hear you.
But you do have a question. You asked the hussars as a boy, but this time is different. "What's it like to kill somebody?"
"Like killing anything else, Your Serene Highness. Maybe even easier, on account that they're trying to kill you."
You swallow and wipe your hands again.
The bandits inch closer, moseying leisurely on horse and on foot. They're just silhouettes, a couple mean faces illuminated by their lanterns, some taller than others, and you try to count them out: maybe close to forty? The column stretches back a decent bit. Sabers and hatchets on belts glint orange and silver. You can see the outline of a musket slung over one man's shoulder. These aren't the desperate farmers-turned-robbers of France.
You realize that they're too spread out: the plan to let them advance and then fire from behind at diagonals would only catch the tail. The volley will have to come either from the front or in a true, lateral crossfire – endangering both you and the men opposite.
At least Borkowicz betrays himself with his nasal voice and educated accent. "Now, lads, you know I get the blonde one," he laughs, to the disappointed groans of those behind him. "But the cowhides will go into your pay."
…Whatever you say, sir… …fine, sir… …you're a real bastard, sir…
They all laugh together. "HEY!" yells Borkowicz; he must be cupping his hands around his mouth. The psalm-lover to your left twitches. "What did I tell you yokels?! Stupid bastards, you thought I was joking? Come out NOW!"
These are the men who volunteered to cut throats at Moncontour. These are the men who kicked down doors and went after the women and children on Saint Bartholomew's Day. You know it. You know it. Every nation and people have ones such as these. You're shaking, you're buzzing, you're vibrating, by God.
The fear and rage combine. You find it in you to pick out Borkowicz and raise your carbine. It'll be like taking down a boar or a stag or a bird. Just exhale and squeeze the trigger slowly.
They're quickening their pace and almost dead-on, there's not much time! Squeeze it! Squeeze it! Too hard!
You try to compensate and pull downwards; only as the sparks fly do you realize that you're going to hit his horse instead.
The animal's legs buckle. People are already yelling but your ears ring and then ring some more as the overlapping booms remind you of a pike square's drummer. More men and horses drop.
Your legs carry you forward as you howl with your men, eyes stinging as you run through the gunsmoke left by those in front of you. "Bóg nam radzi!" You cannot focus on what you're about to run into, saber and dagger in hand. Whizzes and cracks as a few bandits manage to return fire. Someone in front of you looks like he tripped.
You head toward the screaming, fallen horse where you know the bastard to be, dimly supposing he must be pinned. You can just barely hear him yowling for help. The cacophony grows as the first swords begin to cross and clang, the first thwacks and grunts of connecting slashes and chops, muffled in your hurting eardrums. You hop over a man choking on blood and prepare to do the same for the dying horse when something slams into you from the side. You hit the ground hard, your saber knocked clean out of your hand.
You can smell his beer-breath. A shock of white in your vision as you're hit in the face. And again. And again. My dagger! My knife!
You've lost it, too! You slap the dirt around you where it should be until you feel the cold flat of the blade. The man sits up and cocks back longer than before. You find the hilt and it feels like you're just punching him. He feels like the straw bags and hog-flanks of the years and years of practice. Working for this. Waiting for this. I'm still alive.
Focus. He starts trying to choke you. It's working. The sounds you're making are inhuman.
Below the ribs, below the ribs. You keep working at him and it starts to squelch: short little savage thrusts just above the belt. He cracks you again on the face and you swallow a tooth and you're hit once more. But this time it's much weaker.
It's like he's falling asleep on top of you. He leans lower and lower, his strikes coming less and less frequently. Bending down from his straddle, he sigh-groans in your ear and falls near-still. He coughs and splutters, breathing with great effort. Your midriff feels warm.
"Protect your Prince, Goddamn you!" It's van Gistel. His cursing drowns out the pitiful cries of the bandit-lord behind him. He grabs your assailant by the back of his shirt and heaves him off of you, then pulls you up with equal haste. It feels like he nearly pulled your arm out of its socket. "Are you hurt?" Your mind is blank.
"No. No."
A few men heed van Gistel's order and form a screen around you, giving you a moment to bend over and recover your saber.
It's hard to figure out who is fighting who. Scenes like yours play out as men grapple on the ground, clubbing and punching and stabbing each other. You remember the burgher lad in France for a split second, beaten to death on the cobbles. He was younger than you.
A staggering man cries out in a hoarse voice: "I can't find the boss! Where's the boss?!"
You can see him whipping his head about. "He's dead, idiot!" shouts one of your bodyguards.
"Indeed!" cries another. "We'll show you his head!" Everybody around you begins to taunt and jeer, drowning out Borkowicz's protests. In France, you could never hear what they were saying once they really got into the mix.
The scared bandit turns and runs. Those around him take note – one man's even struck down watching him go.
van Gistel cackles like a wild-man. "Yes! Scare the stupid bastards!"
Another runs. And another. And another. This is how it starts? You have seen this mindlessness, this all-encompassing, white-hot terror seize men from afar. Friend and foe alike face it; very few men are immune to cowardice as he watches his fellows abandon him.
All attention turns toward the village as a hunter's horn blares.
"Men!" you shriek, pushing your voice to its limit, "off the road! Off the road!"
A fighting retreat of sorts begins as a few bandits, drunk on fear or gorzała and unwilling to run, swing wildly at you and your men as you attempt to reenter the barley field. The screen of protectors leave you as a mere spectator and, for once, you don't feel left out as a fearsome headache sets in.
By the time you can hear them they're already quite close. A tight-packed hulk riding three horses wide, riders low like jockeys. A new chorus shouts the family motto over thundering hooves. Even a charge of some twenty men is enough to make the ground shake.
You hope that most of your men are out of the way as the horsemen roll through the battlefield, hacking at shoulderblades and scalps, knocking over the living and trampling the dead. The brigands who were still standing aren't anymore. The more sanguine of your men run back into the mix quickly to deliver mercy strokes and throat-slashes to the reeling survivors, weaving around the cavalry, who have lost some momentum.
You see the peacock feather in Marszowski's hat silhouetted against the sky. "Pursue! By God, boys, kill!" he shouts.
"Send them to Hell, chevalier!" you answer.
You realize that he can actually hear things. He waves his cap. "With pleasure, lord prince! At them!" He flicks his reins with a "kyah!" as his fellow riders roar in agreement. They weave around the executioners and leave you all choking on dust as they begin the pursuit.
"After them!" you order. You find van Gistel somehow and head toward the downed Borkowicz.
He's dead. After recovering a fallen lantern it's obvious; his unpinned leg is completely bloodsoaked. Your shot passed through him and into his now-heaving horse, which van Gistel quickly finishes off. You feel absolutely nothing but notice that you're not blinking, that you must do so willfully.
Van Gistel holds the lantern up to you and claps you on the shoulder. "Wondrous work on the ground, Your Serene Highness; it's a tough spot." You shake your head. He holds it up to your face and whistles. "And none can deny your valor!" You manage to laugh.
You need to catch up with your men. The first few moments of the run are merely down a dirt track, but then the bodies begin to appear. First loners, then pairs, then clusters. The cavalry are doing good work. You hear the boom of what must be the village's only musket before being able to make out a clamor up ahead in sight and sound, sounding more like cheering than the din of battle.
You and van Gistel drop into guards at the sight of men in commoners' clothing running straight at you. By the Cross!
You shout out in lordly Ruthenian: "I am your Prince!" their prince?
It doesn't matter; they're too happy. The serfs are ecstatic. Many gather around you crying tears of joy. "We will never fear the dark again! Saint Michael watched over us; not a single one of us lost!"
An extremely odd scene ensues. The women and girls immediately begin dancing and chanting stories and songs, starting to cook up the best feast they can muster, their elderly priest emerges to personally bless you and your men, flicking holy water with his aspergil. Yet something has taken over their menfolk – and even some of yours.
A pair of boys pass a severed head back and forth. The older men look like threshers as they head into the battle scene caving in heads with grainflails and quarterstaffs, breaking their walking sticks, pissing and spitting. Borkowicz is beheaded, emasculated, and after his severed hands are nailed to some trees burned in full view of all. Just like Coligny. Yet the atmosphere is downright festive.
It's a testament to their rage – that part is obvious. But you dimly wonder: when are the little people ever given such an outlet? Such a gift to, for once, not be whipped and robbed.
Indeed, not a single serf was killed or suffered worse than a scrape. Of your number, three will need a Christian burial, one man has been given his last rites, and two more are wounded badly. Not terrible, all things considered; just over one in ten.
Forty-seven brigands are counted out. The serfs reckon that's nearly all of them. Two are yours. One by mistake and one because you had to. You can't really think about it yet. They're burned in a heap and the leftovers buried in common. They smell like roast chicken and singed hair. It's the only time your stomach churns. A quick work and sloppy job – but none care.
Dawn rises and the serf's feast is enjoyed. Your muscles ache and you somehow possess an appetite despite the black work: fish soup with millet, black bread with ample butter, barley porridge made luxurious with honey or melted cheese, little mushroom dumplings, roasted game birds and smoked venison. They even slaughtered a pig and gave you and your men the belly cuts; it's charming. Never have you seen lofty Radziwiłł men fraternize with the little folk, yet here you all are. Soldiers all.
"Peasants hardly need training when they're on the defense," shrugs van Gistel. "They did quite well – yours are a martial people, Your Serene Highness."
Between the food and the excitement of last night, the men grow iron-weary and camp is set up quickly.
You're given a mirror and you look like hell. Your nose like a sausage, around your eyes and cheeks yellow and black, cuts and hematomas all around your hairline; his attempt to strangle you burst the blood vessels in your very red eyes.
"Are you ready, Your Serene Highness?" asks your barber-surgeon, having finally obtained some privacy. The men sleep like rocks and you cannot wait to join them. Marszowski and van Gistel stand behind him, somehow smiling and grimacing at the same time.
"Mhm."
"One, two, three–"
Pop! You hiss as he fixes your nose. None of the men wince. "And if I may see your mouth, Your Serene Highness." You show him. "That's good. Nice and clean. There are surgeons in Kraków and Wilno that can replace it with anything you'd like. Dead men's teeth, silver, gold, ivory. I'm told they lance the gums very little, Your Serene Highness." Ouch.
"That sounds rather good," you chuckle.
"I should get on that my own self!" says van Gistel, showing off his own missing tooth.
"And I'll get started right away on some compresses and poultices for the cuts and bruises, Your Serene Highness." He excuses himself.
With only van Gistel and Marszowski now, you drop the princeliness somewhat. Van Gistel may have just saved your life by drawing attention to you, and you find yourself feeling warmer and warmer towards him. "So, sirs – how'd I do?"
Van Gistel looks to Marszowski, who says: "quite well, lord prince, quite well indeed."
"Absolutely, Your Serene Highness," agrees van Gistel.
"Don't feed me a line," you point at them.
"No, truly," says Marszowski. "A very good stratagem."
"Killed two men, Your Serene Highness" smiles van Gistel, "and were loud enough that the half-deaf fellows could hear you and obey. That's a marvelous debut."
Your smile is partly forced. You feel proud yet you still can't understand how people can be so glib about this business. It was even worse in France. "I'm glad, but – I feel like I got punched in the face nine times," you laugh. So do they.
"I think it wound up being a truncheon or something," says Sir Marszowski with a smile. "I hope that Lady Sapieha likes you for more than just your looks, Your Serene Highness!"
You blow a raspberry. "In France, there was one of those wolf-men, you know what I'm talking about? He married one of the prettiest ladies-in-waiting, so I reckon I'll be alright!"
As usual, wine is delivered and conversation about old battles comes up. Marszowski reminiscing about fighting the Muscovites with their odd little wheeled fortifications, meeting cavalry with cavalry and the hussars naturally coming out on top. Van Gistel speaks with pride about the day he broke a Spanish Third with marksmen's fire and nimble sword-and-buckler men, darting under their pikes. Guts everywhere, he says. They tell you that you haven't seen anything yet.
"Five thousand, six thousand men," says Marszowski, looking up at the ceiling near-wistful. "Your mind can hardly wrap around it when you see it."
All a little drunk, they respectfully retire and you jokingly cross yourself at that.
All you want to do is sleep, after all. Your headache, by God. What a terrible headache. With your eyelids heavy and your tent at last vacated, you fall into deep and dreamless sleep. You will think about your choice at Kodeń tomorrow.
The sheer border between the opposite field and the moonlit sky. Van Gistel stifles a cough. The very Calvinist man on your left continues to whisper martial Psalms to himself.
…touch the mountains, and they shall smoke. Cast forth lightning and scatter them, shoot out thine arrows and destroy them…
The Netherlander hisses at him to shut it. Someone is running down the trail chk-chk-chk. You hear a procrastinator crank his gun's wheel, the faint tapping of powder into the pan.
"Sirs!" cries out a voice in his mova. It's a serf boy, about as tall as the scythe he carries. "They're coming, sirs!" Nobody needs a translation.
The men know to wait for the opening shot. Your opening shot, a booming order from their prince.
That familiar underwater-muffled thumping rises in your ears and the next minutes are breathless. You look down the trail, through the waving stalks.
Light. Lanterns, you suppose. Maybe half a dozen, swinging like pendulums. They're smaller than candle-flames at first but as the seconds pass they grow and grow. You begin to be able to hear them, their laughter, the clopping of hooves.
Van Gistel growls something to himself in his language. He leans over to you. "Your Serene Highness – find that Borkowicz cunt. He's probably first in line. They seem nice and arrogant."
"Understood."
"Nervous, Your Serene Highness?" you don't answer; you don't want the men to hear you.
But you do have a question. You asked the hussars as a boy, but this time is different. "What's it like to kill somebody?"
"Like killing anything else, Your Serene Highness. Maybe even easier, on account that they're trying to kill you."
You swallow and wipe your hands again.
The bandits inch closer, moseying leisurely on horse and on foot. They're just silhouettes, a couple mean faces illuminated by their lanterns, some taller than others, and you try to count them out: maybe close to forty? The column stretches back a decent bit. Sabers and hatchets on belts glint orange and silver. You can see the outline of a musket slung over one man's shoulder. These aren't the desperate farmers-turned-robbers of France.
You realize that they're too spread out: the plan to let them advance and then fire from behind at diagonals would only catch the tail. The volley will have to come either from the front or in a true, lateral crossfire – endangering both you and the men opposite.
At least Borkowicz betrays himself with his nasal voice and educated accent. "Now, lads, you know I get the blonde one," he laughs, to the disappointed groans of those behind him. "But the cowhides will go into your pay."
…Whatever you say, sir… …fine, sir… …you're a real bastard, sir…
They all laugh together. "HEY!" yells Borkowicz; he must be cupping his hands around his mouth. The psalm-lover to your left twitches. "What did I tell you yokels?! Stupid bastards, you thought I was joking? Come out NOW!"
These are the men who volunteered to cut throats at Moncontour. These are the men who kicked down doors and went after the women and children on Saint Bartholomew's Day. You know it. You know it. Every nation and people have ones such as these. You're shaking, you're buzzing, you're vibrating, by God.
The fear and rage combine. You find it in you to pick out Borkowicz and raise your carbine. It'll be like taking down a boar or a stag or a bird. Just exhale and squeeze the trigger slowly.
They're quickening their pace and almost dead-on, there's not much time! Squeeze it! Squeeze it! Too hard!
You try to compensate and pull downwards; only as the sparks fly do you realize that you're going to hit his horse instead.
The animal's legs buckle. People are already yelling but your ears ring and then ring some more as the overlapping booms remind you of a pike square's drummer. More men and horses drop.
Your legs carry you forward as you howl with your men, eyes stinging as you run through the gunsmoke left by those in front of you. "Bóg nam radzi!" You cannot focus on what you're about to run into, saber and dagger in hand. Whizzes and cracks as a few bandits manage to return fire. Someone in front of you looks like he tripped.
You head toward the screaming, fallen horse where you know the bastard to be, dimly supposing he must be pinned. You can just barely hear him yowling for help. The cacophony grows as the first swords begin to cross and clang, the first thwacks and grunts of connecting slashes and chops, muffled in your hurting eardrums. You hop over a man choking on blood and prepare to do the same for the dying horse when something slams into you from the side. You hit the ground hard, your saber knocked clean out of your hand.
You can smell his beer-breath. A shock of white in your vision as you're hit in the face. And again. And again. My dagger! My knife!
You've lost it, too! You slap the dirt around you where it should be until you feel the cold flat of the blade. The man sits up and cocks back longer than before. You find the hilt and it feels like you're just punching him. He feels like the straw bags and hog-flanks of the years and years of practice. Working for this. Waiting for this. I'm still alive.
Focus. He starts trying to choke you. It's working. The sounds you're making are inhuman.
Below the ribs, below the ribs. You keep working at him and it starts to squelch: short little savage thrusts just above the belt. He cracks you again on the face and you swallow a tooth and you're hit once more. But this time it's much weaker.
It's like he's falling asleep on top of you. He leans lower and lower, his strikes coming less and less frequently. Bending down from his straddle, he sigh-groans in your ear and falls near-still. He coughs and splutters, breathing with great effort. Your midriff feels warm.
"Protect your Prince, Goddamn you!" It's van Gistel. His cursing drowns out the pitiful cries of the bandit-lord behind him. He grabs your assailant by the back of his shirt and heaves him off of you, then pulls you up with equal haste. It feels like he nearly pulled your arm out of its socket. "Are you hurt?" Your mind is blank.
"No. No."
A few men heed van Gistel's order and form a screen around you, giving you a moment to bend over and recover your saber.
It's hard to figure out who is fighting who. Scenes like yours play out as men grapple on the ground, clubbing and punching and stabbing each other. You remember the burgher lad in France for a split second, beaten to death on the cobbles. He was younger than you.
A staggering man cries out in a hoarse voice: "I can't find the boss! Where's the boss?!"
You can see him whipping his head about. "He's dead, idiot!" shouts one of your bodyguards.
"Indeed!" cries another. "We'll show you his head!" Everybody around you begins to taunt and jeer, drowning out Borkowicz's protests. In France, you could never hear what they were saying once they really got into the mix.
The scared bandit turns and runs. Those around him take note – one man's even struck down watching him go.
van Gistel cackles like a wild-man. "Yes! Scare the stupid bastards!"
Another runs. And another. And another. This is how it starts? You have seen this mindlessness, this all-encompassing, white-hot terror seize men from afar. Friend and foe alike face it; very few men are immune to cowardice as he watches his fellows abandon him.
All attention turns toward the village as a hunter's horn blares.
"Men!" you shriek, pushing your voice to its limit, "off the road! Off the road!"
A fighting retreat of sorts begins as a few bandits, drunk on fear or gorzała and unwilling to run, swing wildly at you and your men as you attempt to reenter the barley field. The screen of protectors leave you as a mere spectator and, for once, you don't feel left out as a fearsome headache sets in.
By the time you can hear them they're already quite close. A tight-packed hulk riding three horses wide, riders low like jockeys. A new chorus shouts the family motto over thundering hooves. Even a charge of some twenty men is enough to make the ground shake.
You hope that most of your men are out of the way as the horsemen roll through the battlefield, hacking at shoulderblades and scalps, knocking over the living and trampling the dead. The brigands who were still standing aren't anymore. The more sanguine of your men run back into the mix quickly to deliver mercy strokes and throat-slashes to the reeling survivors, weaving around the cavalry, who have lost some momentum.
You see the peacock feather in Marszowski's hat silhouetted against the sky. "Pursue! By God, boys, kill!" he shouts.
"Send them to Hell, chevalier!" you answer.
You realize that he can actually hear things. He waves his cap. "With pleasure, lord prince! At them!" He flicks his reins with a "kyah!" as his fellow riders roar in agreement. They weave around the executioners and leave you all choking on dust as they begin the pursuit.
"After them!" you order. You find van Gistel somehow and head toward the downed Borkowicz.
He's dead. After recovering a fallen lantern it's obvious; his unpinned leg is completely bloodsoaked. Your shot passed through him and into his now-heaving horse, which van Gistel quickly finishes off. You feel absolutely nothing but notice that you're not blinking, that you must do so willfully.
Van Gistel holds the lantern up to you and claps you on the shoulder. "Wondrous work on the ground, Your Serene Highness; it's a tough spot." You shake your head. He holds it up to your face and whistles. "And none can deny your valor!" You manage to laugh.
You need to catch up with your men. The first few moments of the run are merely down a dirt track, but then the bodies begin to appear. First loners, then pairs, then clusters. The cavalry are doing good work. You hear the boom of what must be the village's only musket before being able to make out a clamor up ahead in sight and sound, sounding more like cheering than the din of battle.
You and van Gistel drop into guards at the sight of men in commoners' clothing running straight at you. By the Cross!
You shout out in lordly Ruthenian: "I am your Prince!" their prince?
It doesn't matter; they're too happy. The serfs are ecstatic. Many gather around you crying tears of joy. "We will never fear the dark again! Saint Michael watched over us; not a single one of us lost!"
An extremely odd scene ensues. The women and girls immediately begin dancing and chanting stories and songs, starting to cook up the best feast they can muster, their elderly priest emerges to personally bless you and your men, flicking holy water with his aspergil. Yet something has taken over their menfolk – and even some of yours.
A pair of boys pass a severed head back and forth. The older men look like threshers as they head into the battle scene caving in heads with grainflails and quarterstaffs, breaking their walking sticks, pissing and spitting. Borkowicz is beheaded, emasculated, and after his severed hands are nailed to some trees burned in full view of all. Just like Coligny. Yet the atmosphere is downright festive.
It's a testament to their rage – that part is obvious. But you dimly wonder: when are the little people ever given such an outlet? Such a gift to, for once, not be whipped and robbed.
Indeed, not a single serf was killed or suffered worse than a scrape. Of your number, three will need a Christian burial, one man has been given his last rites, and two more are wounded badly. Not terrible, all things considered; just over one in ten.
Forty-seven brigands are counted out. The serfs reckon that's nearly all of them. Two are yours. One by mistake and one because you had to. You can't really think about it yet. They're burned in a heap and the leftovers buried in common. They smell like roast chicken and singed hair. It's the only time your stomach churns. A quick work and sloppy job – but none care.
Dawn rises and the serf's feast is enjoyed. Your muscles ache and you somehow possess an appetite despite the black work: fish soup with millet, black bread with ample butter, barley porridge made luxurious with honey or melted cheese, little mushroom dumplings, roasted game birds and smoked venison. They even slaughtered a pig and gave you and your men the belly cuts; it's charming. Never have you seen lofty Radziwiłł men fraternize with the little folk, yet here you all are. Soldiers all.
"Peasants hardly need training when they're on the defense," shrugs van Gistel. "They did quite well – yours are a martial people, Your Serene Highness."
Between the food and the excitement of last night, the men grow iron-weary and camp is set up quickly.
You're given a mirror and you look like hell. Your nose like a sausage, around your eyes and cheeks yellow and black, cuts and hematomas all around your hairline; his attempt to strangle you burst the blood vessels in your very red eyes.
"Are you ready, Your Serene Highness?" asks your barber-surgeon, having finally obtained some privacy. The men sleep like rocks and you cannot wait to join them. Marszowski and van Gistel stand behind him, somehow smiling and grimacing at the same time.
"Mhm."
"One, two, three–"
Pop! You hiss as he fixes your nose. None of the men wince. "And if I may see your mouth, Your Serene Highness." You show him. "That's good. Nice and clean. There are surgeons in Kraków and Wilno that can replace it with anything you'd like. Dead men's teeth, silver, gold, ivory. I'm told they lance the gums very little, Your Serene Highness." Ouch.
"That sounds rather good," you chuckle.
"I should get on that my own self!" says van Gistel, showing off his own missing tooth.
"And I'll get started right away on some compresses and poultices for the cuts and bruises, Your Serene Highness." He excuses himself.
With only van Gistel and Marszowski now, you drop the princeliness somewhat. Van Gistel may have just saved your life by drawing attention to you, and you find yourself feeling warmer and warmer towards him. "So, sirs – how'd I do?"
Van Gistel looks to Marszowski, who says: "quite well, lord prince, quite well indeed."
"Absolutely, Your Serene Highness," agrees van Gistel.
"Don't feed me a line," you point at them.
"No, truly," says Marszowski. "A very good stratagem."
"Killed two men, Your Serene Highness" smiles van Gistel, "and were loud enough that the half-deaf fellows could hear you and obey. That's a marvelous debut."
Your smile is partly forced. You feel proud yet you still can't understand how people can be so glib about this business. It was even worse in France. "I'm glad, but – I feel like I got punched in the face nine times," you laugh. So do they.
"I think it wound up being a truncheon or something," says Sir Marszowski with a smile. "I hope that Lady Sapieha likes you for more than just your looks, Your Serene Highness!"
You blow a raspberry. "In France, there was one of those wolf-men, you know what I'm talking about? He married one of the prettiest ladies-in-waiting, so I reckon I'll be alright!"
As usual, wine is delivered and conversation about old battles comes up. Marszowski reminiscing about fighting the Muscovites with their odd little wheeled fortifications, meeting cavalry with cavalry and the hussars naturally coming out on top. Van Gistel speaks with pride about the day he broke a Spanish Third with marksmen's fire and nimble sword-and-buckler men, darting under their pikes. Guts everywhere, he says. They tell you that you haven't seen anything yet.
"Five thousand, six thousand men," says Marszowski, looking up at the ceiling near-wistful. "Your mind can hardly wrap around it when you see it."
All a little drunk, they respectfully retire and you jokingly cross yourself at that.
All you want to do is sleep, after all. Your headache, by God. What a terrible headache. With your eyelids heavy and your tent at last vacated, you fall into deep and dreamless sleep. You will think about your choice at Kodeń tomorrow.
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IX: May 21, 1573-February 21, 1574. An Interlude.
- Location
- United States
You have arrived at Kodeń and the time has come. Joining Lord Sapieha for a dinner and catching concerned looks from Mariana at your smashed face, everybody dances around the important matter. Though you are heartily thanked for your purging of some scum from Sapieha lands.
Privately, you must tell Lord Paweł to his face. With a great inhale, you tell him that you will be contracting a marriage with…
[] His daughter, Lady Mariana Sapieha.
Your favorite, the precocious youngest daughter of old Paweł. A peculiar mix of mischief and ladylikeness, she saved you from an angry stag over the winter yet can easily speak of Petrarch and her favorite Northern painters alike. In terms of political, social, and economic gain, though: not much, though the Sapiehowie are no slouches.
[] Princess Elżbieta Ostrogska.
The once-fearsome daughter of Ruthenia's greatest magnate, a marriage to Princess Ostrogska is a marriage to a Princess indeed. She seems to be deep in melancholia, or at least unwilling to speak properly about herself until raised out of her suffocating situation. Pretty and not unlikable, though. The political and economic gain cannot be emphasized enough.
[] Lady Jadwiga Firlej.
You haven't met her but are told she's a spitting image of her jovial-yet-fierce father. A powerful interfaith marriage such as this would surely bring long-term Protestant support to your family – though it will always have its limits. Also of middling financial gain; a gamble, a shot in the dark, but perhaps a good one.
The wedding feast was marvelous; the realm awaits the arrival of the Frenchman, his representatives swearing to the Confederation and the drawn-up, Liberty-defending Pacta Conventa shortly after your departure from Warszawa. His marriage to old Princess Anna is guaranteed, and he should be due to arrive by New Year's. The months roll on as you settle into married life.
Yet something is a little wrong. Maybe more than a little. You sleep less and less, the nightmares come more and more frequently, you need wine at breakfast to settle the tightness in your chest and you cannot stand the smell or taste of chicken anymore. Summer thunderclaps make you jump. You develop frequent headaches.
You think of the men who were lost and feel like Daniel in the lion's den. You knew at least all of their clan names, and one older man – the one who lingered, you visited his deathbed – he was one of the kindest of your father's men in your childhood. The musket balls whizzed right past you; your assailant died on top of you before he could knock you unconscious or break the bone in your throat. Why me?
You soldier on, doing your duty and telling yourself that you must live, that God is testing you and cleansing you with affliction of the mind and body. He is keeping you for something, and you're not quite sure what. It keeps you pensive, fearful, and you try to devote yourself to good works when politics don't call.
You end up spending most of your time with your wife and entourage at…
[] Dubinki and Wilno.
Reacquaint yourself with the familial estates and with Lithuania at large. Probe into Livonia.
[] Kraków.
Keep your finger on the pulse of the court, Senate, and the ongoing politics and intrigue.
Ever since the death of your horse on that hunting trip you've found yourself wanting a new one, a proper one, not just some substitute. You visit all of the city's stables in search of a reliable, handsome beast.
You eventually settle on a good, piebald stallion. You decide to name him Sztylet – "Dagger" – in honor of your lifesaving tool. He's a…
[] destrier.
A great horse of cool-ish temperament, suitable for charges and the heaviest armor – as well as armor for the horse itself. Its precursor breeds were the favorite of Dark Age knights and their descendents are likewise loved by heavy cavalrymen across Christendom.
[ ] courser.
Nimble and hot-blooded, a courser carries less prestige but is still a fine horse. Better for speed and light armor on account of its slighter build and smaller size, it would be the perfect horse for fighting Turks and Tatars, who prefer a breed of a similar sort.
Another matter of settled life is the crystallization of your faith. With France and the skirmish weighing heavily on you, you need a permanent confessor.
You picked a friar of…
Note that this may affect your predisposition to patronizing monastics down the line.
[] The Jesuits.
The Jesuits are an order of contradictions. Prizing learning and humanism, they travel intrepidly to the furthest corners of the Earth to learn of its people and spread the word of God. Yet they also are the strongest proponents of the decisions of Trent, and are highly conservative on that matter. Without a doubt, Protestants will give you the side-eye.
[] The Dominicans.
The black friars of Saint Dominic, Dominicans are renowned for their Marian devotion and a mystic, Christ-centric outlook, not dissimilar from their more firebrand Carmelite cousins. A Dominican confessor would likely recommend lots of prayer and meditation, in an attempt to reveal divine mysteries and induce ecstatic experiences. Meanwhile, as a collective, Dominicans are known for their emphasis on education of the masses and evangelism, not unlike the Jesuits.
[] The Franciscans.
Emphasizing kindness and humility toward all living things, Franciscans lead the charge on modesty and alms for the poor among the monastics. Elevating the Eucharist and Mass to an awestruck celebration of the Savior's charity, they are perhaps the most emotional and least cerebral of the orders listed here. Ironically, though, their passion leads to frequent collaboration with the Inquisition and in that regard share the zeal of the Jesuits.
[] The Benedictines.
Diligence and a strict law define the Benedictines, who toil on the Earth to rest in Heaven and are renowned for their productive and industrious monasteries. Such a hardworking nature will surely be advocated for by a Benedictine confessor, who perhaps may be a pinch severe, likely advising you to keep pure through material restraint and the following of the Rule.
[] Just a regular priest, please.
Keep it simple. You never were all that interested in the monastics, anyway.
Life proceeded sleepily enough for the rest of the year til December, when word began to spread of the Frenchman's imminent arrival. Nobles gather at the Imperial border to see him and his purportedly gargantuan convoy, but you ultimately first see him at Kraków, looking as handsome and dastardly as ever.
Coronation Day looms as tall as the new king. You're getting a bit worried already. Word will have traveled of your stunt at the Confederation, and he will most certainly remember you from France.
Best of luck, lord prince.
Privately, you must tell Lord Paweł to his face. With a great inhale, you tell him that you will be contracting a marriage with…
[] His daughter, Lady Mariana Sapieha.
Your favorite, the precocious youngest daughter of old Paweł. A peculiar mix of mischief and ladylikeness, she saved you from an angry stag over the winter yet can easily speak of Petrarch and her favorite Northern painters alike. In terms of political, social, and economic gain, though: not much, though the Sapiehowie are no slouches.
[] Princess Elżbieta Ostrogska.
The once-fearsome daughter of Ruthenia's greatest magnate, a marriage to Princess Ostrogska is a marriage to a Princess indeed. She seems to be deep in melancholia, or at least unwilling to speak properly about herself until raised out of her suffocating situation. Pretty and not unlikable, though. The political and economic gain cannot be emphasized enough.
[] Lady Jadwiga Firlej.
You haven't met her but are told she's a spitting image of her jovial-yet-fierce father. A powerful interfaith marriage such as this would surely bring long-term Protestant support to your family – though it will always have its limits. Also of middling financial gain; a gamble, a shot in the dark, but perhaps a good one.
The wedding feast was marvelous; the realm awaits the arrival of the Frenchman, his representatives swearing to the Confederation and the drawn-up, Liberty-defending Pacta Conventa shortly after your departure from Warszawa. His marriage to old Princess Anna is guaranteed, and he should be due to arrive by New Year's. The months roll on as you settle into married life.
Yet something is a little wrong. Maybe more than a little. You sleep less and less, the nightmares come more and more frequently, you need wine at breakfast to settle the tightness in your chest and you cannot stand the smell or taste of chicken anymore. Summer thunderclaps make you jump. You develop frequent headaches.
You think of the men who were lost and feel like Daniel in the lion's den. You knew at least all of their clan names, and one older man – the one who lingered, you visited his deathbed – he was one of the kindest of your father's men in your childhood. The musket balls whizzed right past you; your assailant died on top of you before he could knock you unconscious or break the bone in your throat. Why me?
You soldier on, doing your duty and telling yourself that you must live, that God is testing you and cleansing you with affliction of the mind and body. He is keeping you for something, and you're not quite sure what. It keeps you pensive, fearful, and you try to devote yourself to good works when politics don't call.
You end up spending most of your time with your wife and entourage at…
[] Dubinki and Wilno.
Reacquaint yourself with the familial estates and with Lithuania at large. Probe into Livonia.
[] Kraków.
Keep your finger on the pulse of the court, Senate, and the ongoing politics and intrigue.
Ever since the death of your horse on that hunting trip you've found yourself wanting a new one, a proper one, not just some substitute. You visit all of the city's stables in search of a reliable, handsome beast.
You eventually settle on a good, piebald stallion. You decide to name him Sztylet – "Dagger" – in honor of your lifesaving tool. He's a…
[] destrier.
A great horse of cool-ish temperament, suitable for charges and the heaviest armor – as well as armor for the horse itself. Its precursor breeds were the favorite of Dark Age knights and their descendents are likewise loved by heavy cavalrymen across Christendom.
[ ] courser.
Nimble and hot-blooded, a courser carries less prestige but is still a fine horse. Better for speed and light armor on account of its slighter build and smaller size, it would be the perfect horse for fighting Turks and Tatars, who prefer a breed of a similar sort.
Another matter of settled life is the crystallization of your faith. With France and the skirmish weighing heavily on you, you need a permanent confessor.
You picked a friar of…
Note that this may affect your predisposition to patronizing monastics down the line.
[] The Jesuits.
The Jesuits are an order of contradictions. Prizing learning and humanism, they travel intrepidly to the furthest corners of the Earth to learn of its people and spread the word of God. Yet they also are the strongest proponents of the decisions of Trent, and are highly conservative on that matter. Without a doubt, Protestants will give you the side-eye.
[] The Dominicans.
The black friars of Saint Dominic, Dominicans are renowned for their Marian devotion and a mystic, Christ-centric outlook, not dissimilar from their more firebrand Carmelite cousins. A Dominican confessor would likely recommend lots of prayer and meditation, in an attempt to reveal divine mysteries and induce ecstatic experiences. Meanwhile, as a collective, Dominicans are known for their emphasis on education of the masses and evangelism, not unlike the Jesuits.
[] The Franciscans.
Emphasizing kindness and humility toward all living things, Franciscans lead the charge on modesty and alms for the poor among the monastics. Elevating the Eucharist and Mass to an awestruck celebration of the Savior's charity, they are perhaps the most emotional and least cerebral of the orders listed here. Ironically, though, their passion leads to frequent collaboration with the Inquisition and in that regard share the zeal of the Jesuits.
[] The Benedictines.
Diligence and a strict law define the Benedictines, who toil on the Earth to rest in Heaven and are renowned for their productive and industrious monasteries. Such a hardworking nature will surely be advocated for by a Benedictine confessor, who perhaps may be a pinch severe, likely advising you to keep pure through material restraint and the following of the Rule.
[] Just a regular priest, please.
Keep it simple. You never were all that interested in the monastics, anyway.
Life proceeded sleepily enough for the rest of the year til December, when word began to spread of the Frenchman's imminent arrival. Nobles gather at the Imperial border to see him and his purportedly gargantuan convoy, but you ultimately first see him at Kraków, looking as handsome and dastardly as ever.
Coronation Day looms as tall as the new king. You're getting a bit worried already. Word will have traveled of your stunt at the Confederation, and he will most certainly remember you from France.
Best of luck, lord prince.
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- Location
- United States
...or I could just get The Fever and write it all right now. Worry not -- we'll have a married life mini and maybe even another one, too!
That being said, this may be a longer cycle as I want to attach a short story or two as I just mentioned, and I anticipate a longer Part X when it comes.
Plans recommended! Much love for ongoing support, by the way, my belated Valentines.
That being said, this may be a longer cycle as I want to attach a short story or two as I just mentioned, and I anticipate a longer Part X when it comes.
Plans recommended! Much love for ongoing support, by the way, my belated Valentines.
- Location
- United States
[X] Plan: Hail to the King
-[X] Princess Elżbieta Ostrogska.
-[X] Kraków.
-[X] destrier.
-[X] The Jesuits.
Given that the oncoming monarch isn't going to be positively inclined toward our plucky protagonist, best to ensure we're not easily flicked off the board. Our plan should be to endure our year of royal displeasure, and then profit maximally when the beloved king slips out the backdoor.
-[X] Princess Elżbieta Ostrogska.
-[X] Kraków.
-[X] destrier.
-[X] The Jesuits.
Given that the oncoming monarch isn't going to be positively inclined toward our plucky protagonist, best to ensure we're not easily flicked off the board. Our plan should be to endure our year of royal displeasure, and then profit maximally when the beloved king slips out the backdoor.
A note on Polish Jesuits
A word seems to be eaten here.
[X] His daughter, Lady Mariana Sapieha.
[X] Dubinki and Wilno.
Let's see if deciding to stay at home and marrying our favorite will cure our nascent PTSD.
Can't decide on which horse or monastic order to vote for, will add them later.
- Location
- United States
oops! you are correct with the missing word. will edit momentarily
[X] Plan: Easy Living
- [X] His daughter, Lady Mariana Sapieha.
- [X] Dubinki and Wilno.
- [X] courser.
- [X] The Benedictines
We are wounded, we are mentally traumatized, we are developing an alcohol addiction, and the update strongly suggests that we're close to a mental breakdown:
It's thus in our personal and career interest to take a break.
I'm open to considering other advisors or brides, but not on staying home.
- [X] His daughter, Lady Mariana Sapieha.
- [X] Dubinki and Wilno.
- [X] courser.
- [X] The Benedictines
Normally I would be down to be engage in political aggression, I need to bring this up: we are in no shape, mental or physical, to be in high-stress situations right now.
We are wounded, we are mentally traumatized, we are developing an alcohol addiction, and the update strongly suggests that we're close to a mental breakdown:
I do not think that the high-stress environment of Krakow will do is any good right now. Doubly so because the incoming King is our personal enemy, and we are his.
It's thus in our personal and career interest to take a break.
I'm open to considering other advisors or brides, but not on staying home.
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Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
In those times, casualties sustained in combat were usually negligeable when compared to the slaughter during the subsequent rout. It's far easier to cut down a fleeing opponent by the dozens, than one who's defending himself properly. No unit does the job better, than cavalry, thanks to its speed.
It was very important for the peasants to take part in the fight in some capacity. It gives them a sense, that they contributed to the defense of their homes. Cutting off the enemy seemed to have done that.
Yup, such things did happen and quite frequently in fact, especially to a hated enemy or a member of a different faith. The people were far less sensitive, than now. For instance, many poor nobles from Masovia considered breaking a Catholic fast a far more serious sin, than committing murder.
To be fair, the Pacta Conventa are the promises of the new King, that he agreed to fulfill while on the throne, signed by him and the representatives of the nobility that elected him. Much like promises made by politicians today, but here they are formalized in a document. Such things as financing a university, bringing his own money into the treasury, paying the debts of his predecessor, forming an army to defend Ukraine, good relations with France, and so forth and so forth. The Henrican Articles, the second document he signs, is the one were he agrees to maintain religious peace, uphold the laws and privileges of the nobility, etc.
Fun fact: Jan Zborowski, one of the men sent to Paris to inform him about the election, told the Prince right to his face, that if he doesn't confirm the Warsaw Confederation, he won't be crowned as King. Second fact: our dear Lord Jan Firlej caused a commotion during the coronation ceremony in Kraków. He approached the King during the whole thing with documents guaranteeing religious freedom and told him: "Sign, King, you promised!" in front of everyone. So the poor sod had to do it in public.
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I'm going with the Benedictine for a more austere mentor, someone who will help us kick our alcohol habit and get back into physical and mental shape.
And the I picked the course because it seems like the more relevant horse for us in the immediate future. We'll be fighting on the steppe and in forests against Russians and Tatars, so it helps to be ready for that.
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
[X] Plan: The Family
-[X] Princess Elżbieta Ostrogska.
-[X] Dubinki and Wilno.
-[X] destrier.
-[X] The Franciscans
We are a Radziwiłł and Radziwiłłs don't marry for love but out of political expediency. Forming a bond with the powerful Ostrogski family seems to be a good deal. Firlej is too much of a Crownlander to be of any significance in Lithuania. I say we stay back in our seat of power, try to get back on our feet, rest and start planning on joining the party in Livonia, which is an important thing for the Grand Duchy. A horse, that can carry a man in heavy armour is the go-to choice for a rich noble. Powerful men still went to battle clad in steel, that would make a medieval knight proud. As to a confessor, the Franciscans are my choice. By far the most lenient and supportive Order I can think of and we need a gentle voice to ease our mind.
-[X] Princess Elżbieta Ostrogska.
-[X] Dubinki and Wilno.
-[X] destrier.
-[X] The Franciscans
We are a Radziwiłł and Radziwiłłs don't marry for love but out of political expediency. Forming a bond with the powerful Ostrogski family seems to be a good deal. Firlej is too much of a Crownlander to be of any significance in Lithuania. I say we stay back in our seat of power, try to get back on our feet, rest and start planning on joining the party in Livonia, which is an important thing for the Grand Duchy. A horse, that can carry a man in heavy armour is the go-to choice for a rich noble. Powerful men still went to battle clad in steel, that would make a medieval knight proud. As to a confessor, the Franciscans are my choice. By far the most lenient and supportive Order I can think of and we need a gentle voice to ease our mind.
[X] Marianna Sapieha
[X] Dubinki and Wilno.
[X] Destrier
[X] The Dominicans
[X] Dubinki and Wilno.
[X] Destrier
[X] The Dominicans