Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest
- Thread starter Rolman
- Start date
- Mature Historic
XVI. July 21-August 3, 1574. Witebsk, Grand Duchy of Lithuania.
- Location
- United States
Lord Kmita accepted his great big bag of Muscovite silver with a gleaming smile that lifted up his Zaporozhian mustache – nothing like a parting gift (the cynical would say bribe) for one of the finest spies in the realm. Even if he himself spied on you, he may prove to be an invaluable friend down the line, and you're certain that you had won his respect through deeds alone. He'll stay behind to manage Orsza and its surroundings in your absence.
It only makes sense that, as soon as the news of the King's flight reaches Moskwa, things would heat up again. Especially with tensions so inflamed by the battling and spy games in the Smoleńsk-Orsza direction. Feeling some amount of culpability, you ride north through the summer birch groves to Witebsk, a modest yet imposing city – she bristles with fortifications – built in the wooden Ruthenian style.
The Voivode waits before his retinue outside the city gates. He's not smiling, though his face bears laugh lines like he should be. You see some gray in his hair, peeking out from under his fur hat. "Your Serene Highness, I am the Voivode and Grand Lithuanian Podstoli Stanisław Pac of the Gozdawa and, respectfully, you ought to know that by now. It's been…" he counts on his fingers. "Four, five months, with only Kmita sending me letters. I could have sent down royal troops to handle your problems – what's the meaning of your silence?"
He's abrupt. You're struck silent for a moment. "And His Serene Highness the Prince Krzysztof is in the field around Połock. He was kind enough to let me know that," he adds. "There's about to be a war on, by God's bones, and Your Serene Highness is in Smoleńsk starting drunken brawls and lighting his coattails on fire." He shakes his head. "Which certainly didn't help things. Christ almighty, sir."
Ugh, a blasphemer. And he refused to use the correct styling just now. It seems like proper cooperation is at risk before it may even begin. This is his Voivodeship, but you're his superior in terms of title. Therefore, you reckon he thinks you arrogant.
[] "I meant no disrespect, my lord. I was caught up in management and fending off their raids; I simply hadn't the presence of mind."
Smooth things over, even if it means self-deprecation.
[] "Did I or did I not handle my sector well, though, my lord?"
You try not to sound too combative, but you feel a little righteous thorn in your gut. You didn't speak to him because you didn't need his help.
[] "Do not speak to a Prince in this way, sir. Allow me to explain."
Insolent man. You're his better in order of precedence, even if he's a voivode. Protect your honor, even if it means risking a confrontation.
[] "I figured Lord Kmita was our go-between, my lord – and he was. I meant no harm in it."
A deflection, but you truly didn't think he would take offense.
It only makes sense that, as soon as the news of the King's flight reaches Moskwa, things would heat up again. Especially with tensions so inflamed by the battling and spy games in the Smoleńsk-Orsza direction. Feeling some amount of culpability, you ride north through the summer birch groves to Witebsk, a modest yet imposing city – she bristles with fortifications – built in the wooden Ruthenian style.
The Voivode waits before his retinue outside the city gates. He's not smiling, though his face bears laugh lines like he should be. You see some gray in his hair, peeking out from under his fur hat. "Your Serene Highness, I am the Voivode and Grand Lithuanian Podstoli Stanisław Pac of the Gozdawa and, respectfully, you ought to know that by now. It's been…" he counts on his fingers. "Four, five months, with only Kmita sending me letters. I could have sent down royal troops to handle your problems – what's the meaning of your silence?"
He's abrupt. You're struck silent for a moment. "And His Serene Highness the Prince Krzysztof is in the field around Połock. He was kind enough to let me know that," he adds. "There's about to be a war on, by God's bones, and Your Serene Highness is in Smoleńsk starting drunken brawls and lighting his coattails on fire." He shakes his head. "Which certainly didn't help things. Christ almighty, sir."
Ugh, a blasphemer. And he refused to use the correct styling just now. It seems like proper cooperation is at risk before it may even begin. This is his Voivodeship, but you're his superior in terms of title. Therefore, you reckon he thinks you arrogant.
[] "I meant no disrespect, my lord. I was caught up in management and fending off their raids; I simply hadn't the presence of mind."
Smooth things over, even if it means self-deprecation.
[] "Did I or did I not handle my sector well, though, my lord?"
You try not to sound too combative, but you feel a little righteous thorn in your gut. You didn't speak to him because you didn't need his help.
[] "Do not speak to a Prince in this way, sir. Allow me to explain."
Insolent man. You're his better in order of precedence, even if he's a voivode. Protect your honor, even if it means risking a confrontation.
[] "I figured Lord Kmita was our go-between, my lord – and he was. I meant no harm in it."
A deflection, but you truly didn't think he would take offense.
“Thieves’ Ashes.” July 26, 1574. North of Orsza, Witebsk Voivodeship, Grand Duchy of Lithuania.
- Location
- United States
They never had a chance. And, remarkably, it even seemed like they were trying.
The cleared forest's been turned to one great burnt-out campfire. Blackened posts jut out of the ground, the burnt remains of canvas tents rest crumpled on the ground. Thirty-four men's heads and a few women's are arranged in a neat row, eye sockets filled with maggots and bloated tongues protruding, their charred bodies heaped up behind them. The smell of smoke and rot hangs thick in the air.
One of your men finds a parchment nailed to a nearby tree, its Ruthenian text almost rendered illegible by raindrop-splotches and a shaky hand:
With apologies to God and His Serene Highness the Prince castellan, we could not… …such men and their whores… …themselves laid waste to… …thus we have committed the sin of murder, may the Lord show mercy… …but to live without avenging such wanton murder would bring great shame.
You shake your head and order Christian burials. The World has won again. Or were these men condemned from the start? God's justice may be a foggy thing indeed.
The cleared forest's been turned to one great burnt-out campfire. Blackened posts jut out of the ground, the burnt remains of canvas tents rest crumpled on the ground. Thirty-four men's heads and a few women's are arranged in a neat row, eye sockets filled with maggots and bloated tongues protruding, their charred bodies heaped up behind them. The smell of smoke and rot hangs thick in the air.
One of your men finds a parchment nailed to a nearby tree, its Ruthenian text almost rendered illegible by raindrop-splotches and a shaky hand:
With apologies to God and His Serene Highness the Prince castellan, we could not… …such men and their whores… …themselves laid waste to… …thus we have committed the sin of murder, may the Lord show mercy… …but to live without avenging such wanton murder would bring great shame.
You shake your head and order Christian burials. The World has won again. Or were these men condemned from the start? God's justice may be a foggy thing indeed.
- Location
- United States
sorry for the shortness despite the wait. consequences consequences consequences -- for this, you get a "quicktime event." teamwork makes the dream work; i gave you guys like three chances to contact him.
Also I'm running a janky little Renaissance wargame now. Wanna play?
Also I'm running a janky little Renaissance wargame now. Wanna play?
[X] "I meant no disrespect, my lord. I was caught up in management and fending off their raids; I simply hadn't the presence of mind."
I'd rather he think of us as a callow youth to be sternly directed lest we make a bigger mess of things than the realm can handle.
It helps that this is the truth of our character too.
I'd rather he think of us as a callow youth to be sternly directed lest we make a bigger mess of things than the realm can handle.
It helps that this is the truth of our character too.
- Pronouns
- He
[X] "I meant no disrespect, my lord. I was caught up in management and fending off their raids; I simply hadn't the presence of mind."
Kir on the House of Pac
Kir the Wizard
The Sun King
- Location
- Ukraine
[X] "I figured Lord Kmita was our go-between, my lord – and he was. I meant no harm in it."
No need to harm either of our honors over a communication mistake. If he escalates it further via "you DARE speak to me through some lordling, and not on your own!?", then we go full fantasy on him.
Although, note that the House of Pac, while not yet at the height of their power, is going strong. They can rival us if not in power (yet), then in longevity: like us, they can highlight a 14th-century nobleman relative known to the chronicle (one Kymunt(as), also like us, they have their origins in the original Baltic Lithuanians, though by the time of Kymunt's grandson they, too, have "Belarusified", going by the use of patronymic Dawkschevych). They are not quite as princely though, and that may be the reason for the voivode's disparaging of our proper rank.
No need to harm either of our honors over a communication mistake. If he escalates it further via "you DARE speak to me through some lordling, and not on your own!?", then we go full fantasy on him.
Although, note that the House of Pac, while not yet at the height of their power, is going strong. They can rival us if not in power (yet), then in longevity: like us, they can highlight a 14th-century nobleman relative known to the chronicle (one Kymunt(as), also like us, they have their origins in the original Baltic Lithuanians, though by the time of Kymunt's grandson they, too, have "Belarusified", going by the use of patronymic Dawkschevych). They are not quite as princely though, and that may be the reason for the voivode's disparaging of our proper rank.
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This is related to bonding those Ruthenians as serfs right? Should have just hung them then, innocents (judging from the female heads) were actually killed with the serf choice.
- Location
- United States
The locals were not very happy about the marauders moving in next door, yes.
also, 72 hours! need to get my momentum back
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
Bonding people right next to their former victims and close to the Muscovite border?
What could possibly go wrong?
This is a brutal world and brutal actions are the standard.
Wait, why were they settled in the same place they terrorised? I thought they'd be split up in different villages back in the family lands.
[X] "I figured Lord Kmita was our go-between, my lord – and he was. I meant no harm in it."
- Location
- United States
hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm yeah, yeah fair point..... yeah didn't quite think that through....
however, it was my intent from the get-go, however silly -- I did say "in the middle of Ruthenia" in its informational blurb, rather than "shipping them to Lithuania" or some such.
if it's any consolation, it was not a choice that would have had questing implications; it's just one of those moral litmus tests I like to throw in from time to time -- and Stas' idealism won again, so, if you like him that way, you "passed!" The average, mildly callous IRL noble of the period totally would have strung them up
[X] "I figured Lord Kmita was our go-between, my lord – and he was. I meant no harm in it."
[X] "I figured Lord Kmita was our go-between, my lord – and he was. I meant no harm in it."
Fuck this guy, no need to apologize.
Fuck this guy, no need to apologize.
[X] "I figured Lord Kmita was our go-between, my lord – and he was. I meant no harm in it."
Rolen von Keng
Sleeping Green Bear
- Location
- The Wilderness
I assume the vote is finished?
XVII. August 3-6, 1574. Witebsk to Uła, Grand Duchy of Lithuania.
- Location
- United States
"I figured Lord Kmita was our go-between – and he was. I meant no harm in it." You're too taken aback to properly bristle at the man's rudeness.
"Well," says Voivode Pac, "I'm inclined to say better late than never, Your Serene Highness, were it not for the import of where we reside, the meaning of the land entrusted to us." He grips his reins tightly. "Do you not understand that Orsza is a part of the Voivodeship? My Voivodeship? Your title is your title, Your Serene Highness, you are a prince of the Empire and of the highest birth, it is true, but…"
Alright.
"I showed up, my lord," you reply, now feeling your lungs inflate with heat. Who is he fooling, to make Orsza out to be some sort of jewel of Ruthenia? "You and I both know that senatorial castellancies are merely gifts from the King – governing optional. And still I governed."
The Voivode scoffs and blows a raspberry. "Yes, yes, Your Serene Highness, act as if you're here because of your own good will, guided by conscience the way you were at the Sejm: everyone knows that the most noble prince is here because he fell afoul of the King. Nothing more. In less than a week you could have come here, and still you didn't," he says with a pucker. "Making it into your own little fief, is that it?"
"Were Lord Kmita here, he would speak highly of my tenure," you say. Because of that bag of silver? No, no, on real merit. "The enemy's been driven back over the river – hopefully for the rest of the year – and I never took to bribery, nor false taxation, nor abusing the lordlings and little people." You know what these middling types tend to think of Radziwiłłowie.
He scowls. You rack your brain regarding anything you know of him. Pac-Pac-Pac-Pac, that's a familiar name, that's a familiar… "Are you not the Count Grand Marshal's brother-in-law?" you ask.
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"You know he is a great friend of my family, and a most noble and courageous soldier, and…"
You halt; Voivode Pac is turning red in the face. Even the horses seem to sense it, as Sztylet snorts and the Voivode's stomps once. "Your Serene Highness, you don't seem to understand. I am a friend of the family. His Serene Highness the Prince Hetman Krzysztof and I have worked closely and harmoniously for years."
You really do not want this to escalate. You've just met the man, and there's no use in having someone hurt or killed over a slip of the tongue, over a jab gone too far. You can smell the words "contest of honor" on the wind. What is something you can say to show this man you're no snot-nosed pup of a magnate? Well, tell him what you know. After all, it was one of the family's finest hours.
"Orsza is where my grandfather and I reckon your father or grandfather, too, clogged the Dniepr with barbarian corpses, for God delivered that day to the righteous." He's listening! "Sixty years next month. I know where I am, what I've walked into. And, so, I was focused."
"Hmph." The Voivode tilts his head slightly. "Hmph-hmph. At least you know where you come from, Your Serene Highness. Now, come and enjoy this city's hospitality." He seems… Begrudging.
"Thank you, my lord."
And, indeed, the whole affair is terse. Pac explains that your area of the Voivodeship faced the heaviest raiding this spring and summer, rather than the usual probing attacks (which still occurred, of course) around Witebsk and in Połockie Voivodeship – he attributes it to the work of local lords, likely operating on behalf of your old mark, Prince Szujski, rather than orders from their Caesar. The lack of meaningful information from Kmita's spies suggests as much – and that's all the Voivode is willing to tell you.
With the first crops of barley and rye ripening and the border quiet for weeks, Voivode Pac hustles you out of his city out of its westward gate with a reluctant well-wishing. There wasn't much to be done to win him over, but at least you earned his respect with just a handful of words.
Trumpets sound on the road to Uła, running parallel to the left bank of the Dźwina; a dustcloud headed by Radziwiłł black and yellow moves toward you at some speed. And he rides well ahead, before the rest, wearing a gleaming Western breastplate over a bright red żupan, peacock feather in his cap making him look even taller. You smile widely. Dear brother, what'll it be this time?
You can see the beginnings of his grinning face as he barrels toward you on his beautiful black stallion. Krzysztof draws his sword and thrusts upward, almost taking off his own ear, raising his cap over his head at swordpoint. And he slides out of the saddle to the left! It's a smooth, graceful motion; he hangs off his horse perpendicular to it, holding taut at the core, extending his sword arm as his cap bounces up and down, up and down. It's almost like he's standing on a wall.
He's nearly upon you, and you can hear your entourage clamoring to move out of the way. "Catch, brother!"
He flicks his saber and his cap flies at you. You stoop down and catch the dropping hat in the nick of time, just around your stirrup, almost pulling something in your shoulder. "Yes!" he shouts.
His horse rears up as he nearly crashes into your convoy, overshooting you. "Woah now, woah now!" he pats his horse's neck and looks back at you. You toss him his cap, and you shake your head. "Thank you very much," he says. "You know I couldn't help myself."
"You never can, can you?" You both dismount and hug; he pats you hard on the back. "I hope you've been walking with Christ."
"Walking with Christ," Krzysztof repeats, sounding mildly incredulous, but you're too happy to care. He breaks the embrace and leans back, taking a look at you. "It's been months, still getting used to you being home, honestly." His face lights up, and he flicks your left cheek. "Forgot all about that ear! You fighter, you." He waggles a couple stubby knucklebones at you. "Family tradition, no? It's a shame you ran afoul of Voivode Pac; he's a good man, if not a little sour, as you likely saw."
"I didn't think he'd take offense at my not visiting," you shrug. "It wasn't like I didn't want to collaborate; I just didn't."
"Ah, well, nevermind him. I'll talk to him sometime – I've mainly been out here, countering the dogs, burning village for village. It'll learn them, I hope." He claps you on the shoulder. "Heard you had yourself a great dance! Took some boyar prisoner."
"Oh, well, it was the men, not me, I can't take credit–"
"Nonsense!"
"Well, I gave Lord Kmita the ransom money. I'd have floundered without him out there."
"And I'm sure that friendly spider appreciated it!" laughs Krzysztof. "Nothing like sending him back to Czarnobyl a little bit heavier. Smart move. Didn't think you had it in you!"
"Well, I really did intend for it to be a gift and–"
"Gift-shmift. A gift is just a friendly bribe, isn't it?" he smiles. "Politicking without even knowing it, a consummate Radziwiłł. I missed you, brother!"
"Likewise, likewise." You bounce a little on your toes. "Well – to Uła?"
Krzysztof starts for his horse at your words. "I'll race you!"
[] "Very well!"
[] You click your tongue. "Fine."
[] "As if I've got a chance," you laugh.
[] "Come now, let us take our time and talk."
"Well," says Voivode Pac, "I'm inclined to say better late than never, Your Serene Highness, were it not for the import of where we reside, the meaning of the land entrusted to us." He grips his reins tightly. "Do you not understand that Orsza is a part of the Voivodeship? My Voivodeship? Your title is your title, Your Serene Highness, you are a prince of the Empire and of the highest birth, it is true, but…"
Alright.
"I showed up, my lord," you reply, now feeling your lungs inflate with heat. Who is he fooling, to make Orsza out to be some sort of jewel of Ruthenia? "You and I both know that senatorial castellancies are merely gifts from the King – governing optional. And still I governed."
The Voivode scoffs and blows a raspberry. "Yes, yes, Your Serene Highness, act as if you're here because of your own good will, guided by conscience the way you were at the Sejm: everyone knows that the most noble prince is here because he fell afoul of the King. Nothing more. In less than a week you could have come here, and still you didn't," he says with a pucker. "Making it into your own little fief, is that it?"
"Were Lord Kmita here, he would speak highly of my tenure," you say. Because of that bag of silver? No, no, on real merit. "The enemy's been driven back over the river – hopefully for the rest of the year – and I never took to bribery, nor false taxation, nor abusing the lordlings and little people." You know what these middling types tend to think of Radziwiłłowie.
He scowls. You rack your brain regarding anything you know of him. Pac-Pac-Pac-Pac, that's a familiar name, that's a familiar… "Are you not the Count Grand Marshal's brother-in-law?" you ask.
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"You know he is a great friend of my family, and a most noble and courageous soldier, and…"
You halt; Voivode Pac is turning red in the face. Even the horses seem to sense it, as Sztylet snorts and the Voivode's stomps once. "Your Serene Highness, you don't seem to understand. I am a friend of the family. His Serene Highness the Prince Hetman Krzysztof and I have worked closely and harmoniously for years."
You really do not want this to escalate. You've just met the man, and there's no use in having someone hurt or killed over a slip of the tongue, over a jab gone too far. You can smell the words "contest of honor" on the wind. What is something you can say to show this man you're no snot-nosed pup of a magnate? Well, tell him what you know. After all, it was one of the family's finest hours.
"Orsza is where my grandfather and I reckon your father or grandfather, too, clogged the Dniepr with barbarian corpses, for God delivered that day to the righteous." He's listening! "Sixty years next month. I know where I am, what I've walked into. And, so, I was focused."
"Hmph." The Voivode tilts his head slightly. "Hmph-hmph. At least you know where you come from, Your Serene Highness. Now, come and enjoy this city's hospitality." He seems… Begrudging.
"Thank you, my lord."
And, indeed, the whole affair is terse. Pac explains that your area of the Voivodeship faced the heaviest raiding this spring and summer, rather than the usual probing attacks (which still occurred, of course) around Witebsk and in Połockie Voivodeship – he attributes it to the work of local lords, likely operating on behalf of your old mark, Prince Szujski, rather than orders from their Caesar. The lack of meaningful information from Kmita's spies suggests as much – and that's all the Voivode is willing to tell you.
With the first crops of barley and rye ripening and the border quiet for weeks, Voivode Pac hustles you out of his city out of its westward gate with a reluctant well-wishing. There wasn't much to be done to win him over, but at least you earned his respect with just a handful of words.
Trumpets sound on the road to Uła, running parallel to the left bank of the Dźwina; a dustcloud headed by Radziwiłł black and yellow moves toward you at some speed. And he rides well ahead, before the rest, wearing a gleaming Western breastplate over a bright red żupan, peacock feather in his cap making him look even taller. You smile widely. Dear brother, what'll it be this time?
You can see the beginnings of his grinning face as he barrels toward you on his beautiful black stallion. Krzysztof draws his sword and thrusts upward, almost taking off his own ear, raising his cap over his head at swordpoint. And he slides out of the saddle to the left! It's a smooth, graceful motion; he hangs off his horse perpendicular to it, holding taut at the core, extending his sword arm as his cap bounces up and down, up and down. It's almost like he's standing on a wall.
He's nearly upon you, and you can hear your entourage clamoring to move out of the way. "Catch, brother!"
He flicks his saber and his cap flies at you. You stoop down and catch the dropping hat in the nick of time, just around your stirrup, almost pulling something in your shoulder. "Yes!" he shouts.
His horse rears up as he nearly crashes into your convoy, overshooting you. "Woah now, woah now!" he pats his horse's neck and looks back at you. You toss him his cap, and you shake your head. "Thank you very much," he says. "You know I couldn't help myself."
"You never can, can you?" You both dismount and hug; he pats you hard on the back. "I hope you've been walking with Christ."
"Walking with Christ," Krzysztof repeats, sounding mildly incredulous, but you're too happy to care. He breaks the embrace and leans back, taking a look at you. "It's been months, still getting used to you being home, honestly." His face lights up, and he flicks your left cheek. "Forgot all about that ear! You fighter, you." He waggles a couple stubby knucklebones at you. "Family tradition, no? It's a shame you ran afoul of Voivode Pac; he's a good man, if not a little sour, as you likely saw."
"I didn't think he'd take offense at my not visiting," you shrug. "It wasn't like I didn't want to collaborate; I just didn't."
"Ah, well, nevermind him. I'll talk to him sometime – I've mainly been out here, countering the dogs, burning village for village. It'll learn them, I hope." He claps you on the shoulder. "Heard you had yourself a great dance! Took some boyar prisoner."
"Oh, well, it was the men, not me, I can't take credit–"
"Nonsense!"
"Well, I gave Lord Kmita the ransom money. I'd have floundered without him out there."
"And I'm sure that friendly spider appreciated it!" laughs Krzysztof. "Nothing like sending him back to Czarnobyl a little bit heavier. Smart move. Didn't think you had it in you!"
"Well, I really did intend for it to be a gift and–"
"Gift-shmift. A gift is just a friendly bribe, isn't it?" he smiles. "Politicking without even knowing it, a consummate Radziwiłł. I missed you, brother!"
"Likewise, likewise." You bounce a little on your toes. "Well – to Uła?"
Krzysztof starts for his horse at your words. "I'll race you!"
[] "Very well!"
[] You click your tongue. "Fine."
[] "As if I've got a chance," you laugh.
[] "Come now, let us take our time and talk."
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