Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest
- Thread starter Rolman
- Start date
- Mature Historic
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
Well, like I said, eccentric nobles aren't anything new.
Those, that clearly had mental problems even by the standards of the time were usually trying to maintain a facade of civility while in court and in the presence of strangers, so that their problems will be known only in-house. If Rudolf does what he does without any care about his reputation, he might as well do so, since he sees himself as well above such petty problems.
Fun fact:
Bernard Pretwicz, a German from Silesia in service of the Polish Crown and the GDL, was famous for his outstanding work in defending Ukraine against Tatar raids. Known as the Terror Tartarorum, he became a national hero during his lifetime for his incredible talent at fighting steppe battles like nobody before him, despite never seeing a steppe in his life before coming to Poland. Around 1530 he has supposedly hunted down and killed the last unicorn, then gifted the horn to King Sigismund the Old. He in turn gifted it to Emperor Ferdinand I in 1540 and it was one of the most treasured possessions in the Habsburg vaults. It can still be seen in a museum in Vienna.
[X] Remain silent.
Kir the Wizard
The Sun King
- Location
- Ukraine
I actually saw that horn. The Habsburg treasury museum was my favourite place in Wien.
[X] "What… What do they know?"
Though it doesn't fit our previous roleplay, I'll take a weirdo who's into Jewish Mysticism over an anti-pluralist.
[X] "What… What do they know?"
Though it doesn't fit our previous roleplay, I'll take a weirdo who's into Jewish Mysticism over an anti-pluralist.
[X] Remain silent.
[X] "What… What do they know?"
XIX-III. September 25, 1574. Prague, Kingdom of Bohemia.
- Location
- United States
It feels wrong, it is wrong, but the Jews in your homeland aren't so bad, nor do they keep magic knowledge hidden, as far you're aware. They mainly just keep inns and brew beer. Perhaps there's more to the story. "What… What do they know?"
"That the Devil is God and God is the Devil, for did all of Creation not emanate from Him? Man allows the Devil to seep up from Hell through deeds and foul words; Satan is a force, not a man! That is how there can be magic both white and black! The ninety-first Psalm: he who abides in the secret place of the Most High…"
Sierotka makes the Cross. "By Saint John, what are you talking about? And what did you two hear?!"
You try to tell him. "I– I heard it say--" Rudolf's ranting makes it difficult for you to get a word in.
"...The higher orders of the soul emanate from the Crown; they descend in threes into mind, mentality, and body, until we reach the Earth on which we trod, the sum of God's equation!" he taps on the three circles below the highest one. "Wisdom leads to Understanding leads to Knowledge – a holy idea is formed in that order, seed-sapling-tree, for the world is dominated by trinities! Even the Jews know of trinities, and the power in them! In their misguidedness they found the Lord!"
"I truly do not understand," says Sierotka, shaken.
"No! No! Damn it, I am not making myself clear! Crown – the Holy Spirit, the Everything! Wisdom – the Father! Understanding – Mother Maria! Knowledge – the Son!"
"My lord!" you finally manage to choke out, too confused and terrified to be offended at the bizarre heathenry he's spewing. "Indeed, the rabbis must be keeping great secrets from Christian minds, but: how will this help with the demon in your wunderkammer?"
Rudolf lets his parchment drop to the floor. "That this demon has been let in by our fear, by weaknesses in our senses of Victory and Surrender, those two forms of faith which form the Foundation of our beings!"
He squints. "Either that, or some warlock has spilled his seed in a most foul way to create a homunculus, and he was speaking through it to undermine our faith. Perhaps it was hiding – GUARDS!" he yells much too loud to his bewildered bodyguards, who have also been Crossing themselves and shifting from foot to foot some distance down the hall. "Sweep that chamber! There is only one egress; if it be material, it'll be in there still!"
A few brave ones step forward, muttering prayers, and enter the room with swords drawn and rosaries pulled out from under ruffs. Some breathless moments pass. "Nichts, Euer Apostolische Majestät!" Even with your limited German, you can follow that bit.
Rudolf says a few words in rapid German, answered quickly by the men within – these you could not catch – and turns to you and Sierotka, speaking Latin again. "We are safe for now, gentlemen. Whatever it was has escaped or subsided." He looks down at his diagram, and picks it up. "Forgive me, my lords, I can get so passionate when confronted with the Beyond. Really, though, you all must learn of Cabala and the secrets of the ancient rabbis."
Sierotka laughs nervously. "Perhaps… perhaps over dinner, then, my lord? The hour, eh…"
"Yes, yes, you're right!" he says, firing back his own string of giggles. "We must settle our nerves after this with food and drink and good company. The kammer and this entire hall will be sprinkled with holy water, I assure you."
Alright, so perhaps he may be a little mad. Or just, well, Prince Janusz did say he's got his own world, so maybe he's just very carefree in showing it. After all, you experienced what he calls the Beyond when you were dying of flux in the lungs, aboard that ship, just before the Sound Tolls. Has it already been two years? Nevermind that, this is the King of Hungary we're talking about, and one with no reason to be receiving visitations! You feel that he shook off the encounter with the Devil, or the voice of the encased imp – whatever it was – with a bit too much ease.
Rudolf's also gotten rather drunk. Every time he says something odd, like wanting to create a golem or finding an alchemist to make him an elixir of youth, you make eye contact with the equally-perplexed Mariana and Sierotka. Meanwhile, at the table for courtiers and lordlings, Sir Marszowski laughs loudly and occasionally hoots something inaudible in what sounds like broken German. He has to have gone through at least a bottle of wine all by his lonesome! You hate to see such a good man live so badly. But he seems to be having fun – which makes it feels worse; you try your best not to fixate on Hell.
Rudolf says something about the stars aiding digestion this night. The local Bohemian lords agree a bit too enthusiastically.
But the man is certainly a fine host! His Italian cook must be sweating buckets back there. You've been fed, amongst other things: some of the finest wines of Burgundy (you allowed yourself just two goblets), capon and whey cheese dumplings fortified with marrow and liberally spiced with cloves and cinnamon, gingered beef filets in slow-cooked prunes and cherries, dainty little fried balls of chickpea flour and chestnuts, an exhibition of exotic pommes de terre prepared fried, baked, and boiled and, to finish, an extravagantly buttery pie of dates and almonds, sprinkled with rosewater. The Sin in this will have to be addressed, for you could not help yourself – you're positively bloated. You lift your cap and scratch at your freshly-cropped hair.
You're leaning back in your seat, hand on your belly, trying to get your mind off Satan, as the Imperial firstborn requests stranger and stranger-sounding songs. "This next one is of the Friulian Alps!" he cries out in Latin, from the head of the feasting table. "A peasant song just recently notated! I give you Schiarazula Marazula!"
This… This is music. It is most certainly music, that much cannot be denied. You can't help but think of Death – a woodcut's Death, not the Reaping Angel proper, of course – dancing about to it. Very, very strange. You look to Mariana; she sucks in her lips. Things are more formal now, and you address Rudolf with obligatory deference, taking care to not 'my lord' him, no matter what he wants in private. "Such new music it is, Your Apostolic Majesty, that people will have to develop a taste for it as they will for your pimientos – but as always, exquisite and exciting, a vision of what is to come!" Hopefully that came off the right way.
"Hihi! It is never good enough to be a man of the present, says I," boasts Rudolf, "no, a man of the future one must be! If I'm not understood now, then I shall be someday."
"I think we in Polonia understand that," says Sierotka, nodding, willing to forego the homeland's name. "Praise be to God for Your Apostolic Majesty's sharing of the ideas of tolerance and reasonability, and praise God that His Imperial Majesty is the same; for even if we must abide by those in rebellion against God and the Holy Church in our midst, we shall never sully our hands with the Sin of murder." Your dear cousin is showing his serious side! Those within earshot applaud him – and you reckon some of them must be Hussites no less.
"Hear-hear! That is the truth," agrees Rudolf, "for to turn on each other would be to turn on the World, on God Himself. We must all live as brothers, cultivating faith and power of soul!" See, out of the blue he'll say something promising, in the midst of his ramblings or, in this case, filtered through them. The feast passes with still more of these glimmers amidst the gravel of his talk of surreal Netherlandish painters, memento mori woodblocks, and the sayings of rabbis and alchemists. You sit back and bite your tongue.
He must've noticed your silence. "Ah! My good lord prince, I do recall that you spent time in France as a young lad, and that you and I are just about the same age." He looks around at the feasters, listening intently; they shift their gazes to you. You feel an internal curling. "Tell me, did you ever cross paths with that soothsayer Michael Nostradamus? He arranged a horoscope for me when I was about ten or twelve."
[] "I'm afraid I never had the pleasure."
You'd heard of him, of course – no man at court in France in those days hadn't, for he was a friend of the Queen Mother – but by the time you arrived in the country he was very sick, nearly dead, and so you never crossed paths with the so-called prophet.
[] "Indeed I did, Your Apostolic Majesty."
It was during his last year of life, when the court was itinerant, surveying the terrible damage of the first War. He was wracked with terrible, terrible gout, swollen with dropsy and oozing pus through his many bandages. You couldn't have been older than fourteen, fifteen. He took one look at you, determined you were born under the Crab, and told you to clutch the Cross close and your woman, too. Would that be Mariana or Maria?
[ ] "I'm afraid I never had the pleasure." [lie]
This is the type of man who likes to hear himself talk, you reckon. So let him!
[] "I, ehm, I try to steer clear of that sort of thing, Your Apostolic Majesty."
Heresy and lunacy.
"That the Devil is God and God is the Devil, for did all of Creation not emanate from Him? Man allows the Devil to seep up from Hell through deeds and foul words; Satan is a force, not a man! That is how there can be magic both white and black! The ninety-first Psalm: he who abides in the secret place of the Most High…"
Sierotka makes the Cross. "By Saint John, what are you talking about? And what did you two hear?!"
You try to tell him. "I– I heard it say--" Rudolf's ranting makes it difficult for you to get a word in.
"...The higher orders of the soul emanate from the Crown; they descend in threes into mind, mentality, and body, until we reach the Earth on which we trod, the sum of God's equation!" he taps on the three circles below the highest one. "Wisdom leads to Understanding leads to Knowledge – a holy idea is formed in that order, seed-sapling-tree, for the world is dominated by trinities! Even the Jews know of trinities, and the power in them! In their misguidedness they found the Lord!"
"I truly do not understand," says Sierotka, shaken.
"No! No! Damn it, I am not making myself clear! Crown – the Holy Spirit, the Everything! Wisdom – the Father! Understanding – Mother Maria! Knowledge – the Son!"
"My lord!" you finally manage to choke out, too confused and terrified to be offended at the bizarre heathenry he's spewing. "Indeed, the rabbis must be keeping great secrets from Christian minds, but: how will this help with the demon in your wunderkammer?"
Rudolf lets his parchment drop to the floor. "That this demon has been let in by our fear, by weaknesses in our senses of Victory and Surrender, those two forms of faith which form the Foundation of our beings!"
He squints. "Either that, or some warlock has spilled his seed in a most foul way to create a homunculus, and he was speaking through it to undermine our faith. Perhaps it was hiding – GUARDS!" he yells much too loud to his bewildered bodyguards, who have also been Crossing themselves and shifting from foot to foot some distance down the hall. "Sweep that chamber! There is only one egress; if it be material, it'll be in there still!"
A few brave ones step forward, muttering prayers, and enter the room with swords drawn and rosaries pulled out from under ruffs. Some breathless moments pass. "Nichts, Euer Apostolische Majestät!" Even with your limited German, you can follow that bit.
Rudolf says a few words in rapid German, answered quickly by the men within – these you could not catch – and turns to you and Sierotka, speaking Latin again. "We are safe for now, gentlemen. Whatever it was has escaped or subsided." He looks down at his diagram, and picks it up. "Forgive me, my lords, I can get so passionate when confronted with the Beyond. Really, though, you all must learn of Cabala and the secrets of the ancient rabbis."
Sierotka laughs nervously. "Perhaps… perhaps over dinner, then, my lord? The hour, eh…"
"Yes, yes, you're right!" he says, firing back his own string of giggles. "We must settle our nerves after this with food and drink and good company. The kammer and this entire hall will be sprinkled with holy water, I assure you."
Alright, so perhaps he may be a little mad. Or just, well, Prince Janusz did say he's got his own world, so maybe he's just very carefree in showing it. After all, you experienced what he calls the Beyond when you were dying of flux in the lungs, aboard that ship, just before the Sound Tolls. Has it already been two years? Nevermind that, this is the King of Hungary we're talking about, and one with no reason to be receiving visitations! You feel that he shook off the encounter with the Devil, or the voice of the encased imp – whatever it was – with a bit too much ease.
Rudolf's also gotten rather drunk. Every time he says something odd, like wanting to create a golem or finding an alchemist to make him an elixir of youth, you make eye contact with the equally-perplexed Mariana and Sierotka. Meanwhile, at the table for courtiers and lordlings, Sir Marszowski laughs loudly and occasionally hoots something inaudible in what sounds like broken German. He has to have gone through at least a bottle of wine all by his lonesome! You hate to see such a good man live so badly. But he seems to be having fun – which makes it feels worse; you try your best not to fixate on Hell.
Rudolf says something about the stars aiding digestion this night. The local Bohemian lords agree a bit too enthusiastically.
But the man is certainly a fine host! His Italian cook must be sweating buckets back there. You've been fed, amongst other things: some of the finest wines of Burgundy (you allowed yourself just two goblets), capon and whey cheese dumplings fortified with marrow and liberally spiced with cloves and cinnamon, gingered beef filets in slow-cooked prunes and cherries, dainty little fried balls of chickpea flour and chestnuts, an exhibition of exotic pommes de terre prepared fried, baked, and boiled and, to finish, an extravagantly buttery pie of dates and almonds, sprinkled with rosewater. The Sin in this will have to be addressed, for you could not help yourself – you're positively bloated. You lift your cap and scratch at your freshly-cropped hair.
You're leaning back in your seat, hand on your belly, trying to get your mind off Satan, as the Imperial firstborn requests stranger and stranger-sounding songs. "This next one is of the Friulian Alps!" he cries out in Latin, from the head of the feasting table. "A peasant song just recently notated! I give you Schiarazula Marazula!"
This… This is music. It is most certainly music, that much cannot be denied. You can't help but think of Death – a woodcut's Death, not the Reaping Angel proper, of course – dancing about to it. Very, very strange. You look to Mariana; she sucks in her lips. Things are more formal now, and you address Rudolf with obligatory deference, taking care to not 'my lord' him, no matter what he wants in private. "Such new music it is, Your Apostolic Majesty, that people will have to develop a taste for it as they will for your pimientos – but as always, exquisite and exciting, a vision of what is to come!" Hopefully that came off the right way.
"Hihi! It is never good enough to be a man of the present, says I," boasts Rudolf, "no, a man of the future one must be! If I'm not understood now, then I shall be someday."
"I think we in Polonia understand that," says Sierotka, nodding, willing to forego the homeland's name. "Praise be to God for Your Apostolic Majesty's sharing of the ideas of tolerance and reasonability, and praise God that His Imperial Majesty is the same; for even if we must abide by those in rebellion against God and the Holy Church in our midst, we shall never sully our hands with the Sin of murder." Your dear cousin is showing his serious side! Those within earshot applaud him – and you reckon some of them must be Hussites no less.
"Hear-hear! That is the truth," agrees Rudolf, "for to turn on each other would be to turn on the World, on God Himself. We must all live as brothers, cultivating faith and power of soul!" See, out of the blue he'll say something promising, in the midst of his ramblings or, in this case, filtered through them. The feast passes with still more of these glimmers amidst the gravel of his talk of surreal Netherlandish painters, memento mori woodblocks, and the sayings of rabbis and alchemists. You sit back and bite your tongue.
He must've noticed your silence. "Ah! My good lord prince, I do recall that you spent time in France as a young lad, and that you and I are just about the same age." He looks around at the feasters, listening intently; they shift their gazes to you. You feel an internal curling. "Tell me, did you ever cross paths with that soothsayer Michael Nostradamus? He arranged a horoscope for me when I was about ten or twelve."
[] "I'm afraid I never had the pleasure."
You'd heard of him, of course – no man at court in France in those days hadn't, for he was a friend of the Queen Mother – but by the time you arrived in the country he was very sick, nearly dead, and so you never crossed paths with the so-called prophet.
[] "Indeed I did, Your Apostolic Majesty."
It was during his last year of life, when the court was itinerant, surveying the terrible damage of the first War. He was wracked with terrible, terrible gout, swollen with dropsy and oozing pus through his many bandages. You couldn't have been older than fourteen, fifteen. He took one look at you, determined you were born under the Crab, and told you to clutch the Cross close and your woman, too. Would that be Mariana or Maria?
[ ] "I'm afraid I never had the pleasure." [lie]
This is the type of man who likes to hear himself talk, you reckon. So let him!
[] "I, ehm, I try to steer clear of that sort of thing, Your Apostolic Majesty."
Heresy and lunacy.
- Pronouns
- He
[X] "Indeed I did, Your Apostolic Majesty."
Who dosent love a little bit of horoscope in their dinner
Who dosent love a little bit of horoscope in their dinner
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
[X] "Indeed I did, Your Apostolic Majesty."
Horoscopes, reading the stars, alchemy, the Cabala and whatnot, these were all popular pastimes in many noble houses and even courts. Naturally, the more superstitious and religious people stayed clear from them, but for the rest it was entertainment, like hunting, dancing, fencing or music. Some even took up such practices themselves as a hobby.
Horoscopes, reading the stars, alchemy, the Cabala and whatnot, these were all popular pastimes in many noble houses and even courts. Naturally, the more superstitious and religious people stayed clear from them, but for the rest it was entertainment, like hunting, dancing, fencing or music. Some even took up such practices themselves as a hobby.
- Location
- United States
[X] "Indeed I did, Your Apostolic Majesty."
Kir the Wizard
The Sun King
- Location
- Ukraine
[X] "Indeed I did, Your Apostolic Majesty."
I mean, that's a pretty cool (if small) prophecy. Love your God, love your wife, love your vibe.
I mean, that's a pretty cool (if small) prophecy. Love your God, love your wife, love your vibe.
XIX-IV. September 25-26, 1574. Prague, Kingdom of Bohemia.
- Location
- United States
You're reluctant to stray so close to the heretical, but you're also reluctant to lie – you've tried to forget about that Michel de Nostradame. "Indeed I did, Your Apostolic Majesty."
"Well, tell us what you thought of him, lord prince!"
He either doesn't see or doesn't care that you're a man of faith. But, someone of his stature must be entertained. "I must have been about fourteen. He was… Very ill when I met him. Dying, even, of the gout and of dropsy. Swollen and red all over, covered in foul-smelling bandages; he could hardly see because his eyes were all puffed up, like a man beaten about the head."
Rudolf chuckles. "We are eating, sir!" His cronies burst out laughing.
"Well, he said," you do your impression of the prophet, a gravelly yet nasal voice, "he said – 'Radzivilius Princeps, let me touch your face,' and, so, I let him, and then he took my pulse." Rudolf leans forward a little in his seat. You have always tried to not think on whatever sorcery it was that allowed him to say what he did next. "And he determined straight away that I was born under Cancer. He said: 'lord prince, you're more full of water than I am! Much phlegm and blood in you – passion and surrender, service and desire, you shall walk atop a tightrope as an acrobat. And you shall learn through falling.'"
Rudolf nods and grins widely. "I was born on the eighteenth of July – I too live under the sign of the Crab! Old Nostradamus noted the dominance of Mercury over me; perhaps it explains my… Constant excitement!" he laughs. "Though Saturn is the cause of my melancholia."
You'll play the game, may the Lord have mercy on you. How you hate this quasi-witchcraft, even when it's… Eerily accurate. "And I, funnily enough, am ruled by Mars under the Lion's gaze – Nostradamus never asked of that–"
"Ah-ha! But you seem not to be a hot-spur!"
"Heh, well, that's the thing: perhaps I try and keep it in check. My confessor is a Benedictine," you explain, "and a good man who's taught me much of restraint, lest I take to drink and dice-throwing and a suicidal love of battle."
Rudolf looks perplexed. "Well, I suppose that too demonstrates a conscience, a passion, as he said. When were you born, lord prince?"
"The twenty-seventh of June, in the 1,551st year of Our Lord, Your Apostolic Majesty."
He wears an expression of clearly mock horror upon his face, but his tone sounds sincere, even serious: "I am but a year your junior! And I am of the opinion that this is the springtime of life, sir! This is the time to let the choleric humor run wild and free, should a man possess it in him! Let oneself be cooled by the time he's, say, thirty."
"Well, it was killing me," you say, glancing down the table at Mariana. "That was not everything that Nostradamus told me, though, the most important part was this: 'hold the Cross close, and your woman, too.' For in those days I was freshly-Catholic, formerly a Calvinist." Mariana raises her eyebrows at you and looks a little thoughtful.
Rudolf lets out his laugh and looks to Mariana. "What do you think of that, my lady?"
"Forgive my poor Latin," she begins, "jak tse skazati… Fidelity! Fidelity to God and to one's wife alike is a very beautiful thing." Her eye contact with you flickers: she doesn't quite know what to say, or maybe just doesn't have the words. "Unless that woman spoken of is the Blessed Mother."
Is that… Is that pointed? "Indeed, I knew not what to think of it – perhaps I took it both ways," you chuckle, trying to conceal a rising nervousness.
"Your wife speaks Latin very well! Oh, certainly he means the princess," says Rudolf to Mariana, staying jovial. "For the love of Mother Maria is eternal, and never runs dry – but a man may run afoul of his wife with ease!" The table laughs.
"He does indeed hold the Cross close to him, praise God, for even if I belong to the Orthodox creed, piety is piety, and the Lord will be pleased," she says. There's something in the way she says this, though, that feels not so kind. You're not sure if others can see it, but you certainly can – never has she praised you to your face for your faithfulness.
Rumination dominated the rest of the feast.
You and Mariana haven't shared a chamber in weeks. Life on the road and lodging in foreign castles leads to an even starker separation of the sexes, and she's in a wholly separate wing of Prague's castle from you. You used a maid as a go-between, and at last the two of you meet in the wee hours of the morning, away from prying eyes, in a servant's corridor.
She's in her court dress, in her headscarf but without a cap, but her hair's down and spills out of it; she looks a bit bleary. "It's late, Stanisław," she says in a hushed voice, speaking her mother tongue. "Is something wrong?"
You're not angry, per se, but… "Should I be asking you that? You mocked my faith."
"I didn't mock anything," she says, betraying nothing on her face. "Touchy-touchy. You must recall that there is no purgatorium in my creed and, so, well…"
"What?"
"You had your head shaved – yet again – for making a decision you felt was right." Now she's starting to burn a little.
"I disobeyed my father by coming here with so many, with such pomp; it was only right, Mariana!" You struggle for words. "It's… It's not a good thing that I did this, I just couldn't sit by or–"
"And when was the last time you gave alms?" she asks. She waits for an answer. "How about having a church built? You could have filled Orsza up with missionaries if you wished, and instead you worried about what you ate, whether you tended to your garden of Saint Benedict." Your face is getting hot, and you say a little prayer in your head for calm. "You are godly enough within, Stanisław. I saw that in you, as did my father, glory to Christ. I was fond of you the moment I laid eyes on you, and I think that to be God's guidance."
"You don't understand–"
"I don't? I was there for everything when you came apart. When you–"
"I know what I did. I know what I did. Vomiting at the table. Gambling with those burghers. The way I'd ride from Wilno to Dubinki and back for no point besides having some of the Jews' Warka-style, drinking beer like a serf."
"This pity! Such pity! Bring the inside outside!" Mariana implores. She never truly gets angry with you, it feels, but this is the closest it'll get. "I don't know the man who married me anymore." Such a despairing thing to say, and yet, somehow, you detect not a trace of it.
"I didn't– I didn't call on you for this, to hear my own wife speak down to me!"
"What is it, then?" she snaps. "What is it? Do you need something from me? You need me when you need not God these days, it seems." She shakes her head. "I'll be back to my chambers–"
"It's important."
"What is it?"
You almost tell her you love her; it almost spills out, like an overfilled pitcher. You're not even sure if you truly do or not. But you do need her. It's hard to tell the difference, perhaps. "Rudolf. You've been speaking with the ladies – do they know anything?"
"You're a lucky man that I'm loyal to family and homeland," she pokes your chest, somehow able to half-joke through this. "He's a bit of a dog, as it turns out. There's much sleeping about; everybody says he's generous, kind-hearted, a good lover – yet not a serious man at all."
"But you never heard anything of him wanting our throne?"
"No. It's only been a few days, hasn't it?"
"Hmmm…" You look down in thought.
[] "...I've got to get him to say something."
Try to get Rudolf alone to determine whether he's properly interested or not.
[] "...We can't keep the Emperor waiting."
We must depart for Vienna within a few days, lest we lose our momentum.
"Well, tell us what you thought of him, lord prince!"
He either doesn't see or doesn't care that you're a man of faith. But, someone of his stature must be entertained. "I must have been about fourteen. He was… Very ill when I met him. Dying, even, of the gout and of dropsy. Swollen and red all over, covered in foul-smelling bandages; he could hardly see because his eyes were all puffed up, like a man beaten about the head."
Rudolf chuckles. "We are eating, sir!" His cronies burst out laughing.
"Well, he said," you do your impression of the prophet, a gravelly yet nasal voice, "he said – 'Radzivilius Princeps, let me touch your face,' and, so, I let him, and then he took my pulse." Rudolf leans forward a little in his seat. You have always tried to not think on whatever sorcery it was that allowed him to say what he did next. "And he determined straight away that I was born under Cancer. He said: 'lord prince, you're more full of water than I am! Much phlegm and blood in you – passion and surrender, service and desire, you shall walk atop a tightrope as an acrobat. And you shall learn through falling.'"
Rudolf nods and grins widely. "I was born on the eighteenth of July – I too live under the sign of the Crab! Old Nostradamus noted the dominance of Mercury over me; perhaps it explains my… Constant excitement!" he laughs. "Though Saturn is the cause of my melancholia."
You'll play the game, may the Lord have mercy on you. How you hate this quasi-witchcraft, even when it's… Eerily accurate. "And I, funnily enough, am ruled by Mars under the Lion's gaze – Nostradamus never asked of that–"
"Ah-ha! But you seem not to be a hot-spur!"
"Heh, well, that's the thing: perhaps I try and keep it in check. My confessor is a Benedictine," you explain, "and a good man who's taught me much of restraint, lest I take to drink and dice-throwing and a suicidal love of battle."
Rudolf looks perplexed. "Well, I suppose that too demonstrates a conscience, a passion, as he said. When were you born, lord prince?"
"The twenty-seventh of June, in the 1,551st year of Our Lord, Your Apostolic Majesty."
He wears an expression of clearly mock horror upon his face, but his tone sounds sincere, even serious: "I am but a year your junior! And I am of the opinion that this is the springtime of life, sir! This is the time to let the choleric humor run wild and free, should a man possess it in him! Let oneself be cooled by the time he's, say, thirty."
"Well, it was killing me," you say, glancing down the table at Mariana. "That was not everything that Nostradamus told me, though, the most important part was this: 'hold the Cross close, and your woman, too.' For in those days I was freshly-Catholic, formerly a Calvinist." Mariana raises her eyebrows at you and looks a little thoughtful.
Rudolf lets out his laugh and looks to Mariana. "What do you think of that, my lady?"
"Forgive my poor Latin," she begins, "jak tse skazati… Fidelity! Fidelity to God and to one's wife alike is a very beautiful thing." Her eye contact with you flickers: she doesn't quite know what to say, or maybe just doesn't have the words. "Unless that woman spoken of is the Blessed Mother."
Is that… Is that pointed? "Indeed, I knew not what to think of it – perhaps I took it both ways," you chuckle, trying to conceal a rising nervousness.
"Your wife speaks Latin very well! Oh, certainly he means the princess," says Rudolf to Mariana, staying jovial. "For the love of Mother Maria is eternal, and never runs dry – but a man may run afoul of his wife with ease!" The table laughs.
"He does indeed hold the Cross close to him, praise God, for even if I belong to the Orthodox creed, piety is piety, and the Lord will be pleased," she says. There's something in the way she says this, though, that feels not so kind. You're not sure if others can see it, but you certainly can – never has she praised you to your face for your faithfulness.
Rumination dominated the rest of the feast.
You and Mariana haven't shared a chamber in weeks. Life on the road and lodging in foreign castles leads to an even starker separation of the sexes, and she's in a wholly separate wing of Prague's castle from you. You used a maid as a go-between, and at last the two of you meet in the wee hours of the morning, away from prying eyes, in a servant's corridor.
She's in her court dress, in her headscarf but without a cap, but her hair's down and spills out of it; she looks a bit bleary. "It's late, Stanisław," she says in a hushed voice, speaking her mother tongue. "Is something wrong?"
You're not angry, per se, but… "Should I be asking you that? You mocked my faith."
"I didn't mock anything," she says, betraying nothing on her face. "Touchy-touchy. You must recall that there is no purgatorium in my creed and, so, well…"
"What?"
"You had your head shaved – yet again – for making a decision you felt was right." Now she's starting to burn a little.
"I disobeyed my father by coming here with so many, with such pomp; it was only right, Mariana!" You struggle for words. "It's… It's not a good thing that I did this, I just couldn't sit by or–"
"And when was the last time you gave alms?" she asks. She waits for an answer. "How about having a church built? You could have filled Orsza up with missionaries if you wished, and instead you worried about what you ate, whether you tended to your garden of Saint Benedict." Your face is getting hot, and you say a little prayer in your head for calm. "You are godly enough within, Stanisław. I saw that in you, as did my father, glory to Christ. I was fond of you the moment I laid eyes on you, and I think that to be God's guidance."
"You don't understand–"
"I don't? I was there for everything when you came apart. When you–"
"I know what I did. I know what I did. Vomiting at the table. Gambling with those burghers. The way I'd ride from Wilno to Dubinki and back for no point besides having some of the Jews' Warka-style, drinking beer like a serf."
"This pity! Such pity! Bring the inside outside!" Mariana implores. She never truly gets angry with you, it feels, but this is the closest it'll get. "I don't know the man who married me anymore." Such a despairing thing to say, and yet, somehow, you detect not a trace of it.
"I didn't– I didn't call on you for this, to hear my own wife speak down to me!"
"What is it, then?" she snaps. "What is it? Do you need something from me? You need me when you need not God these days, it seems." She shakes her head. "I'll be back to my chambers–"
"It's important."
"What is it?"
You almost tell her you love her; it almost spills out, like an overfilled pitcher. You're not even sure if you truly do or not. But you do need her. It's hard to tell the difference, perhaps. "Rudolf. You've been speaking with the ladies – do they know anything?"
"You're a lucky man that I'm loyal to family and homeland," she pokes your chest, somehow able to half-joke through this. "He's a bit of a dog, as it turns out. There's much sleeping about; everybody says he's generous, kind-hearted, a good lover – yet not a serious man at all."
"But you never heard anything of him wanting our throne?"
"No. It's only been a few days, hasn't it?"
"Hmmm…" You look down in thought.
[] "...I've got to get him to say something."
Try to get Rudolf alone to determine whether he's properly interested or not.
[] "...We can't keep the Emperor waiting."
We must depart for Vienna within a few days, lest we lose our momentum.
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
[X] "...We can't keep the Emperor waiting."
Rudolf is fine and all but ultimately, the decision belongs to the Emperor, like the relationship between Stanisław and his own father. The latter calls the shots and decides who shall run for the throne, if anyone at all.
"O Santa Piva di Polonia... Piva di Warka..."
His attendants thought, that he was praying to some Saint Piva of Poland and naturally started doing so as well. The Pope burst out laughing at this and soon got better. Warka Brewery still exists to this day by the way, yet the beer has long since become just a standard lager. The very name Warka has a connection to the brew: it's a measuring unit for a single full cycle of beer made. Production capabilities are being judged by how many warka's of beer can a brewery make per day or per year.
During the XVII century only one other beer could rival in fame and quality with that of Warka: the one from Biłgoraj (founded in 1578) breweries. It was easy to recognize, since it was always coloured green and was also a staple in the better inns and rich noble houses of the Commonwealth. Sadly, the recipe has been lost over the ages due to Poland's turbulent history and we will never know how it really tasted like.
Rudolf is fine and all but ultimately, the decision belongs to the Emperor, like the relationship between Stanisław and his own father. The latter calls the shots and decides who shall run for the throne, if anyone at all.
For those, that are not aware, the Orthodox and Catholic doctrines are a bit different from each other, despite the many similarities. One of the more glaring examples is purgatory, which the former don't believe exists.
Funnily enough, the Birże and Dubinki line of Radziwiłłs was well known for building lots of Protestant churches throughout Lithuania in their lands, which were used mostly by foreigners coming to the country, most famously by a large bunch of Scottish settlers.
The Warka breweries were famous in the Commonwealth for the high quality of their beers. One of the Polish princes granted them an exclusive privilege to supply his court with their products. What's more interesting, is that in the XVI century the whole small town had about 30 brewers, while the much larger Warsaw was home to 38 of them and it's been said that beer was the corner stone of Warka's prosperity. Fun fact: cardinal Ippolito Aldobrandini, the future Pope Clement VIII was a papal legate in the Commonwealth (1588-1589) and it is said, that he became an ardent fan of Warka beers, which he loved. Years later, after being struck down by sickness as Pontiff, he supposedly murmured in delirium:
"O Santa Piva di Polonia... Piva di Warka..."
His attendants thought, that he was praying to some Saint Piva of Poland and naturally started doing so as well. The Pope burst out laughing at this and soon got better. Warka Brewery still exists to this day by the way, yet the beer has long since become just a standard lager. The very name Warka has a connection to the brew: it's a measuring unit for a single full cycle of beer made. Production capabilities are being judged by how many warka's of beer can a brewery make per day or per year.
During the XVII century only one other beer could rival in fame and quality with that of Warka: the one from Biłgoraj (founded in 1578) breweries. It was easy to recognize, since it was always coloured green and was also a staple in the better inns and rich noble houses of the Commonwealth. Sadly, the recipe has been lost over the ages due to Poland's turbulent history and we will never know how it really tasted like.
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- Pronouns
- He
[X] "...We can't keep the Emperor waiting."
- Location
- United States
I must ask: do you... Do you like modern Warka? Original or strong. Cuz I don't. Żywiec all the way, Łomża, even. But that's naming pretty much every Polish import beer available in my part of the States -- Okocim, too, which I try to forget about heh.
[X] "...We can't keep the Emperor waiting."
Our man is piously selfish, I swear his navel gazing religiosity is a form narcissism.
Our man is piously selfish, I swear his navel gazing religiosity is a form narcissism.
Kir the Wizard
The Sun King
- Location
- Ukraine
[X] "...We can't keep the Emperor waiting."
A Serbian religious thinker Thaddeus of Vitovnik proposed this explanation: «The souls of the dead are waiting for our help. As soon as a person's physical life ends, he loses the right to pray for himself, because the time of his repentance has passed, only others can pray for him before God. Those souls who rested in the hope of resurrection, but fell at the tolls, are waiting for the prayers of the Holy Church and their relatives for the Lord to free them from the imaginary bonds of hellish properties, from which they could not free themselves during their lifetime. This "intermediate state" of souls is called "purgatory" by the Western Church»
But the word has common translations from latin, although they are usually used metaphorically, as synonymous for hell/something hellish
Like many other dogmatic differences, at close scrutiny it turns out to not be much of a scrutiny at all. The Orthodox churches, in fact, heavily promote the idea of praying for the dead ("who lost the privilege of praying for themselves") to help their souls get cleaned before the Resurrection.
A Serbian religious thinker Thaddeus of Vitovnik proposed this explanation: «The souls of the dead are waiting for our help. As soon as a person's physical life ends, he loses the right to pray for himself, because the time of his repentance has passed, only others can pray for him before God. Those souls who rested in the hope of resurrection, but fell at the tolls, are waiting for the prayers of the Holy Church and their relatives for the Lord to free them from the imaginary bonds of hellish properties, from which they could not free themselves during their lifetime. This "intermediate state" of souls is called "purgatory" by the Western Church»
But the word has common translations from latin, although they are usually used metaphorically, as synonymous for hell/something hellish
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
Truth be told, while I will drink the run-of-the-mill lagers (they all taste the same to me), I prefer craft beers. I do admit having a certain sentiment for Łomża though, since my grandfather liked it.
The beers of old were nothing like today. Keep in mind, that basically every noble house had its own small brewery, producing beer was widespread. Indeed, many a noble also rented out inns to a Jew or some other man to run and sold them his own beer for distribution. Naturally, these varied wildly in quality. The cheapest and thus the most popular ones, were more like a porridge and people ate them by using a spoon, hence it was also used to make a very old dish (since the Middle Ages), called a Casaeta or polewka piwna (beer soup). Warka or Biłgoraj beers were very much like the beers of today, therefore they were very in demand, but also required coughing up some cash to enjoy.
Well, that is most interesting.
Unfortunately your typical Cossack or Boyar couldn't care less (as well as the majority of the clergy), since those were most turbulent times when it comes to faith and religion.
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