Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest
- Thread starter Rolman
- Start date
- Mature Historic
- Location
- United States
[X] "Men, we must turn back! Prince Konstanty and Lord Zamoyski will be in need of aid!"
- Location
- United States
Individual tents toward the center of camp and flammable loot-piles are burning. The camp is large enough that's it clear the entire place isn't going up, but there would be a smokestack if looking at it straight-on, while small fires would be more noticeable from atop a hill
[X] "Men, we must turn back! Prince Konstanty and Lord Zamoyski will be in need of aid!"
[x] [] "Men, reload your pistols and carbines and gather to me! We move as one!"
Kir the Wizard
The Sun King
- Location
- Ukraine
[X] "Men, reload your pistols and carbines and gather to me! We move as one!"
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Keep on makin' history.
Last edited:
- Location
- United States
booooooooooooo
it'll be filled in completely once it's all over with
- Location
- United States
On one hand, I'm worried about the guys we left behind getting messed up. On the other, our group is badly disorged and needs a moment to breath.
[X] "Men, reload your pistols and carbines and gather to me! We move as one!"
[X] "Men, reload your pistols and carbines and gather to me! We move as one!"
[X] "Men, reload your pistols and carbines and gather to me! We move as one!"
“Zawadówka.” Pt. III. August 9, 1575. Approaching the Hill.
- Location
- United States
"Men, reload your pistols and carbines and gather to me! We move as one!" You turn to one of your bodyguards. "Blow your horn. Anybody still alive ought to gather here."
As the rallying call blares, you remove your helmet and streak a little half-dried blood through your sweat-drenched hair with a sweep of your gauntlet. You didn't mean to, but you can't avoid doing so. You're marked all over with the signs of what has happened, and your stomach lurches as you replay each of the day's kills. But it had to be done. You sigh and listen out as you begin to reload your pistols, one by one. Hussars and rajtaria with and without their horses clank to the horn's call from all directions, covered in blood and dust. You hear gunfire in the direction of the hill, and can just barely see its top over the tents: armor-shining men are heading down it, on horse and on foot. They saved their best for the hillside.
"How many did you drop, Your Serene Highness?" asks Marszowski. You both have to raise your voices to be heard over the clamor of men arriving and your half-deafened ears.
"Four, I think."
He claps on your shoulder. "I only killed two! How's your leg?"
You look down at your bloodstained trousers. "Fine, I think. That doesn't look like too bad of a bleed. I think?"
"Well, I saw what it looked like and I think you can keep going. I think I've been stuck worse than that before."
"Good."
"Good," agrees Marszowski. "You're alright? I know you've been in dust-ups before but the scale can be…"
"Jarring, yes, Hell on earth," you say frankly. "I'll be alright." You think.
Marszowski opens his mouth to speak but is interrupted: a few of your men come running up with fresh, slender Tatar horses. "The corrals are all full!" they exclaim. "Might have to ditch some of the armor, but we can ride again!" You look down the corpse-filled camp lane and spot more than a few brown and black and white humps. Poor Sztylet. He was a good horse. Damn it! Nothing good ever comes from war.
You're snapped out of it by the sight of the live horses being led in from the flanks by dirt-caked soldiers. The corrals are all full, huh? Ah hah. Perhaps they were planning a flank with their light lancers and a few more horse archers, but weren't quite ready yet. Maybe the ambush was a last-second venture. You don't know. But you decide that this is an occasion to grin with pride, despite the grimness of it all: your forward probe must've thrown everything into disarray for them, one prong sprung prematurely and one never set into motion at all. Or perhaps everything was disrupted.
There's neither need nor time to think about it, though. This little fight's been won. And this awful plaza – charnel house – with its pile of slain slaves, is filling to the brim with your surviving men, angrily gathering around the heap of bodies. It's a smaller number of fighters now, to be certain. Perhaps some of the mercenary rajtaria have set themselves to looting, you're not sure, but it'd be typical of the brutes. It took a lot of fist-shaking to ensure they wouldn't brutalize friendly serfs.
It's been minutes now, though, and there's no time to waste. Those who are here are here, those who are alive are alive, and it's time to move. Men have ditched their cuirasses and ride bareback or with oversized saddles on requisitioned Tatar horses. Everyone looks to you.
"Alright, listen up!" you yell. "We're back out into the field – we've got unfinished business up that hill, don't we?"
The men exclaim in agreement. They're somehow still eager. You see the heap of innocent bodies behind them and feel a numbness, replacing your initial sense of shock, disgust, even fear. France feels more and more like nothing. You've lived it now, not just watched. You can do what they did, and stop others from doing it to you. Praise God, in a way.
You shake your head like a dog trying to dry itself. Stay on-task. "Let's do it, then! Full gallop" Sabers and lances are raised triumphantly high as translations are yelled out in Ruthenian. "Prince Janusz, my lord, to me! Let's get his lordship your brother out of that mess!"
The Ostrogski scion rides up. "This is your first fight?" you ask with a lowered voice.
"Yes," he replies.
"Terrifying, no?"
"I'm not a coward."
You think you said that once. "Sure you're not. You haven't run or pissed yourself," you smile. "Fear is fear. I'm scared. But we're born to lead, so let's lead and win doing it. By the grace of God and our steel." You're a little shocked you can talk like this all of a sudden.
"Right, Your Serene Highness," he nods gravely.
You point your saber toward the hill after making sure your standard-bearer's beside you. "Bóg nam radzi! S nami Bog! Let's put an end to this!"
The men cheer as the thundering begins anew, only half-hindered by the dead and dying upon which you trample carelessly. Your own wounded will have to be cared for later, as much as the thought gives you pause.
The camp opens up back into the scrubby fields, and you take in what you're able to see. Beneath a foggy haze of gunsmoke, a melee between cavalry has broken out, a great cluster of wheeling and spinning horses, of men armored and unarmored crossing glinting sabers in the distance. Red-white and red-yellow flags still fly, but there's no clue to truly know who's winning. As you saw back at camp, chainmailed riders and footmen pour down the hill, Crimean blue still raised high atop the mound. Horse archers of unknown allegiance swarm like flies around the conglomeration's edges. Your attention is then drawn to a dustcloud emanating from the direction of Zamoyski's camp: a jogging mass of infantry in tight ranks. Those must be the musketeers.
Given the direction from which you're coming, you can either slam directly into the fray or bypass the fracas for the hill proper.
[] Head for the melee.
Prince Konstanty and Lord Zamoyski are in there, and probably need all the help they can get. The chaos of the fight renders the musketeers useless for now, you reckon.
[] Head for the hill.
Prepare for a flanking maneuver, or otherwise interdict the heavily-armored Tatars, who must be the mirzas or their companions.
As the rallying call blares, you remove your helmet and streak a little half-dried blood through your sweat-drenched hair with a sweep of your gauntlet. You didn't mean to, but you can't avoid doing so. You're marked all over with the signs of what has happened, and your stomach lurches as you replay each of the day's kills. But it had to be done. You sigh and listen out as you begin to reload your pistols, one by one. Hussars and rajtaria with and without their horses clank to the horn's call from all directions, covered in blood and dust. You hear gunfire in the direction of the hill, and can just barely see its top over the tents: armor-shining men are heading down it, on horse and on foot. They saved their best for the hillside.
"How many did you drop, Your Serene Highness?" asks Marszowski. You both have to raise your voices to be heard over the clamor of men arriving and your half-deafened ears.
"Four, I think."
He claps on your shoulder. "I only killed two! How's your leg?"
You look down at your bloodstained trousers. "Fine, I think. That doesn't look like too bad of a bleed. I think?"
"Well, I saw what it looked like and I think you can keep going. I think I've been stuck worse than that before."
"Good."
"Good," agrees Marszowski. "You're alright? I know you've been in dust-ups before but the scale can be…"
"Jarring, yes, Hell on earth," you say frankly. "I'll be alright." You think.
Marszowski opens his mouth to speak but is interrupted: a few of your men come running up with fresh, slender Tatar horses. "The corrals are all full!" they exclaim. "Might have to ditch some of the armor, but we can ride again!" You look down the corpse-filled camp lane and spot more than a few brown and black and white humps. Poor Sztylet. He was a good horse. Damn it! Nothing good ever comes from war.
You're snapped out of it by the sight of the live horses being led in from the flanks by dirt-caked soldiers. The corrals are all full, huh? Ah hah. Perhaps they were planning a flank with their light lancers and a few more horse archers, but weren't quite ready yet. Maybe the ambush was a last-second venture. You don't know. But you decide that this is an occasion to grin with pride, despite the grimness of it all: your forward probe must've thrown everything into disarray for them, one prong sprung prematurely and one never set into motion at all. Or perhaps everything was disrupted.
There's neither need nor time to think about it, though. This little fight's been won. And this awful plaza – charnel house – with its pile of slain slaves, is filling to the brim with your surviving men, angrily gathering around the heap of bodies. It's a smaller number of fighters now, to be certain. Perhaps some of the mercenary rajtaria have set themselves to looting, you're not sure, but it'd be typical of the brutes. It took a lot of fist-shaking to ensure they wouldn't brutalize friendly serfs.
It's been minutes now, though, and there's no time to waste. Those who are here are here, those who are alive are alive, and it's time to move. Men have ditched their cuirasses and ride bareback or with oversized saddles on requisitioned Tatar horses. Everyone looks to you.
"Alright, listen up!" you yell. "We're back out into the field – we've got unfinished business up that hill, don't we?"
The men exclaim in agreement. They're somehow still eager. You see the heap of innocent bodies behind them and feel a numbness, replacing your initial sense of shock, disgust, even fear. France feels more and more like nothing. You've lived it now, not just watched. You can do what they did, and stop others from doing it to you. Praise God, in a way.
You shake your head like a dog trying to dry itself. Stay on-task. "Let's do it, then! Full gallop" Sabers and lances are raised triumphantly high as translations are yelled out in Ruthenian. "Prince Janusz, my lord, to me! Let's get his lordship your brother out of that mess!"
The Ostrogski scion rides up. "This is your first fight?" you ask with a lowered voice.
"Yes," he replies.
"Terrifying, no?"
"I'm not a coward."
You think you said that once. "Sure you're not. You haven't run or pissed yourself," you smile. "Fear is fear. I'm scared. But we're born to lead, so let's lead and win doing it. By the grace of God and our steel." You're a little shocked you can talk like this all of a sudden.
"Right, Your Serene Highness," he nods gravely.
You point your saber toward the hill after making sure your standard-bearer's beside you. "Bóg nam radzi! S nami Bog! Let's put an end to this!"
The men cheer as the thundering begins anew, only half-hindered by the dead and dying upon which you trample carelessly. Your own wounded will have to be cared for later, as much as the thought gives you pause.
The camp opens up back into the scrubby fields, and you take in what you're able to see. Beneath a foggy haze of gunsmoke, a melee between cavalry has broken out, a great cluster of wheeling and spinning horses, of men armored and unarmored crossing glinting sabers in the distance. Red-white and red-yellow flags still fly, but there's no clue to truly know who's winning. As you saw back at camp, chainmailed riders and footmen pour down the hill, Crimean blue still raised high atop the mound. Horse archers of unknown allegiance swarm like flies around the conglomeration's edges. Your attention is then drawn to a dustcloud emanating from the direction of Zamoyski's camp: a jogging mass of infantry in tight ranks. Those must be the musketeers.
Given the direction from which you're coming, you can either slam directly into the fray or bypass the fracas for the hill proper.
[] Head for the melee.
Prince Konstanty and Lord Zamoyski are in there, and probably need all the help they can get. The chaos of the fight renders the musketeers useless for now, you reckon.
[] Head for the hill.
Prepare for a flanking maneuver, or otherwise interdict the heavily-armored Tatars, who must be the mirzas or their companions.
So! If we decide to head for the hill, we're riding past the melee and then doubling back into the rear? Did I read that right?
I still believe it's the best course of action. We keep enemy reinforcements from entering the fray, and if we route them, we can turn around and encircle the Crimeans embroiled in the melee. It's a bold maneuver, but I think it'll make or break the battle.
[X] Head for the hill.
I still believe it's the best course of action. We keep enemy reinforcements from entering the fray, and if we route them, we can turn around and encircle the Crimeans embroiled in the melee. It's a bold maneuver, but I think it'll make or break the battle.
[X] Head for the hill.
- Location
- United States
That's the idea, emphasis on idea
[X] Head for the melee.
I think bypassing the fracas looks bad besides it might be pretty impossible to do
better to take our advantage of being unengaged and slam into the enemy now and swing the balance in that fight than engage ourselves uphill while our allies are struggling and stuck in
I think bypassing the fracas looks bad besides it might be pretty impossible to do
better to take our advantage of being unengaged and slam into the enemy now and swing the balance in that fight than engage ourselves uphill while our allies are struggling and stuck in
