Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest
- Thread starter Rolman
- Start date
- Mature Historic
No reason to get more men killed than necessary, got personal glory enough in the main engagement.
[x] "As terrifying as it was exciting."
[x] "Perhaps the noble Prince should stay back and keep an eye on our camp?" you ask the men.
[x] "I truly think an ambush at the burnt campsite is our best option here. It's our turn to use that hill."
[x] "As terrifying as it was exciting."
[x] "Perhaps the noble Prince should stay back and keep an eye on our camp?" you ask the men.
[x] "I truly think an ambush at the burnt campsite is our best option here. It's our turn to use that hill."
[X] "As terrifying as it was exciting."
[X] "Perhaps the noble Prince should stay back and keep an eye on our camp?" you ask the men.
[X] "I truly think an ambush at the burnt campsite is our best option here. It's our turn to use that hill."
[X] "Perhaps the noble Prince should stay back and keep an eye on our camp?" you ask the men.
[X] "I truly think an ambush at the burnt campsite is our best option here. It's our turn to use that hill."
Kir the Wizard
The Sun King
- Location
- Ukraine
[X] "Like I had a job to do."
For the most part, we were trying to troubleshoot in a hard situation, less so than chasing for glory or from fear.
[X] "Join us, then, lord Prince."
The other way around is just asking to walk into "YOU DARE INSULT MY HONOR? I'M CONFUSED, WAAAAAAGH!!!"
[X] "I truly think an ambush at the burnt campsite is our best option here. It's our turn to use that hill."
Yeah, after so many losses, this is not the time to go Sarmat on them
For the most part, we were trying to troubleshoot in a hard situation, less so than chasing for glory or from fear.
[X] "Join us, then, lord Prince."
The other way around is just asking to walk into "YOU DARE INSULT MY HONOR? I'M CONFUSED, WAAAAAAGH!!!"
[X] "I truly think an ambush at the burnt campsite is our best option here. It's our turn to use that hill."
Yeah, after so many losses, this is not the time to go Sarmat on them
“Once More.” August 28, 1575. The Zawadówka Battlefield.
- Location
- United States
"I truly think an ambush at the burnt campsite is our best option here. It's our turn to use that hill," you say.
Meanwhile, Konstanty looks utterly relieved – were the lad not seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, he'd surely take offense. But you've been there, the dread that follows, the sweating that never stops, smelling gunsmoke when it isn't there, waking up after second sleep with the phantom sensation of a bandit's hands around your throat. Let him rest.
"A surprise attack at a Tatar campsite is the traditional method of the Zaporozhians and, dare I say, I think we hussars only come in second place as Horde-slayers." You jolt in place, suddenly struck with an idea. "And I just thought of something! So, the burnt campsite stretches for hundreds of feet, yes?"
"Go on…" says Zamoyski, twirling his mustache in interest.
"If we knock down the tentposts still standing, the Tatars won't see the ashes til they're right on top of it," you say, trying to contain some self-satisfied excitement. "Our horse waits behind the hill to charge; the musketeers – some but not all – we smear them with ashes and have them lie flat. A volley followed by a charge and the heathens are wiped out."
"How much time have we got?" asks Janusz.
"Four miles at a mounted walk?" you run some calculations from your time with Strozzi back in France. "Flat terrain… maybe four hours?"
"No time to waste, then," says Zamoyski. "All in favor of His Serene Highness' plan?"
All hands rise. It'll be on you once again.
The men are gathered in the center of camp and briefed: only a few hundred musketeers are selected to deploy on account of the burnt camp site's, while nearly all of the cavalry – now whittled down to about two and a half thousand after deaths, injury, and illness, are to be deployed in a long, thin column behind the steep hill overlooking the Zawadówka battlefield. When the signal is raised, they'll spread out into typical line formation and charge the entire breadth of the Crimean column, pinning them to the river and forcing a slaughter or surrender, whichever comes first.
The musketeers strip down to their underclothes so as to not ruin their blue and red coats, and it's a funny sight to see men in what are effectively their nightclothes wearing leather boots, bandoliers laden with powder flasks, short straight swords and daggers on their belts. They seem somewhat miffed to dirty themselves in such a way, but excited to be more than mere execution squads – there's no fun in that, after all, only satisfaction. For them.
Another pre-battle Mass, the Orthodox's Liturgy, the Protestants' sermon. Holy water is sprinkled, icons are kissed, Confessions are heard in the priests' tents. Although the great battle was over two weeks ago, the similarity to last time fills you with apprehension. Mass is usually a transcendent experience, a feeling of great closeness and glory as one consumes the Body and Blood – it's a whole different feeling to want for protection, instead; a grim affair defined by worry and desperate prayer. Life hangs on by a thread, and only He can preserve it.
Deployment is settled and the wait begins, and you're pleased to see that, from atop the hill, you can hardly see the prone musketeers at all. Just a little bit of shine from their barrels. The men at the rear of the cavalry column report that one cannot see the river from their position, which means that the Tatars shouldn't be able to see you either. There's no banners or flags raised high this time, no battlecries or sabers in the air. Only swatting at flies attracted to accumulating horseshit, smacking mosquitoes, silent prayer or quiet conversation.
You're at the front of course, flanked by Prince Janusz, Lord Zamoyski, and your lieutenants. Van Gistel is down there in the ashes.
"I'm praying that this goes better than last round," says Prince Janusz quietly.
"It will, it will," Zamoyski reassures him. "This is a little fish, a quick and easy kill."
"God will be the judge of that," you say, your stomach stirring and the back of your neck buzzing.
You keep your eyes closed and fall into something deep and uncharted yet utterly familiar, conjuring up a picture of Mother Maria and fixating upon it. The Friar taught you this, and it did much to settle your heart. You breathe in, and you breathe out, and you feel watched by something much greater than you, like a man looking down upon two colonies of ants ready to do battle with each other. That's all you are, and that's all this is. But the Lord will light the way to victory, if he deems you and your men righteous enough.
An inordinate amount of time passes, interrupted by cracks carrying on the wind. Musket fire. It's begun. "Sound the horns!" you cry, bleary-eyed and squinting at another sunny summer day. The men behind you are shouting encouragements to each other and calling out "let's go!" According to plan, the column begins to unfold: your section makes up the middle, the center the left, and the rear the right.
"Bóg nam radzi!" you shout, joined by your men, as those of other herby call out their family mottos.
Your new horse – the largest and strongest of the captured Tatar corral, as of yet unnamed – struggles to climb the hill with your armored self atop him, but as you crest its peak you take in the scene: the ground closest to the campsite is littered with the humps of dead horses and the forms of splayed out men, a cloud of smoke drifting out from the positions of the well-camouflaged musketeers who, from the sound of it, are firing in ranks. The Tatars are maybe a few hundred stopy away, approaching the edge of their effective range, and moving back quickly. You can just barely see heads turn in your direction as you begin a breakneck charge down the hill, more than aided by the slope. This would not be a good time to have a horse's leg break on you.
You reach down into your saddle holster and produce your first pistol with your left hand as you hold your lance in your right. You see the glinting form of a mirza appear out of the mass of unarmored horse archers: that's your man…
[] to capture.
[] to kill.
Meanwhile, Konstanty looks utterly relieved – were the lad not seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, he'd surely take offense. But you've been there, the dread that follows, the sweating that never stops, smelling gunsmoke when it isn't there, waking up after second sleep with the phantom sensation of a bandit's hands around your throat. Let him rest.
"A surprise attack at a Tatar campsite is the traditional method of the Zaporozhians and, dare I say, I think we hussars only come in second place as Horde-slayers." You jolt in place, suddenly struck with an idea. "And I just thought of something! So, the burnt campsite stretches for hundreds of feet, yes?"
"Go on…" says Zamoyski, twirling his mustache in interest.
"If we knock down the tentposts still standing, the Tatars won't see the ashes til they're right on top of it," you say, trying to contain some self-satisfied excitement. "Our horse waits behind the hill to charge; the musketeers – some but not all – we smear them with ashes and have them lie flat. A volley followed by a charge and the heathens are wiped out."
"How much time have we got?" asks Janusz.
"Four miles at a mounted walk?" you run some calculations from your time with Strozzi back in France. "Flat terrain… maybe four hours?"
"No time to waste, then," says Zamoyski. "All in favor of His Serene Highness' plan?"
All hands rise. It'll be on you once again.
The men are gathered in the center of camp and briefed: only a few hundred musketeers are selected to deploy on account of the burnt camp site's, while nearly all of the cavalry – now whittled down to about two and a half thousand after deaths, injury, and illness, are to be deployed in a long, thin column behind the steep hill overlooking the Zawadówka battlefield. When the signal is raised, they'll spread out into typical line formation and charge the entire breadth of the Crimean column, pinning them to the river and forcing a slaughter or surrender, whichever comes first.
The musketeers strip down to their underclothes so as to not ruin their blue and red coats, and it's a funny sight to see men in what are effectively their nightclothes wearing leather boots, bandoliers laden with powder flasks, short straight swords and daggers on their belts. They seem somewhat miffed to dirty themselves in such a way, but excited to be more than mere execution squads – there's no fun in that, after all, only satisfaction. For them.
Another pre-battle Mass, the Orthodox's Liturgy, the Protestants' sermon. Holy water is sprinkled, icons are kissed, Confessions are heard in the priests' tents. Although the great battle was over two weeks ago, the similarity to last time fills you with apprehension. Mass is usually a transcendent experience, a feeling of great closeness and glory as one consumes the Body and Blood – it's a whole different feeling to want for protection, instead; a grim affair defined by worry and desperate prayer. Life hangs on by a thread, and only He can preserve it.
Deployment is settled and the wait begins, and you're pleased to see that, from atop the hill, you can hardly see the prone musketeers at all. Just a little bit of shine from their barrels. The men at the rear of the cavalry column report that one cannot see the river from their position, which means that the Tatars shouldn't be able to see you either. There's no banners or flags raised high this time, no battlecries or sabers in the air. Only swatting at flies attracted to accumulating horseshit, smacking mosquitoes, silent prayer or quiet conversation.
You're at the front of course, flanked by Prince Janusz, Lord Zamoyski, and your lieutenants. Van Gistel is down there in the ashes.
"I'm praying that this goes better than last round," says Prince Janusz quietly.
"It will, it will," Zamoyski reassures him. "This is a little fish, a quick and easy kill."
"God will be the judge of that," you say, your stomach stirring and the back of your neck buzzing.
You keep your eyes closed and fall into something deep and uncharted yet utterly familiar, conjuring up a picture of Mother Maria and fixating upon it. The Friar taught you this, and it did much to settle your heart. You breathe in, and you breathe out, and you feel watched by something much greater than you, like a man looking down upon two colonies of ants ready to do battle with each other. That's all you are, and that's all this is. But the Lord will light the way to victory, if he deems you and your men righteous enough.
An inordinate amount of time passes, interrupted by cracks carrying on the wind. Musket fire. It's begun. "Sound the horns!" you cry, bleary-eyed and squinting at another sunny summer day. The men behind you are shouting encouragements to each other and calling out "let's go!" According to plan, the column begins to unfold: your section makes up the middle, the center the left, and the rear the right.
"Bóg nam radzi!" you shout, joined by your men, as those of other herby call out their family mottos.
Your new horse – the largest and strongest of the captured Tatar corral, as of yet unnamed – struggles to climb the hill with your armored self atop him, but as you crest its peak you take in the scene: the ground closest to the campsite is littered with the humps of dead horses and the forms of splayed out men, a cloud of smoke drifting out from the positions of the well-camouflaged musketeers who, from the sound of it, are firing in ranks. The Tatars are maybe a few hundred stopy away, approaching the edge of their effective range, and moving back quickly. You can just barely see heads turn in your direction as you begin a breakneck charge down the hill, more than aided by the slope. This would not be a good time to have a horse's leg break on you.
You reach down into your saddle holster and produce your first pistol with your left hand as you hold your lance in your right. You see the glinting form of a mirza appear out of the mass of unarmored horse archers: that's your man…
[] to capture.
[] to kill.
[X] to kill.
- Location
- United States
[X] to kill.
Given we've already got a bunch of them, I'm not *particularly* inclined to take risks for more.
Given we've already got a bunch of them, I'm not *particularly* inclined to take risks for more.
Noroboro
Consistency is key and I’m consistently tired :)
- Location
- Canada
Gotta say, this is a real clever idea from Stan here, love it.
- Location
- Mists of Albion
TBF we've made write ins before showing him to be a daring and innovative commander. He's also repeatedly proven he's a skilled and deadly fighter. The issue is he's an extremely moral and empathetic humanist. So trauma. Yay.
- Location
- United States
Heh, I mean if Rolman can come up with it, I figured the Renaissance noble who first started seeing military experience at like 15 (though combat only at like 22) should be able to too....