Yevgenii Burlakov stirs his great mass from his seat before the Grand Duke.
"These lies of Moskva have worn heavily against my Kniaz, Yuri, but I can restrain myself no longer. Despite the ancient enmity of our peoples, we have always dealt fairly with each other; but these lies are unconscionable."
The older man pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, and coughs into it.
"In the lands of the Horde, and in Suzdal, Orthodoxy flourishes. We, unlike Moskva and Novgorod, have not forgotten Christ's teachings. We turn the other cheek. We live in peace with our neighbors. We render unto Caesar what is Caesar's."
"Your highness, you have always been mindful of the need for peace between our peoples. Do not be swayed by the impassioned pleas of hot-headed youths, for that is indeed what these children who rule in Novgorod and Moskva are. Content yourself with a peaceful friendship with all of Russia, and leave us to resolve our own problems."
The old man bows, and coughing, sits down.