Bohodar's stats are indeed quite good - one of the reasons I picked Alswit as a wife for Radomír, despite her coming from a different culture and religious tradition, was that her mum Wulfgifu's raw stats were excellent. CK3 does still allow for a mild form of eugenics... actually not so mild when one considers the 'Blood' dynasty perks.
I can't help but like Czenzi. She does get to be quite an interesting character later. Coming up with cultural and social rules for a group of Magyars that 'stayed behind' in the Pontic Steppe rather than following Almos into Pannonia was a rather interesting alt-history challenge.
We've had plenty of interesting consorts, but Czenzi promises to take the cake! I hope she'll still be able to see her share of action outside the castle walls after she becomes queen - assuming that happens as planned.
Speaking of consorts, in my last comment I forgot to mention that the funniest moment in the AAR for me so far is when Dolz goes "Mouaf". As a Frenchie I found that bit of attention to cultural detail very gratifying!
Czenzi does indeed get her moment to shine! (Multiple of them, actually.)
And I'm glad you appreciated that little detail re: Dolz! Again, that whole section was kind of a tongue-in-cheek attempt to ride the line between titillation and comedy, so it's gratifying to get the feedback that the comedic element came off strong.
II.
The road to Szarka was an easy one, and Bohodar found he remembered practically nothing of it; he merely found himself staring awestruck at his intended, and marvelling at the winsome profile of her caramel-hued face. That was when she took the lead. Though Bohodar didn’t notice at the time, when their positions were reversed and he had to take the lead, Czenzi took full advantage of the view of her prospective groom from behind. She discreetly admired a broad set of shoulders, a strong back and a well-formed rump and haunches. These physical graces of youth, in addition to his earnest and gentle face, had twice won her over, though she would admit nothing of that to him as yet.
‘You speak Moravian?’ asked Bohodar.
Czenzi gave a diffident nod. ‘Very poorly, I must own. I hope my accent is not too strong?’
‘Not at all,’ Bohodar shook his head with vigour. Our language is graced by such a charming tongue, is what he thought later, and kicked himself inwardly for not having said aloud to her when it mattered.
‘And you learned to speak Magyar nyelv,’ Czenzi’s face brightened. ‘You honour us! Our speech does not come easily to outsiders.’
‘I studied hard,’ Botta answered.
God, why do I still sound like such a child? “I studied hard”? What kind of answer is that, Botta? You can hold your own in discussing the Politeia, the Phædo and even the Parmenides with the greatest minds the Moravian court can host, so why can’t you hold more than two or three words’ converse with Czenzi? And why do they all come out sounding so puerile?
At length they came to another bend in the Dniester River, upon the right bank. They came down a shallow hill-slope that descended toward a pair of cliffs on the near side of the river, and seated at the base of the cliffs was a broad encampment of yurts, together with a common sheepfold and horsepen. Although the Magyars of conquered Pannonia had by now been thoroughly sedentarised, the Magyars of the Csángóföld still held stubbornly onto the old ways of the steppe.
Árpád Czenzi led him down into the encampment. As they passed by the round frames covered with vibrantly-coloured felt and hung with various ornaments and charms, the campfires, the tarp-covered overhangs and low tables beneath which served as dining halls, the rough-hewn posts and fence-brackets which served as brief tethering for horses, Bohodar took notice of a three-bar cross erected on the eastern side of the camp, with a table resting before it that was clearly used as an Orthodox altar. However, the altar table’s legs were carved in frightful and grotesque images, of human figures in exaggerated proportions.
‘What’s with the altar?’ asked Bohodar.
Czenzi assured him, ‘These are to ward off the enemies of the Faith and the jealous servants of the Evil One. Such images prevent… szemmelverés. Not sure how you’d say that in Moravian.’
Bohodar nodded understanding, though he wasn’t sure if he quite approved of the theology. These Magyars had but lately embraced Christ, it was probably to be expected that they retained some aspects of their old magic and sky-worship beliefs.
Czenzi led him into the largest yurt, which was located in a half-circle of large yurts and was pegged to the highest ground in the camp. The doorframe was covered over by a rich brocade, which Czenzi pulled aside with her hand, and ducked her head to enter. She bade Bohodar come through as well, and he did. Botta found himself at once within a cosily-appointed nomadic chieftain’s abode, with a rug on the floor and a pit for a large fire in the centre. The roof-wheel which could be opened to the sky to allow smoke through and light in, was as big across as the span of one of Botta’s arms. The walls of the yurt, which were set up in a lattice of light wood, bore various ornaments and hunting trophies. And seated inside the yurt, on cushions around a dastarkhan, were three other women.
Czenzi bowed to each of the three women in turn, beginning with the eldest. She gave each of them a formal greeting before introducing Bohodar to them.
‘Bohodar Rychnovský, this is my sister-in-law Borbála, and my two sisters by blood, Rózsa and Emőke. All of us belong to the Árpád-Hotin clan lineage.’
The rather corpulent Borbála gave a stiff, haughty nod in answer, but the blond-haired Rózsa and the black-haired Emőke did not bother to hide their enthusiasm on greeting him. Both of them, he noticed, had the same high, well-defined cheekbones as their younger sister. They both invited him to sit down at the dastarkhan, but Czenzi insisted upon serving Bohodar the first bowl of koumiss and the first and choicest cut of fish. She also ladled him out a large portion of savoury pörkölt besides, and several pieces of lepénykenyér flatbread flavoured with garlic and butter.
Bohodar found himself mildly embarrassed at being waited on like this. He made a motion to assure Czenzi that he was quite alright to take the food for himself, but Emőke nudged him lightly in the ribs while her younger sister was busy.
‘Best not to get in her way,’ the older girl told him with a wink. ‘Our Czenzi’s a very traditional-minded girl—far more so than me!—and this is how she shows she cares. How do you think she went out to meet you today?’
‘I… hadn’t thought about it.’
‘Well, let me tell you,’ Emőke grinned wickedly. ‘She’s been riding out on that northwest patrol every week since she turned twenty. I’ll give you three guesses why, and the first two don’t count.’
Both Bohodar and Czenzi blushed brightly at that. Smaller talk ensued as Bohodar and the four women ate at the dastarkhan, and as Czenzi left the teld to clean up afterward, Bohodar followed her. She had gone down to the Dniester’s bank to draw some water. When she turned to see Bohodar behind her, she again blushed.
‘Please, don’t pay Emőke much mind,’ she told Bohodar. ‘She’s always liked teasing me.’
But Bohodar stepped forward and boldly gripped her by the hand. Czenzi did not flinch, cry out or draw away. There was a pressure in his chest that made it difficult to breathe as he did so. The fifteen-year-old boy leaned forward, and Czenzi answered by turning her well-defined jaw up toward his face. There was only a moment’s hesitation between them. Drawing in a sharp breath, Bohodar noted upon her a scent like fresh plums. And then their lips touched as they drew together. Botta had never felt anything like it before: new sensations sparked off in Bohodar’s mind, and the touch of Czenzi’s moist lips was submerging him in a sea of raw, elemental desires. It had never occurred to him that he might be sought after, in the same way that he sought after her—and yet here she was, twining her arms around his back and pulling him close, holding him tight with an aching need that mirrored his own. When they broke apart, Czenzi’s high cheeks were brightly coloured, and her breath was coming quickly.
‘I’d better finish up here,’ Czenzi told him at last, running one hand over Bohodar’s pounding chest. ‘You should go back up before me. Don’t worry—I’ll be up in a moment.’
It was with some reluctance that Bohodar climbed the bank again up toward the encampment. His heart was still pounding in his chest. Somehow every hue seemed more vibrant, every scent more fresh… That Czenzi had waited this patiently for him, and desired him, was a knowledge for him too precious for words. It was hard to describe, but it made his whole world more alive.
However, as he made his way back to the chieftain’s yurt, he saw two unfamiliar horses, a bit winded (and therefore newly-arrived), tethered at the post just outside the half-circle. He went inside the teld, where he heard the ladies of the house discussing something with two distinct male voices.
As he entered, bowing to his hosts, he noticed that one of the men was indeed Árpád Károly, Czenzi’s fair-haired brother. The other was a man whom he did not recognise, though he had the same Asiatic features as the Magyars—black hair and a thin beard. If he had to guess his years, Bohodar would have put them around forty. He had a long, thin scar running from the right side of his forehead, across his brow and nose and down his left cheek.
‘There, you see?’ Emőke gestured with her whole hand toward where Botta was standing in the open tent-flap. ‘He has already arrived. Backing out now will do you no good?’
‘But the priest is not here,’ Károly objected. ‘It’s still only a betrothal.’
‘Károly,’ Borbála chided her husband. ‘Show your manners.’
‘Ah,’ Károly turned to Bohodar at last, extending a hand. ‘I am indeed sorry, Bohodar, that you have come all this way. I sent a message to Olomouc. You never received it?’
‘I did not,’ Bohodar shook his head warily. ‘Why? What is the matter?’
‘I… wanted to tell your grandfather,’ Károly motioned to him, ‘that the betrothal is off. The bride-price for Czenzi shall be sent back to you, of course, with my apologies.’
Bohodar was stunned. ‘What?’
‘My sister will not be marrying you,’ Károly said bluntly. ‘You are free. Again, my apologies for the inconvenience to you.’
‘I—I don’t understand,’ Bohodar stammered. ‘My grandfather and I can have done nothing to deserve this sudden breach of our agreement—!’
‘Nonetheless,’ Károly told him, ‘Czenzi will be marrying Büzir-Üzünköl, the bey of İstarlımanı.’
The forty-year-old with black hair and beard stepped forward, arms akimbo, looking haughtily up and down the fair-faced youth. Bohodar glared back at the bey of İstarlımanı, this sudden and unexpected rival for Czenzi’s hand.
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