The men dismount from their horses, their feet hitting the ground with a dull thud. They stretch, their stiff muscles protesting after a long day of riding. Inside the longhouse, the scene is one of warmth and community. The fireplaces at each end of the room provide a welcoming glow, and long wooden tables and benches are lined up for dinner. Several Cossacks are already gathering, their expressions lighting up as they spot Ivan, greeting him with camaraderie and slaps on the back.

Oleksandr looks around, taking in the sight of hearty meals already being passed around. The atmosphere, despite the rugged exterior, is one of camaraderie and familiarity, as if these men have fought, lived, and laughed together for many years. Ivan introduces them, telling his kinsmen that the two of them are travelers from the Balkans, a Rus and a Scot, who agreed to help with translating the Sultan's letter. The men nod at Oleksandr and Samorix, some with looks of curiosity, others of indifference. A few murmur a greeting, acknowledging the newcomers.

The group continues to make themselves comfortable, settling onto benches around the tables and beginning to pass dishes and food around. Oleksandr takes an available seat, his gaze constantly straying to the entrance, his instinct to keep watch for any potential threats ever-present.

Samorix glances around at the people, particularly the women tending to their men. "I've always had a bit of an itch for Slav lassies." He comments to Oleksandr with a grin. "Reminds me of my Layl'."

"You Scots have an 'itch' for any woman with a pulse." He retorts, his voice low enough for the Cossacks nearby to not hear, a grin gracing his lips.

As the night wears on, the air inside the longhouse grows thick with the warmth of fire and the smell of roasting meat. Laughter and shouting echo off the wooden walls, and the flickering glow of the hearth casts a toasty hue across the room. The Cossacks, their rough faces flushed with ale, grow louder and bolder with each passing hour. Some dance along with the music, while others shout jests and challenge each other to arm wrestling contests, their voices rising in drunken mirth. The floor is a sea of stomping boots and swinging arms as they dance with abandon, the air alive with the crackling energy of men letting loose, each one lost in the moment, bound together by the drink and camaraderie. One of the younger men, his face ruddy from liquor, pipes up, slamming his goblet on the table with a mischievous grin.

"You lot want a yarn for a good laugh?" He calls out, his voice a bit slurred. He receives a chorus of eager nods and hollers, urging him to continue. The young Cossack leans back, taking a swig of his drink before beginning his story. "Right then," he says, clearing his throat. "So, last summer, me and a couple of mates were down by the river, fishing, when we spot these Turks marching through our forests." He pauses, building suspense. "These buggers weren't just passing through, mind you. They were a small scouting party, looking to map out our lands, trying to figure out our defenses. Now, we couldn't let that happen, could we?" He asks with a wicked grin, his question met with a loud, collective chorus of "no!", "aye!" and "of course not!"

Encouraged, he continues, his tone growing more animated. "So we decided to follow them, keep an eye on them. And as they camped out for the night, we got the grandest of ideas." He pauses, a gleam in his eye. "We'd sneak into their camp, right under their noses, and steal their horses." The men around him are hanging on his every word, some laughing, others cheering him on.

"We knew that their horses were their lifeline," he continues, "and without them, those Turks would be stuck in our lands for weeks, months maybe. It was pure gold!" The room erupts into cheers, men banging their goblets and shouting in drunken encouragement.

The young Cossack raises his voice over the noise, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "So that night, under the cover of darkness, we did just that. We crept into their camp, and we took their steeds! But the bugger I got ahold of was feisty, a wild mare in heat. She was bucking, rearing, trying to throw me off. And the damned thing ended up waking up the whole lot of them!" The room erupts into laughter and whistles, the men clearly enjoying the story, their anticipation palpable. "So, here we are, in the midst of a ruckus, and this horse starts kicking left and right, and lo and behold, it tramples a good half a dozen of the Turks! They were squealing like pigs, trying to get up, and the horse just kept on kicking and stomping. The ones that didn't get crushed scattered like a flock of startled pigeons, running into each other and into the trees! I swear, I've never seen such a sight. That horse, let me tell you, was a bloody hero!" The men are howling with laughter, and the young Cossack looks around with a triumphant grin. "We were laughing so hard, lads, we could barely ride off with the horses!"

Just as the young Cossack was finishing up his rousing story, a voice pipes up from the back of the room, breaking the laughter and whistles. One of the older men is sitting with a group of his peers, a stern expression on his weathered face.

"Oi!" He booms, "All this yarn is good for a laugh, but where's that devil's letter?" One of the men at the large table stands, pointing his finger up in a ‘hold on’ gesture before darting out of the room. The men snicker, before their gazes turn to Oleksandr, addressing him.

"You read, yeah? Write too?"

Ivan nods his head before Oleksandr can respond. "Aye, he's our translator."

The man at the table grunts in response, eyeing Oleksandr with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. "A translator, aye?" He says gruffly. "He looks more like a warrior to me."

Just then, the man who had left earlier bursts back into the room, clutching a rolled parchment in his hand. "Here it is!" He exclaims, his voice echoing through the room.

"The cursed letter!" The younger Cossack who had been telling the story claps his hands together, his eyes lighting up with excitement. The man slaps the letter down on the table before Oleksandr, the eyes of all the men in the room locked onto it like that of hungry wolves waiting for their meal. The older Cossack leans in, his weathered face etched with lines of experience and wisdom.

"Right, blonde," he says, his voice gruff but not without a hint of respect, "Let's see what that devil wants." Oleksandr picks up the parchment, his calloused hands cradling it as if it were a delicate artifact. His eyes, sharp and perceptive, scan the text, absorbing every word, every line. The men around him watch in anticipation, their quietude a stark contrast to their boisterous behavior of a moment ago. The room is hushed, the only sounds coming from the crackling fire and the occasional rustling of the parchment as Oleksandr turns it slightly towards the light to get a better view. He clears his throat, speaking slowly but clearly so all can hear, attempting to actively translate the Turkish to Rus.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"AHOY. The most fine Sultan, Turkish Caesar's son, boyar of the Turkish, son of Mohamed, brother of the sun and moon, grandson and vicegerent of God, grandfather of the land, sovereign of all kingdoms: Macedonians, Babylonians, Greeks, Jerusalem, king in Alexandria, greater and lesser Egypt, king of the poor and all the princes of the world, grand prince, an angel and servant of God, ruler of all that exists; extraordinary, invincible knight, hope and joy of the moslem men, sorrow and faller of Christians, etc. We command you, so that you as all one team, willingly humble yourselves to us and surrender, and go to war against our enemies. If you do not obey, else then you shall all be killed, as will your wives and children, as well as the Polish boy, with his whole country, who I want to defeat and make my subjects.”

As soon as Oleksandr finishes translating the letter, the men in the room remain silent, mulling over what they heard. Suddenly, they burst into a raucous laugh, their voices echoing off the wooden walls. Some make fun of the Sultan's pompous titles, others his arrogant claims, and a few even mock the Ottoman's military prowess.

"Grandfather of the land, huh?" One man crows, barely able to catch his breath. "Sorrow and doom for the Christian people, my arse!"

Another joins in, his voice dripping with irony, "Servant of God, is he? He certainly seems to serve himself quite well." Every man's opinion seems to be different, every man's insult more imaginative and more biting than the other. The atmosphere is electric, charged with defiant camaraderie.

"Aye, the Sultan's boasting was more impressive than his army!"

Another man, his cheeks flushed with drink, adds, "If I were the Sultan, I'd worry more about keeping his wife than making flowery titles for himself!" A chorus of laughter follows.

"Go on, then."

Oleksandr flips the parchment. "That's all he wrote," he chuckles.

"That's all he wrote, eh?" A grizzled veteran says, his voice a low rumble. "Just a bunch of pompous titles and no substance." The room fills with laughter again, the men finding amusement in the Sultan's lack of actual words.

"He must have spent all his thoughts on those grand titles and forgot to say anything of importance," another man quips.

"Surrender, haha! He'll fart my dick before we surrender!" Oleksandr can't help but chuckle at the man's crude remark.

"Aye," he agrees, his voice a rough growl. "We'll surrender when the bears start dancing polonaise."

"And if the Sultan wants us to surrender, he'll need a better argument than his fancy titles," a young man pipes up, his tone laced with derisive mirth. One of the men goes to fetch a parchment and a quill, setting it down before Oleksandr.

"You can write, yeah?"

"Aye," he says, "I can write." He takes the quill in his large hand, his fingers seemingly as rough and weathered as the parchment itself. The men gather around him, their faces expectant and excited, curious to see how Oleksandr will respond to the Sultan's threats. They're in a buoyant mood, seemingly more interested in the prospect of a witty reply than they are in the Sultan's demand for surrender. Oleksandr looks around at the men as a grin spreads across his face, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "Well then," he says, "Let's give the Sultan a few more titles."

"Sultan, son of the cursed Sultan of Turkey, champion of... Satan." The men burst into riotous laughter as Oleksandr starts writing and speaking aloud, his words dripping with irony and mockery. He continues to write, the quill scratching against the parchment with a soft, steady rhythm, as the men around him watch, their faces flush with amusement. "Son of the devil..." He continues, his voice a deep rumble, "Servant of… demons..."

One man calls out, "hellish abysmal Sultan of Turkey!" The men burst into laughter, howling with delight as Oleksandr continues to write. The quill dances across the parchment, Oleksandr's hand moving with a smooth grace as the men keep calling out humorous mock-titles and insults to add. The parchment is now filled with a long, ridiculous list. The men around him are in tears, their faces flushed and their voices hoarse. He stands up, holding the letter, stifling his laughter.

"Alright. Here goes:

Oh Sultan, son of the cursed Sultan of Turkey, companion of Satan, son of the devil, servant of demons, keeper of the gates of Hell, lord of the underworld, hellish abysmal Sultan of Turkey, Greek foot-stool, cook of Babylon, armorer of Jerusalem, drunkard of Assyria, swineherd of greater and lesser Egypt, sausage of Alexandria, Armenian saddle-piece, Tatar dog, the cursed, childish knave upon earth and the world, subject of the spider and the scarecrow, bogeyman of the whole world, Turkish biter of men, the commander of the whole hellish empire in the deep abyss of hell, an angel of the infernal devil, a mocker of the crucified God, enemy and persecutor of his servants. You Turkish Satan, brother and comrade of the damned devil and secretary to Lucifer himself! What the hell kind of knight are you? The devil shits and you and your army swallow. What do you think you're doing, cuckolds... Don't you have shame asking us to surrender to an unbaptized brow? You aren't fit to have the sons of Christians under you; we aren't afraid of your army, and we'll fight you on land and sea. Let us shit on you, you bitch. Swine's snout, mare's asshole, may the devil steam your ass, and fuck your mother. We don't know the date, we don't have a calendar, but the day with us is the same as with you: kiss our ass!”

The room erupts into an explosive burst of merriment, the men almost falling off their chairs from laughing so hard. Some are slapping their knees, others are wiping tears from their eyes, and some are even holding their bellies in pain. The parchment is almost shaking in Oleksandr's hand, the large man trying his best to hold his composure, but his chest is heaving. Even he cannot contain his amusement, the corners of his lips twitching slightly as he tries to hold back a grin. The men are in complete hysterics. He winks over at Samorix, who's wiping a tear from his good eye.

"Quite the reply, eh?" The old Scotsman chuckles.

One man holds his sides, tears streaming down his face, "did you hear that? He called him a 'swineherd'!" He exclaims between gasps for air. After sealing the letter and sending it off, the night progresses.

The night unfolds in a whirl of riotous celebration, the longhouse alive with the shouting and bellowed songs of the Cossacks. Tankards slosh with mead, the liquid spilling freely onto the rough-hewn tables as men toast their victories and their freedom, raising their cups to honor fallen comrades and future battles alike. A lively fire roars in the hearth, throwing flickering shadows against the wooden walls, while balalaikas and accordions fill the room with a melody that sets every foot to stomping. The men, well into their cups, stumble and sway atop tables, arms linked as they belt out ancient battle hymns. The energy is infectious, the camaraderie thick in the smoky air, the longhouse transformed into a tempest of drunken revelry and unrestrained joy.