Jine the Cavalry

You lay the skirt over your arm and climb out through the window. Your rank grants you quarters on the ground floor, but you'd gladly jump out a second floor window to avoid the preening outside your door. Skirts, blouses, bells and whistles might be the norm for women of the free world, but they're stupid as all hell for a uniform. The wind bites at this time of night, this far out in the desert, and you shiver as you hurry down onto the parade ground. The path is unlit, invisible, but you know by heart where it curves right to the Colonel's offices. You cut left onto the grass, towards the batteries.

There's always been a special place in your heart for the stubby mountain guns. The four 1840 howitzers look like a child's rendering of cannon, with over-sized wheels and a stubby barrel. Your hand glides down the short bronze tube to the bolts trapping it on the carriage. The gun crews are protective of their pieces, but your rarely used charm convinced them to give you a demonstration. It really is a technological wonder; in five minutes flat, they broke the gun apart and loaded it on a trio of unlucky beasts. The reassembly was even faster. The memories come back to you. Turn the bolts, lift the tube, and start loading the mules. You wouldn't desert, you doubt you'd last long out there, but sometimes you dream of taking one of the guns for a ride. Some real action for a change.

"Off the grass, Captainess Clemson!" You snap back to reality and jump to attention, turning towards the voice. A lantern, bobbing and floating inches from your face. It's pulled away and, as your eyes adjust, you spot a familiar (read: ugly as sin) red mustache. You allow yourself to relax slightly, still maintaining the cold manner that makes you so popular with the troopers.

You glare up at the tall Hibernian, and his commanding tone turns to a roaring belly laugh. "Captain Haggerty. There's a thousand troopers on this grass every morning, I hardly think I'll be doing much damage all on my own."

He shakes his head, still smiling like a fool, and aims the lantern down towards the dirt. "Dew's already fallen, Lee. Your boots cut a nice track. Aw, you should've seen me tryin' to stay in your prints. Even you'dve laughed. Colonel'll bring in one of the Inde scouts to find you." He sets the lantern to the side and drops onto one knee, dramatically running his finger through the soil and raising it to his nose. After a few exaggerated sniffs, he nods to the east. You glance away as he stands; you won't give him the satisfaction of seeing you smile. "And you're outta regulation, too. A disgrace to our glorious toy army."

"At least I can put my frills back on. You get to explain to Nelson why you dragged your pants through the mud, Jack." At that, he stops and swears. You're tempted to admonish him for cursing in front of a lady officer, but decide that'd be going too far. He shrugs sadly and leans down to pick up a black leather case. Huh. Must've put it down before ambushing you so rudely. "What's in the trunk?"

He smiles, shaking his head again. "Naw, you have to wait like the rest. Let's just say I'll make this ball fun, even if it kills me. Or Colonel Nelson." He chuckles at that last comment and waves an arm grandly towards the officers club. "Shall we?" You scowl, waving your skirt as a response, and he patiently turns away while you re-frill. Now you're ready, for a wedding if not war.

---

God, you hate this post. The Colonel wouldn't recognize soldiery if a half-dozen Taxcoco dragoons woke him up at pistol point. All he cares about is his grass, his beautiful fort and his little tin soldiers. Formations every morning, "officer's balls" ever other week. You long for a patrol, fighting Inde and sleeping under the trees, doing something to earn your pay. To serve the Federation.

Haggerty dashes to his seat while the colonel's back is turned, laying a napkin over his mud-stained trousers. It's too far down to be properly on his lap, but Haggerty's manners are so atrocious that nobody thinks to mention it. He grins, proud of his cunning disguise work, as you take a seat at the women's table.

A seat, not your seat. The seating is meant to be in order of rank, so technically you should be near the front by Lieutenant Colones Dawes. You usually sit in Ensign Harris's seat. Since she's the lowest ranking officer, you're as far from Nelson as possible and your only neighbor is Harris, who's so intimidated by your presence that you can safely avoid idle conversation. Occasionally you feel a shred of guilt for possibly mistreating the poor girl, but it's for the greater good.

At least the food's usually good, by Army standards. You glance over at the men's table. Haggerty is sitting with the junior officers again, god knows why. He's aggressively attacking his food and cracking jokes, trying to prod one of the poor lieutenants into an audible laugh. The other company commanders are politely pretending Jack was never born, and Nelson is reading over his speech, lost in his own world. Major Keane is still at Fort Wayne, down on the Califia border. You poke at your plate, listening to the conversation around you. Soon, Nelson stands and moves to the center of the room, starting his speech on the glory of the regiment, the great duty to serve the people, and so on. You listen attentively, as is your duty, and commit none of it to memory. Give the man credit; he's been giving a new speech every other week since you arrived, and probably earlier.

He's leading an unenthusiastic prayer for the brave freedom fighters in Manassas when someone starts banging on the door. You jump to your feet and reach for the lock, but Haggerty beats you to it. He glances through the peephole, before slamming the deadbolt open, shaving splinters off the door with the force of the blow. An Eastern lieutenant quietly asks who it is. He says, "Major Keane, an' he looks like hell."

The Major stumbles in, and you catch a few gasps from the less restrained officers. The man's covered in dust from head to toe, a sure sign of hard riding, and he's out of regulation, wearing a sleep shirt and uniform trousers. His cap is missing, revealing gray hair matted by sweat. He stumbles past you and leans on the table, grabbing your water glass and emptying it in one giant gulp. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and glances at Colonel Nelson, who seems shocked into silence. His voice is dry, cracked, a tinge of anger in his Southron drawl. "We gotta talk, sir. It's about Wayne."

Your Colonel composes himself enough to gesture at the back office, and Dawes jumps to her feet to join them. The door slams shut, and the mess of officers is silent for a short eternity. Haggerty glances at you, his cheery disposition gone. He heads back towards his seat, but stops short, crouching in the corner where he hid the case at the start of the night. You raise an eyebrow as he stands. "A violin, Captain?"

He chuckles, grabbing his chair and pulling it away from the table. A few of the officers stare dumbstruck as he crashes down into his chair and starts to strum. "Close, Clemson, but I prefer fiddle. I know a couple songs from the Old Country, what'd you fellas like to hear?"

---

It's fascinating. In barely ten minutes, Jack's butchery of a beautiful instrument has pulled the officers out of their shells. They've started pairing up and dancing around the room, while he sings horrible songs about what the Caledons really wear under their skirts. You stay in your seat, watching the door and waiting for news. Haggerty glances at you occasionally, but decides to let you be. You know they're not stupid, they know what Keane and the Colonels are talking about behind that door. But they keep dancing, singing, like it's a high society ball. A couple of the haughtier Southron officers stay in their seats and protest the various expletives thrown at the Albian people in the songs, but even they're having fun.

The door slides open and the music dies. Dawes comes in and surveys the room, before speaking. "Fort Wayne's under siege. Major Keane estimates two regiments of Taxcoco cavalry with artillery support. We have received no official instructions, but we will not leave our men out there to die. We're moving at sunrise. Get your gear packed, tell your men, and get some sleep. Don't know how long we'll be gone." The room is dead silent. You don't wait for the toast to the Rifles, or any of the inane conversation to come. You quietly slip out the door and return to your quarters.

It doesn't take long to pack. You check your revolvers and sharpen your sabre. You're almost out the door when you remember it. The one souvenir of your life before the Regiment of Mounted Rifles.

[] Your cadet cap. A student of the Marhaven Women's Military Academy, known informally as the Abbey. You were by no means a perfect student, but you could hold your own. (+1 Cunning, +1 Daring)
[] Your percussion rifle. Promoted from the ranks early for action against hostile Inde in your untamed forest home of Spencer, you still carry your rifle. You never know when you'll need to kill a man at a couple hundred yards. (+1 Daring, +1 Grit)
[] Your favorite book, Strategos. A classical Europan work on the art of warfare, it hasn't made you the perfect commander, but it helps. Given to you by your father, a wealthy planter in Marhaven. (+1 Cunning, +1 Charm)
[] Your rigging knife. Born in the northeastern trading port of Botiwulf, Plymouth, you left school early and became a sailor on merchant ships to Europa. You never particularly liked the sea, though. (+1 Cunning, +1 Grit)
[] Write-in

Wooo, cavalry quest! This is the Gaya setting, originally created for Aircraft Design Quest, and I went waaay overboard with this first post. It's like five times longer than it should be, yikes. Anyway, stuff to know below!

You're a cavalry officer in New Allegheny, which is very stable and definitely not about to fight a civil war. This first choice is about the main attributes needed in a cavalier; Cunning, Daring, Grit, and Charm. Cunning is used for strategic movement, tactics and clever plans, Daring is used for close combat and inspiring your troopers in said combat, Grit is needed to Hold The Line and also not die horribly if shot, and Charm is used to convince your superiors to stop wasting cavalry on bullshit, and avoid being removed from your command for political reasons. All of these choices will also have narrative consequences.

If you make a write-in that doesn't use a state already mentioned, I'll provide one. I have a very long list. Write-ins should also be two +1s.

Dramatis Personae