Shattered Empire: A Noble Warlord Quest (CKII)

The golden trident sits inert, stamped on the bulkhead, even as you glare intensely enough that the paint itself should be peeling. It probably isn't healthy to wake up each cycle of this whole boondoggle cursing your mother with every breath, but if Her Majesty the Tsarina can toss you aside as if you were mere flotsam rather than her eldest child, then you reserve the right to resent her.

You lift your arm, checking the holographic timepiece on your wrist. It is 0700 Moskva hours, just an hour shy of the scheduled arrival time in the Volchansk system. With a groan, you rub the sleep from your eyes, swinging your legs out of bed and wincing as a jolt of pain shoots through your skull. The entire cabin swirls around you for a second, and you resist the sudden urge to vomit.

In the darkness, you flail helplessly, mewling like a drenched cat as you struggle to your feet. Clearly something's wrong - your memory is a tattered mess of jumbled images that you just can't quite piece together into a coherent thought. Steadying yourself, you check the messages left to you, squinting in pain against the harsh light of your wristpiece.

One message, says the device, from the ship's internal communications service. You open it - it turns out to be a status report from the Commodore who is technically your second-in-command, telling you that all is well so far. While you were sleeping off… whatever had happened last night, the good ship HMS Varyag had refueled at a port in the Periphery Systems, before departing at FTL for the final leg of its month-long voyage. At the end of the message, Commodore Chekhov finally requests (politely) that you join him on the bridge by 0900, as the small fleet you technically commanded was to reach its destination at that point.

You can read a little something else in the tone of the message, but can't quite place it. Is it judgement? Pity? Irritation? Condescension? A mixture of all four? You honestly can't tell.

Groaning in frustration, you shuffle your way over to the head, blearily shutting the door behind you. "Lights," you mumble, and then you hiss as the fluorogen lamps sear your retinas. You press your fingers to your temples, squinting until the pain goes from a sharp stabbing to a dull, more manageable throb. You take a look at yourself, piecing the tatters of your memory together. What had happened last night? What was wrong with you?

[ ] A severe hangover from last night's bender - perhaps polishing off that much hard liquor before a military operation wasn't the best idea. Gain trait Hedonist.
[ ] A fat lip and throbbing temple from the fistfight last night - that rating absolutely deserved it, though. Gain trait Wroth.
[ ] A series of long nights under a dim lamp, checking and rechecking the logistical reports for this trip. Everything seems normal, but you just know that's never the case. Gain the trait Obsessive.
[ ] A night of lying awake in bed, mind racing, fear crawling over you as you comprehended every way an assassin could get into this room. Gain trait Paranoid.
[ ] A complete lack of meaningful sleep for the last two days - this isn't new to you, however, and you did manage to get some meaningful study out of it last night. Gain trait Insomniac.

You stare into the mirror, blearily taking in your features.

[ ] Choose your sex:
- [ ] Male
- [ ] Female
[ ] Choose your name
[ ] Choose your appearance