- Location
- Mid-Atlantic
I wish my think-in-Coralie mechanism wasn't broken down, because this would be a very good time for it. Very Coralie-able moment here.
Jine the Cavalry
- Thread starter natruska
- Start date
- Original
-
- Tags
- gaya (gay earth)
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic
There are two countervailing pressures here, if we are thinking in 19th century cultural terms (plus the post-21st-century level of equality of the sexes typical of Gayan Europa).
...
One is, of course, that as an officer and a gentlewoman, we take our oaths, our hospitality, and our obligations seriously.
The other is, of course, that as an office and a gentlewoman in a culture that still acknowledges dueling customs even if it usually tries to work around having them activated... Well. There are words that none may say to us and continue to be safe, unless they apologize. The prisoner is abusing his status as a prisoner to offer intolerable insult.
It comes down to a question of which is stronger, our duty or our honor.*
...
I feel compelled to point out that the 'honor culture' answer to this question was historically upheld by the same people who thought that David Brooks did nothing wrong, so that in the context of our culture, we're going to be getting approval from some people whose approval will shame us.
--------------------------------
*Note that I am using 'honor' as it would be used during the time period, fully unironically, because I am trying to capture the mindset involved. Namely, the idea that willingness to personally avenge insults is a necessary and property trait of an 'elevated' person worthy of respect and standing in society.
...
One is, of course, that as an officer and a gentlewoman, we take our oaths, our hospitality, and our obligations seriously.
The other is, of course, that as an office and a gentlewoman in a culture that still acknowledges dueling customs even if it usually tries to work around having them activated... Well. There are words that none may say to us and continue to be safe, unless they apologize. The prisoner is abusing his status as a prisoner to offer intolerable insult.
It comes down to a question of which is stronger, our duty or our honor.*
...
I feel compelled to point out that the 'honor culture' answer to this question was historically upheld by the same people who thought that David Brooks did nothing wrong, so that in the context of our culture, we're going to be getting approval from some people whose approval will shame us.
--------------------------------
*Note that I am using 'honor' as it would be used during the time period, fully unironically, because I am trying to capture the mindset involved. Namely, the idea that willingness to personally avenge insults is a necessary and property trait of an 'elevated' person worthy of respect and standing in society.
[X] Knock this shithead out.
P-8: Another Brilliant Keane Plan (Featuring: That Dude's Face)
- Location
- Derna
"You will retract that remark, Lieutenant." It won't fix things, but you hope he doesn't, know he won't. It might be foolish, but you need to...regain control, defend your honor. Make it right.
And break his nose. That too. He sneers, "No insult was offere-" but you cut him off.
It's all too tempting to go straight for the nose, for that arrogant and oh so punchable face, but that's a trap. You know from all too much experience scrapping in the mud that men, especially the kind who go into the army, have especially thick skulls. There's no reason to risk your shooting hand like that. It's worth more than this rat.
He's doubled over now, that smug look annihilated as he grabs for his unmentionables. Perhaps in another life you'd have some clever quip about "giving him what he wanted", but this is business, not pleasure. His nose catches your kneecap at speed, the crack echoing through the church like rifle fire. He drops to the floor unmoving. For a second you fear you've killed him, but then he twitches and spits a tooth. Good enough.
The red seeps out of your vision and you breath heavily. The church is dead silent, thirty-odd soldiers watching you. You search for something to say but come up wordless. After a few moments, laughter and a few cheers come from the pews in front of you. For enemy prisoners, the dragoons seem fairly friendly. Or perhaps they just really hate the Lieutenant. One, a young woman, stands and speaks, letting out a long, rapid-fire burst of those strange native words. She walks towards you. The guards behind you bristle, but she's quick about it, handing you a wooden charm on a string before returning to her seat. You stare as she mimes wearing it like a necklace.
It's small, hand-carved. A prowling jaguar. Perhaps you're afraid it's secretly full of black-powder, ready to blow; you can't think of any other reason to be so hesitant. You slip it on, and it bounces off your neck a few times before finding a resting place. The dragoon smiles and waves, so you take that as your cue to leave. There's something warm in that weight, that little bit of pressure. A reminder that you aren't alone? They return to their conversation as you turn away.
And find yourself face-to-face with Ensign Almira Harris. She looks disturbed. You don't know how long she's been there, but you can guess. She starts to say something, only to shake her head disapprovingly. You smile, despite everything, and speak. "The Lieutenant's troopers don't seem too happy with him. You should probably find him separate quarters, something small. And he'll want to talk to the Major in the morning, I imagine." She raises an eyebrow, but you push past her and into the street.
You toss and turn, but when you finally settle, you sleep like a baby.
---
The night brings no sudden attacks or surprise shelling. Your men let you sleep in, a kind gesture that leaves you horribly unprepared. A private wakes you as Keane's column is arriving, and you scramble to make yourself presentable. You rush out to report, only to be told by a runner that he'll come see you after dealing with "some Harris problem." Oops.
There's nothing for it now. You pace in the tiny townhouse bedroom you'd claimed the night before - very unofficerlike, but it's not like anyone will see - until there's a knock at the door. Keane enters, holding one of those absurd slouch hats so popular with the Southron officers, and chuckles. "Messias, Clemson, your men did that Lieutenant one hell of a bad turn. He was missin' a tooth, screamin' bloody murder about abuse. Harris tol' me he'd caught a rifle butt in the mouth; I'd love to have seen it, the way he rattles." You smile at that, tight and fake. He knows it's not real, but says nothing.
"My report, Major?" He nods absent-mindedly, taking a seat on the bed. You clear your throat and begin. "Twenty-three captured, eighteen killed, the rest fled into the forest. Our losses: one killed, two lightly wounded. Three dozen horses and two cannon captured." A sideways glance at Keane. "Lieutenant Travis already relayed all of this to you, I imagine."
He shakes his head, leaning forwards and looking at the wall. "Travis wasn't in talkin' shape when he got to me. Enemy pickets on the road, gave 'im a volley. He'll live, prolly even keep the leg. Good man." He bites his lip, staring at that wooden wall like he's decoding some secret message in the grain. You don't understand, honestly. Travis seems like a good man, but he'd been in your company a couple weeks. You hardly know - knew? - his name. Still, you shake your head sadly.
Silence reigns for a few moments, before Keane snaps back to the present. That grin spreads back over his bearded face, like some kind of schoolboy. "I talked to our friend, Ramone. Figured he wasn't in fightin' shape, so I took his deal. Y'know what he told me? The "mongrel" General Costa - his words, obviously - isn't even at Fort Wayne. He's waiting at Oak Ridge. He knew we'd be coming down the road fast, so he's there with 'bout two thousand men, waiting to smash us. I've gotta plan, though."
Two thousand men. That's more than two-to-one odds. And they've got high ground to sit on. It'd better be a damn good plan. "What's your plan? And don't let it be one of your stupid macho 'bai gawd we'll kill 'em awl' quips."
He deflates, frowning, before continuing in a monotone. "We kick their teeth in." You grit your (unkicked) teeth and gesture for him to continue. He chuckles quietly, pulling out a map and unfolding it on his knee. "Alright, this is Oak Ridge. It's a nice position. Couple hundred yards east, though, you've got Ridge Road. It's raised dirt, should bounce artillery fire. We set up the howitzers on the road, watch 'em dismounted in cover behind the road, and have a good ol' cannon duel. Give the gunners a chance at glory."
"Until the enemy guns rip them apart, you mean." Costa's probably left some of his guns to batter the walls down at Wayne, but even if he only took half his pieces, that still leaves him, what, six howitzers? Not even odds.
Keane shakes his head, gesturing at a little blue trickle to the south. "They won't have to stay up there long. Haggerty's company will g'down this creek bed, climb up behind the ridge, and burn the enemy camp. That'll force 'em back towards Wayne, if they don't rout entirely." It's not the worst plan Keane's ever come up with, although it hardly qualifies as a plan at all. There's only one problem (besides having eight hundred odd troopers stand off against two thousand.)
"This is a topographic map, right?" He nods. "So that's, what, a hundred foot climb?" He raises an eyebrow, grabs the map, looks very closely...and sighs.
"Well, shit. Might be able to get the horses up that way, but sure won't be able to get back down in a hurry." Keane takes another look, sighs. "Guess they'll just have to ride around the ridge and try not to get shot to shit." He nods a couple times, before brightening up a little. "I mean, the reserves behind the ridge will prolly kill 'em before they get that far. So that's something. Any other insights?"
[] Suggest your company attacks the camp, instead of Haggerty's. They're the best lads in the regiment, even if they're a bit worn from yesterday.
[] Suggest a frontal attack to cover the raiding party's retreat back to your lines. Your regiment has rifles, while the Taxcoco troops are using old carbines. That might be enough to stand up to them.
[] Write-in another plan.
[] You have nothing to add.
You can pick any combination that isn't completely contradictory here. Write-ins will get a nice QM response in Keanevoice, with anything super dishonorable or utterly suicidal being outright vetoed.
Keane takes his leave soon after, and you find yourself back on the street. A few civilians are mixed in the sea of orange uniforms. It seems the residents were kicked out when the Taxcoco dragoons arrived, and spent the night in the regimental camp. A few minutes are left before the regiment forms up to move out.
[] Talk to Harris. She didn't agree with what you did to the Lieutenant, but covered for you anyway. Why?
[] Check in on Haggerty. If he's going on this near-suicide mission, you'll want the chance to call him an idiot first.
[] Find that dragoon who gave you the charm and ask about it. She probably speaks some Hesperian. Probably.
[] Write-in someone else to visit.
And break his nose. That too. He sneers, "No insult was offere-" but you cut him off.
It's all too tempting to go straight for the nose, for that arrogant and oh so punchable face, but that's a trap. You know from all too much experience scrapping in the mud that men, especially the kind who go into the army, have especially thick skulls. There's no reason to risk your shooting hand like that. It's worth more than this rat.
He's doubled over now, that smug look annihilated as he grabs for his unmentionables. Perhaps in another life you'd have some clever quip about "giving him what he wanted", but this is business, not pleasure. His nose catches your kneecap at speed, the crack echoing through the church like rifle fire. He drops to the floor unmoving. For a second you fear you've killed him, but then he twitches and spits a tooth. Good enough.
The red seeps out of your vision and you breath heavily. The church is dead silent, thirty-odd soldiers watching you. You search for something to say but come up wordless. After a few moments, laughter and a few cheers come from the pews in front of you. For enemy prisoners, the dragoons seem fairly friendly. Or perhaps they just really hate the Lieutenant. One, a young woman, stands and speaks, letting out a long, rapid-fire burst of those strange native words. She walks towards you. The guards behind you bristle, but she's quick about it, handing you a wooden charm on a string before returning to her seat. You stare as she mimes wearing it like a necklace.
It's small, hand-carved. A prowling jaguar. Perhaps you're afraid it's secretly full of black-powder, ready to blow; you can't think of any other reason to be so hesitant. You slip it on, and it bounces off your neck a few times before finding a resting place. The dragoon smiles and waves, so you take that as your cue to leave. There's something warm in that weight, that little bit of pressure. A reminder that you aren't alone? They return to their conversation as you turn away.
And find yourself face-to-face with Ensign Almira Harris. She looks disturbed. You don't know how long she's been there, but you can guess. She starts to say something, only to shake her head disapprovingly. You smile, despite everything, and speak. "The Lieutenant's troopers don't seem too happy with him. You should probably find him separate quarters, something small. And he'll want to talk to the Major in the morning, I imagine." She raises an eyebrow, but you push past her and into the street.
You toss and turn, but when you finally settle, you sleep like a baby.
---
The night brings no sudden attacks or surprise shelling. Your men let you sleep in, a kind gesture that leaves you horribly unprepared. A private wakes you as Keane's column is arriving, and you scramble to make yourself presentable. You rush out to report, only to be told by a runner that he'll come see you after dealing with "some Harris problem." Oops.
There's nothing for it now. You pace in the tiny townhouse bedroom you'd claimed the night before - very unofficerlike, but it's not like anyone will see - until there's a knock at the door. Keane enters, holding one of those absurd slouch hats so popular with the Southron officers, and chuckles. "Messias, Clemson, your men did that Lieutenant one hell of a bad turn. He was missin' a tooth, screamin' bloody murder about abuse. Harris tol' me he'd caught a rifle butt in the mouth; I'd love to have seen it, the way he rattles." You smile at that, tight and fake. He knows it's not real, but says nothing.
"My report, Major?" He nods absent-mindedly, taking a seat on the bed. You clear your throat and begin. "Twenty-three captured, eighteen killed, the rest fled into the forest. Our losses: one killed, two lightly wounded. Three dozen horses and two cannon captured." A sideways glance at Keane. "Lieutenant Travis already relayed all of this to you, I imagine."
He shakes his head, leaning forwards and looking at the wall. "Travis wasn't in talkin' shape when he got to me. Enemy pickets on the road, gave 'im a volley. He'll live, prolly even keep the leg. Good man." He bites his lip, staring at that wooden wall like he's decoding some secret message in the grain. You don't understand, honestly. Travis seems like a good man, but he'd been in your company a couple weeks. You hardly know - knew? - his name. Still, you shake your head sadly.
Silence reigns for a few moments, before Keane snaps back to the present. That grin spreads back over his bearded face, like some kind of schoolboy. "I talked to our friend, Ramone. Figured he wasn't in fightin' shape, so I took his deal. Y'know what he told me? The "mongrel" General Costa - his words, obviously - isn't even at Fort Wayne. He's waiting at Oak Ridge. He knew we'd be coming down the road fast, so he's there with 'bout two thousand men, waiting to smash us. I've gotta plan, though."
Two thousand men. That's more than two-to-one odds. And they've got high ground to sit on. It'd better be a damn good plan. "What's your plan? And don't let it be one of your stupid macho 'bai gawd we'll kill 'em awl' quips."
He deflates, frowning, before continuing in a monotone. "We kick their teeth in." You grit your (unkicked) teeth and gesture for him to continue. He chuckles quietly, pulling out a map and unfolding it on his knee. "Alright, this is Oak Ridge. It's a nice position. Couple hundred yards east, though, you've got Ridge Road. It's raised dirt, should bounce artillery fire. We set up the howitzers on the road, watch 'em dismounted in cover behind the road, and have a good ol' cannon duel. Give the gunners a chance at glory."
"Until the enemy guns rip them apart, you mean." Costa's probably left some of his guns to batter the walls down at Wayne, but even if he only took half his pieces, that still leaves him, what, six howitzers? Not even odds.
Keane shakes his head, gesturing at a little blue trickle to the south. "They won't have to stay up there long. Haggerty's company will g'down this creek bed, climb up behind the ridge, and burn the enemy camp. That'll force 'em back towards Wayne, if they don't rout entirely." It's not the worst plan Keane's ever come up with, although it hardly qualifies as a plan at all. There's only one problem (besides having eight hundred odd troopers stand off against two thousand.)
"This is a topographic map, right?" He nods. "So that's, what, a hundred foot climb?" He raises an eyebrow, grabs the map, looks very closely...and sighs.
"Well, shit. Might be able to get the horses up that way, but sure won't be able to get back down in a hurry." Keane takes another look, sighs. "Guess they'll just have to ride around the ridge and try not to get shot to shit." He nods a couple times, before brightening up a little. "I mean, the reserves behind the ridge will prolly kill 'em before they get that far. So that's something. Any other insights?"
[] Suggest your company attacks the camp, instead of Haggerty's. They're the best lads in the regiment, even if they're a bit worn from yesterday.
[] Suggest a frontal attack to cover the raiding party's retreat back to your lines. Your regiment has rifles, while the Taxcoco troops are using old carbines. That might be enough to stand up to them.
[] Write-in another plan.
[] You have nothing to add.
You can pick any combination that isn't completely contradictory here. Write-ins will get a nice QM response in Keanevoice, with anything super dishonorable or utterly suicidal being outright vetoed.
Keane takes his leave soon after, and you find yourself back on the street. A few civilians are mixed in the sea of orange uniforms. It seems the residents were kicked out when the Taxcoco dragoons arrived, and spent the night in the regimental camp. A few minutes are left before the regiment forms up to move out.
[] Talk to Harris. She didn't agree with what you did to the Lieutenant, but covered for you anyway. Why?
[] Check in on Haggerty. If he's going on this near-suicide mission, you'll want the chance to call him an idiot first.
[] Find that dragoon who gave you the charm and ask about it. She probably speaks some Hesperian. Probably.
[] Write-in someone else to visit.
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P-9: Creek Too Deep to Ford, You Lose: 3800 Bullets, 24 Horses, You (Drowned)
- Location
- Derna
They've already emptied out the church but the pastor, a burly man who looks more grenadier than man of God, points you in the right direction. The prisoners are under guard in the station house until they can be moved somewhere more permanent. You hear laughter as you pass the guards (locals, you note. The Regiment needs every trooper.) It dies as they spot you, almost two dozen sets of suspicious eyes. You hear a chatty, high-pitched voice in the room on the left, the one with the window, and then she enters. You can feel the eyes slide off of you as the others look to her, and then she smiles, invites you in.
Conversation is harder than you thought. Her Hesperian is even worse than yours. Still, she's warm, welcoming, and it flows naturally from there. She talks of the moon jaguar on your new necklace, the symbol of the Empress and the Taxcocan people. Of the beautiful forests and mountains that drew her to Califia, away from what is now Manassas. She confirms your suspicion that the Lieutenant was a "pure-bred" Hesperian, angry that he was commanding irregular troopers instead of storybook cavalry. You commiserate over your shared experiences, losing track of the time.
The illusion is shattered quite suddenly when a courier stumbles in, telling you to report to your company. You blush quite badly at that; you've gotten far too distracted, especially in a time of war.
You jump to your feet begging your leave, only to realize you haven't caught her name. She smiles sweetly, saying "Atzi Tonantzin" as she waves you away. You doubt that's her legal name, but you file it away regardless. Unsure why; you doubt you'll see her again.
---
Even Keane has to give them credit, they're doing a hell of a job delaying. You can see him grumbling every time the column stops, double-triple checking his maps and sending couriers forward. He knows it won't speed things up, but there's nothing else for it. The rifles crack again, and he sighs as the thousand-odd horses slam to a stop.
This Costas is clever. It feels like every bend in the road, every stand of trees has a handful of dragoons picketed. They fire off a couple shots, leap back on their horses and disappear before any return fire can come through the brush. The troopers at the front dismount to push their way through the trees, find nothing, and continue on their way.
It's delaying the whole column, and it's certainly driving Haggerty insane up front. You overheard his conversation with the Major when he rode down, six miles back. He'd asked permission to charge through the trees on horseback the next time they're shot at, and raised hell when Keane denied it. It's the right choice (charging through brush is a proven way to break horse legs) but it's infuriating to sit there and take it.
This time, the shooting doesn't stop. You hear rifle fire, then the pop of a revolver and screams. The column's frozen for near ten minutes, and then crawls forwards again. Four minutes in, traffic stops ahead of you. You ride up and see troopers carefully picking their way around an orange figure, face down on the road. You roll him into the ditch holding the two red-coated dragoons and return to your company.
There are no more delays.
---
It's nearly dusk when the regiment arrives at Oak Ridge. Keane stands at the edge of the treeline, examining the long line of red coats on the hill. There's the occasional pop of gunfire in the woods as patrols meet, but it's quiet otherwise. He turns to you, speaking through gritted teeth.
"Plan hasn't changed. Get moving, Clem."
The other companies are dismounting, preparing to move out into that dry killing field. You ride down the line and spot Haggerty, walking among his men with all that swagger and spirit. He gives you a cold stare as you ride by, then glances away.
Then you find your men, chatting nervously and treating their horses. You don't have a speech to give. They spend a final minute mounting, and then it's time. The company moves in smooth single-file through the trees and down a winding path, into the water.
There's no land to walk on. You can only hope the horses can handle walking a mile in ankle-deep water. A minute passes without event. And then just as you're starting to relax a man screams.
Your eyes are fixed to the top of the hillside, waiting for a band of dragoons to appear and gun you down. The commotion seems deafening; a trooper had lost focus, his horse had put a foot down deeper than it'd intended, and it'd panicked, throwing him. Without a word, the lads behind you bring the horse under control and cover the man's mouth, carrying him away. Then the march continues.
After an eternity, you reach your goal. A deep breath to steady your nerves, and then the climb starts. You can already hear the howitzers firing.
...and come face to face with a young, red-coated dragoon.
There's no time for the saber. You draw your revolver, taking aim...and realize the poor girl's still frozen in shock. You seize the opportunity, striking her with the five pound sledge of a pistol, and she drops like a sack. Then you hear hooves - another picket, bringing a warning - and there's no more room for nice.
Unfortunately, the enemy isn't deaf. You can hear bugle calls, shouting. As fast as possible, you bring the whole company (and their horses) onto flat ground. You're hearing hoofbeats now; they're already moving. Seeing silhouettes, too, men and horses bouncing in the dark. It's unclear how many there are in all, but they certainly have you outnumbered, they're charging, and they stand between you and your mission.
Conversation is harder than you thought. Her Hesperian is even worse than yours. Still, she's warm, welcoming, and it flows naturally from there. She talks of the moon jaguar on your new necklace, the symbol of the Empress and the Taxcocan people. Of the beautiful forests and mountains that drew her to Califia, away from what is now Manassas. She confirms your suspicion that the Lieutenant was a "pure-bred" Hesperian, angry that he was commanding irregular troopers instead of storybook cavalry. You commiserate over your shared experiences, losing track of the time.
The illusion is shattered quite suddenly when a courier stumbles in, telling you to report to your company. You blush quite badly at that; you've gotten far too distracted, especially in a time of war.
You jump to your feet begging your leave, only to realize you haven't caught her name. She smiles sweetly, saying "Atzi Tonantzin" as she waves you away. You doubt that's her legal name, but you file it away regardless. Unsure why; you doubt you'll see her again.
---
Even Keane has to give them credit, they're doing a hell of a job delaying. You can see him grumbling every time the column stops, double-triple checking his maps and sending couriers forward. He knows it won't speed things up, but there's nothing else for it. The rifles crack again, and he sighs as the thousand-odd horses slam to a stop.
This Costas is clever. It feels like every bend in the road, every stand of trees has a handful of dragoons picketed. They fire off a couple shots, leap back on their horses and disappear before any return fire can come through the brush. The troopers at the front dismount to push their way through the trees, find nothing, and continue on their way.
It's delaying the whole column, and it's certainly driving Haggerty insane up front. You overheard his conversation with the Major when he rode down, six miles back. He'd asked permission to charge through the trees on horseback the next time they're shot at, and raised hell when Keane denied it. It's the right choice (charging through brush is a proven way to break horse legs) but it's infuriating to sit there and take it.
This time, the shooting doesn't stop. You hear rifle fire, then the pop of a revolver and screams. The column's frozen for near ten minutes, and then crawls forwards again. Four minutes in, traffic stops ahead of you. You ride up and see troopers carefully picking their way around an orange figure, face down on the road. You roll him into the ditch holding the two red-coated dragoons and return to your company.
There are no more delays.
---
It's nearly dusk when the regiment arrives at Oak Ridge. Keane stands at the edge of the treeline, examining the long line of red coats on the hill. There's the occasional pop of gunfire in the woods as patrols meet, but it's quiet otherwise. He turns to you, speaking through gritted teeth.
"Plan hasn't changed. Get moving, Clem."
The other companies are dismounting, preparing to move out into that dry killing field. You ride down the line and spot Haggerty, walking among his men with all that swagger and spirit. He gives you a cold stare as you ride by, then glances away.
Then you find your men, chatting nervously and treating their horses. You don't have a speech to give. They spend a final minute mounting, and then it's time. The company moves in smooth single-file through the trees and down a winding path, into the water.
There's no land to walk on. You can only hope the horses can handle walking a mile in ankle-deep water. A minute passes without event. And then just as you're starting to relax a man screams.
Your eyes are fixed to the top of the hillside, waiting for a band of dragoons to appear and gun you down. The commotion seems deafening; a trooper had lost focus, his horse had put a foot down deeper than it'd intended, and it'd panicked, throwing him. Without a word, the lads behind you bring the horse under control and cover the man's mouth, carrying him away. Then the march continues.
After an eternity, you reach your goal. A deep breath to steady your nerves, and then the climb starts. You can already hear the howitzers firing.
Normally this'd be a stress check before going into battle. Since you only have 3 stress, and the lowest result on 3d6 is 3, you automatically pass. Failing a battle stress check is Bad News; you get some unfun options to pick from, ranging from "you haven't slept in days and can barely understand orders and reports" to "you freeze at a moment chosen by QM fiat to cause drama" to more.
Major General Izel Costas, Cunning: (1, 6, 6) + 11 (Cunning) - 2 (Unknown Terrain) = 22, Full Success
You move as silently as you can, but it's a forest. Every twig under foot, every rustling leaf is like a gunshot. You lead your horse with care, knowing that a hundred foot slide here could be anywhere from inconvenient to fatal, and finally step onto flat land. You let out a breath you didn't know your were holding...Major General Izel Costas, Cunning: (1, 6, 6) + 11 (Cunning) - 2 (Unknown Terrain) = 22, Full Success
...and come face to face with a young, red-coated dragoon.
Captain Annaleigh Clemson, Daring: (2, 6, 4) + 10 (Daring) = 22, Full Success
There's no time for the saber. You draw your revolver, taking aim...and realize the poor girl's still frozen in shock. You seize the opportunity, striking her with the five pound sledge of a pistol, and she drops like a sack. Then you hear hooves - another picket, bringing a warning - and there's no more room for nice.
Hit Range: 3 (Close) + 1 (Moving)
Results: (4)
A man on horseback isn't an easy target, especially with so little light. A horse, on the other hand...the heavy .44 ball rips through the animal and it slides a few feet, cutting a furrow. Troopers scramble up the slope behind you. The dragoon kicks his way off his mount and makes it three steps. Then a rifle cracks at your shoulder, and he stumbles, falls.Results: (4)
Unfortunately, the enemy isn't deaf. You can hear bugle calls, shouting. As fast as possible, you bring the whole company (and their horses) onto flat ground. You're hearing hoofbeats now; they're already moving. Seeing silhouettes, too, men and horses bouncing in the dark. It's unclear how many there are in all, but they certainly have you outnumbered, they're charging, and they stand between you and your mission.
[] Form a line and give them a few volleys as they approach. You're Mounted Riflemen, not cavalry. Show them the wonder of the modern percussion rifle.
[] Mount up and charge with revolver and saber. For all you know, these are more irregulars like at Sutter Station, and your revolvers give you a six-times firepower advantage up close.
[] Mount, close ranks, and charge straight through. Don't bother trying to scatter them, just keep your formation and head for the camp. By the time they've put their formation back together and turned back on your tail, you'll have burned it.
Sorry I didn't get this out yesterday, pretty busy week. Also I like bold, so I'm using bold italics for rolls and checks now.
[] Mount up and charge with revolver and saber. For all you know, these are more irregulars like at Sutter Station, and your revolvers give you a six-times firepower advantage up close.
[] Mount, close ranks, and charge straight through. Don't bother trying to scatter them, just keep your formation and head for the camp. By the time they've put their formation back together and turned back on your tail, you'll have burned it.
Sorry I didn't get this out yesterday, pretty busy week. Also I like bold, so I'm using bold italics for rolls and checks now.
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Rat King
Izutsumi-pilled
It's dark and they can't see for shit.
If it were daylight, I'd probably be more in favor of a rifle line, but considering the low light, I think a general melee is bad news - we'll probably end up shooting each other.
So stick close and push through and let them shoot at one another in the darkness.
[X] Mount, close ranks, and charge straight through. Don't bother trying to scatter them just keep your formation and head for the camp. By the time they've put their formation back together and turned back on your tail, you'll have burned it.
If it were daylight, I'd probably be more in favor of a rifle line, but considering the low light, I think a general melee is bad news - we'll probably end up shooting each other.
So stick close and push through and let them shoot at one another in the darkness.
[X] Mount, close ranks, and charge straight through. Don't bother trying to scatter them just keep your formation and head for the camp. By the time they've put their formation back together and turned back on your tail, you'll have burned it.
- Location
- Somewhere in the stacks
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] Mount, close ranks, and charge straight through. Don't bother trying to scatter them just keep your formation and head for the camp. By the time they've put their formation back together and turned back on your tail, you'll have burned it.
- Location
- Ottawa
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Whatever
[X] Mount, close ranks, and charge straight through. Don't bother trying to scatter them just keep your formation and head for the camp. By the time they've put their formation back together and turned back on your tail, you'll have burned it.
- Location
- Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Hm, actually I think you're right. We're currently mounted, so we should keep that if possible. I had thought by the wording that we would be spending time mounting our horses, but we'd actually be dismounting.
[X] Mount, close ranks, and charge straight through. Don't bother trying to scatter them just keep your formation and head for the camp. By the time they've put their formation back together and turned back on your tail, you'll have burned it.
Guilliman
Lord Protector
- Location
- Jakarta
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Mount, close ranks, and charge straight through. Don't bother trying to scatter them just keep your formation and head for the camp. By the time they've put their formation back together and turned back on your tail, you'll have burned it.