[X] "Cornet Alaric d'al Castleton, at your service."
The boy stands up, setting the cloth carefully on the table. He gives you a respectful nod.
"Caius d'al Cazarosta, at yours."
He shows a hard, thin slash of a grin as he offers his hand to be shook, but you notice very little warmth behind his smile. His dark eyes remain as flint-hard as they were before. He is putting on a show for your benefit, but at least he is now making the effort to be hospitable.
The door swings open again. A small pale boy in his late teens strides through. His sandy blond hair is dishevelled and his alabaster skin covered with bruises and scrapes, some half-healed and some fresh. He is filthy all over; dirt and sweat are heavily smeared over his fine features. The stink of leather and horse manure trails behind him as he makes his way to the far bunk. He takes one glance at you and Cazarosta, still in mid-handshake, and shakes his head with disgust.
Cazarosta gives a cold chuckle.
"That would be Elson, Lord Davis d'al Elson, first son to the Baron of Hawthorne," he says, just loud enough for the other boy to hear. "Associate with him as you would like, but do not expect me to weep with you, should your poor idiot friend get himself killed."
Elson lays down on his cot and makes a conscious effort to ignore the two of you. He fishes out a small, well-worn book from the pocket of his trousers and begins to read. You realize that now would be a good time to try to get to know your roommates. Although Elson is now (at least pretending to be) fully engrossed by his book, you still have Cazarosta's full attention, and perhaps, his friendship. You:
[X] Ask Cazarosta about Elson's bruises.
Cazarosta explains that Elson's upbringing gave him little time to practice horsemanship.
"Elson was given the frivolous education of an idle gentleman. He can recount histories and faerie stories beyond number, but he has very little practical ability or intelligence. After all, instead of finding something he was good at and excelling there, he insists on forcing himself to become a competent equestrian or die horribly in the attempt."
[X] Ask Cazarosta about Elson's book.
Cazarosta explains, with a snort of derision, that the book which Elson is reading happens to be Gallowbrook's "Histories of the Knightly Orders-Militant", a rather condensed tome of popular history.
"He wanted to be a Knight of the Red," he explains in his customarily matter-of-fact tone as if that explained everything. After a short pause and the obvious fact that it did not, he continues in a wintery voice. "Elson's family is too poor to afford bane-hardened armour and sword, and too proud to enter their son as a mere Seeker in the hopes that he would rise to the spurs. Instead, they sent him off to the army, hoping he would get himself killed in a way that doesn't disgrace them entirely."
[X] Ask Cazarosta about himself.
At first, Cazarosta is unwilling to answer any of your questions. It takes a few minutes of sly prodding on your part for the facts of his life to come out, first in a trickle, then in a torrent. It turns out that he is the bastard son of the Countess of Leoniscourt, brought up as a ward of her husband, the Earl of Leoniscourt.
In his own prickly manner, he describes the circumstances of his birth: of how he was discovered to be deathborn: a child of a baneblooded line unable to sense or manipulate the bane.
As the deathborn were always the result of the union between baneblood and baneless (or commoner), Cazarosta's deathborn state betrayed his illegitimacy and led his mother to be executed for adultery, as per the King's law.
Despite this harsh infancy, he speaks kindly of his adoptive father, the Earl of Leoniscourt. His voice softens and he almost seems emotional when he describes how the Earl raised him as if he were his own son and let him take the name which would have been his birthright, had he been legitimate.
"He let me take his name. Out of all the things he could give me, he gave me the most precious, the only thing I could keep. So here I am, a bastard boy with a noble's name."
He gives a stern grimace.
"Which is probably why Elson doesn't seem to like me. In the eyes of baneblooded society, you are fraternizing below your station, are you not?"
[X] I excuse myself and get some sleep before tomorrow's training.
You dress for bed and lay yourself down on the thin, lumpy mattress. The blankets are made of uniformly grey and rough wool but serve well enough. The lumpy cot takes some getting used to, but it is your wandering thoughts which keep you awake. You wonder what the coming days and years will bring and whether you will ever get used to sleeping away from the cosy comfort of your own bedroom back at home. Finally, your mind becomes too weary to continue and meanders no more. You fall into a deep, dreamless sleep…
-
You are hurled awake by a sharp knock on the door. Still groggy, you rise to the pale blue light of the early morning. A brawny, stoic man wearing the three chevrons of a sergeant hands you your saddle, sabre, a pair of pistols, and other various accoutrements. He leaves with a salute and a reminder that reveille is in ten minutes.
You quickly familiarize yourself with the basic accoutrements of the Dragoon's uniform as you dress in the early morning light. White shirt and underpants, breeches, cravat, and the regimental tunic: a knee-length double-breasted affair coloured a drab green-grey, save for a bright panel of blood red in the front. Your trousers are in the same green-grey as your tunic, but the belts for your pistols and sabre and your high topped riding boots are made from dark leather, tastefully accented with silvered fittings. Your leather cavalryman's helmet would be similarly subdued if not for the two great plumes set in its crown, in the red and white of the Duke of Cunaris, your regiment's commanding officer.
Put together, the whole ensemble is still rather drab compared to the uniforms of more prestigious regiments, or even the burnt orange of the Tierran regiments of foot. Regardless, your uniform fits rather well, though a few folds hang a little too loose or cinch a little too tight.
Thus prepared, you head down to the parade grounds to report for your first day of training.
The next few weeks are a blur to you. The King's army requires no formal instruction of its officers, as gentlemen of the blood are expected to have a natural aptitude for command. However, the Duke of Cunaris, having made the decision not to entrust the fates of men under his command to the vague advantages of noble birth, has seen fit to provide you and your fellow new cornets with an improvised training course anyways.
Thus, your mornings are spent in a maelstrom of leather, steel, and horseflesh. Red-faced sergeants and stern grooms teach you the rudimentary skills required of a cavalryman in His Majesty's service. You are drilled relentlessly on your horsemanship, your physical endurance, and your skills with sabre and carbine.
On the very first day, you are put through a massive set of drills and manoeuvres, the so-called "Manual of Arms." Slowly and carefully, and then with increasing rapidity, you are made to repeat the simple actions of mounting a horse, dismounting, loading your weapon, presenting arms, shouldering arms, and practicing the more than two dozen "valid strokes" of the sabre for hours on end. It is clear the instructors mean for you to repeat the actions until you no longer need to think to carry them out.
From sunrise to noon, you are atop a saddle, drilling with the rest of the squadron or kneeling in the firing range. How well do you do?
You have three primary attributes: Soldiering measures your combat ability, Charisma reflects how well you read and get along with people, and Intellect is how book-smart you are. Choosing to boost Soldiering means forgoing the opportunity to make Charisma or Intellect Alaric's highest stat. Conversely, dumping Soldiering will let you make Alaric more of an academic or a people-person.
[] I breeze through physical training effortlessly. (Good)
[] Some of the training is a bit difficult, but I can manage, mostly. (Okay)
[] This regimen is impossible! I am barely surviving! (Bad)
