Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga

[Rogue Attican]

[X] I try to turn the tables with a bluff of my own.

Instead of replying with words, you set down a card of your own: a three to add to the four and nine already lying face down before you. They can hardly match Hroc-hjunkuswerd, but Lord Marcus doesn't know that.

You push your pile of winnings into the pot. "Hak-hjunkuswerd," you declare with as much confidence you can muster. While not a perfect Tassenswerd, Hak-hjunku at least beats Hroc-hjunku.

Lord Marcus shakes his head. "I'll not believe it. I think you are bluffing, sir."

You try to sit back in your chair and make a show of being at ease, but you cannot manage it. The Kentauri leans forward as you draw back, like a squadron of cavalry racing after a routing army; you feel the wooden bars of your high-backed chair dig into your spine.

"Oh yes," he pronounces after what seems like an eternity. "You are bluffing, sir. I would see this Hak-hjunkuswerd of yours," he says as he reveals his own face-down cards: a six, a five, a two, and a ten, a genuine Hroc-hjunkuswerd.

Saints be damned.

You can do nothing in reply save reveal that you had indeed been bluffing.

You watch with a sombre expression as the younger man sweeps his spoils over to his side of the table. Thankfully, the Kentauri does not gloat as some more uncouth men do.

"I think that's enough of Tassenswerd for one evening, gentlemen," he declares. "Shall we move on?"

Without any more money to wager, you cannot help but agree.

Wealth: 1,568

Click to shrink...

It only takes a few moments for Lord Marcus's personal attendant to clear away the cards and replace them with glasses of Cunarian red claret, tumblers of Kentauri whisky, and bowls of Kian Baiejioue. The air fills with the aroma of the tabac smoke from Lord Marcus's cigar and Keane's pipe. The tension of your last round of Tassenswerd fades, and the table turns quickly to conversation.

You don't have much of a chance to speak. Whatever parity you possessed with these three men as players in a game of cards has now been subsumed by your customary roles. Once again, regardless of the informality of the circumstances, you have become a mere captain in a room with three lieutenant colonels. In such august company, you try your best to keep your contributions to a tasteful minimum.

Within minutes, the topic inevitably turns to the business of the army and the ongoing siege.

"I shall hope that this damnable waiting does not last much longer," Hartigan remarks at one point. "Called up my men for inspection this morning. Nearly a third had some sort of fever or runs. Almost feels like my battalion's rotting from the inside out, just sitting here, wallowing in our own filth, with nothing to do except drink and let their drill grow dull."

Hartigan has a point. A siege camp does little for the health of its occupants. In the month and a half since you've arrived at the siege camp, your own men have suffered from illness and inaction as well.

"Keeping the men ready would be easier if those Saints-be-damned partisans didn't make off with half of our supplies," Keane grouses. "We'd at least have enough powder and shot to do musket drill then."

"Doesn't your brother have his Experimental Corps working chastising those rascals?" Hartigan asks Lord Marcus as the line infantry officer idly swirls around the last bit of claret in his glass.

"The King's Experimental Corps," the Kentauri corrects. "Arthur insists it was His Majesty's idea. I don't see the point of it myself. The reports say they're making progress, but I certainly haven't seen any improvement."

With that, there is a momentary lull in the conversation as Keane refills his pipe and Hartigan refills his glass. If you have any questions, now would probably be the best time to ask them.

[X] Ask about the Experimental Corps.

"If I might ask," you begin, "what exactly is this Experimental Corps?"

Hartigan makes a dismissive gesture with his pipe. "Never you mind that, Castleton. Some major in the 8th of Foot thought up some silly ideas about deploying some sort of special infantry force armed with rifled muskets. Somehow His Majesty got wind and ordered a unit together to test it out. It's all nonsense, of course."

"I'd hardly say that," Keane replies pensively. "Such a unit could be applied to great effect."

"Great effect doing what?" the Line Infantry officer retorts. "Stealing crops and burning villages? Skulking through forests like poachers?" He turns aside to you. "That is what those men are, you know: poachers, bandits, ruffians. Their officers too, some of them even commissioned from the ranks, if you could believe such a thing."

"Let's just say," Lord Marcus says with a wry grin, "that the Experimental Corps is a contentious subject and leave it at that."

[X] Ask about the progress of the siege.

"How is the siege progressing?" You ask. "Will we be seeing the new guns in action soon?"

Lord Marcus nods. "I spoke to Major Diaz of the Engineers yesterday eve. He says he is confident the new guns will be in action by tomorrow morning and that we shall have a practicable breach in Kharangia's walls within a month."

Keane shakes his head. "You would take the word of an officer of the Engineers at face value?"

The Kentauri nobleman's eyes narrow. "You would call Major Diaz a liar, sir?"

The senior Dragoon officer shrugs. "I would call him an engineer, sir."

[X] Ask Keane what he has against the Royal Engineers.

You turn to Keane. "If I may ask, sir, why do you revile our army's Engineers so?"

Lord Marcus nods. "I too would wonder as to the cause of your dislike, sir."

Keane replies with a bitter smile. "I do not suppose that either of you has had much experience with His Majesty's vaunted regiment of Sappers and Engineers?" He asks, the final words of his question dripping with sarcasm.

The Kentauri shakes his head. Your own sole experience with the Engineers had been a short period after your first winter in Antar when a small group had helped fortify the outpost you had been posted to. You had not even exchanged words with any of them. You shake your head too.

"Then allow me to explain," Keane replies. "The Engineers require their enlisted men to be literate, physically fit, and capable in mathematics. For this, they are paid twice the wage of an infantryman—almost as much as a Dragoon, in fact—and generally go about their duties in some comfort and safety."

You nod; that doesn't sound too bad.

"The problem is," your superior continues, "that for an officer of Engineers, there is little chance of advancement. As their men already know their business, they have little to do but dissipate themselves. They are some of His Majesty's finest men, led by some of his worst officers."

Lord Marcus nods, as do you. That makes sense. With little chance for promotion or glory, only the most dissolute and indolent man would thrive as an officer of Engineers.

[X] Inquire about the partisans and the supply situation.

"Are the raiders on the roads still bedevilling our supply columns?" you ask.

Keane nods, his expression bitter. "They are."

The Kentauri nods. "Aye. My brother has broached the topic of asking your dragoons to assist the Experimental Corps, as your men are already accustomed to the skirmish."

The Dragoon Colonel nods back. "Indeed. I received word to that effect this morning. You may assure His Grace that I have already drafted the necessary orders."

You try to keep your expression neutral. Has Keane ordered your men to hunt the partisans in the forest? For an instant, you consider asking, but you wave that thought away quickly enough. Now is not the time. Besides, you will know soon enough if and when the orders arrive.

[X] Say nothing.

The next few minutes pass in desultory conversation but nothing of real note. There is a scattered discussion of recent Cortes politics, the obligatory complaints regarding the bureaucratic pigheadedness of Grenadier Square, and the final, obligatory toast: "To His Most Tierran Majesty, Miguel of the House of Rendower, long may he reign."

After that, there is nothing left but to bid your fellow officers good health and a good evening.

"You play a fine hand of Tassenswerd, sir," Lord Marcus remarks as you prepare to leave. "Lord Hugh did well to invite you."

"If reports bear true, Castleton fights just as hard as he plays," Hartigan replies.

The Kentauri nobleman barks a laugh. "Then you are my sort of fellow, Castleton!" He extends his hand towards you. "Let us be friends, you and I."

It is a rather forward thing to do, to shake the hand of a man whom you have just met that evening, but then again, there is no reason for you to decline.

To be friends with the Duke of Havenport's younger brother is no small thing.

-​

The night is still warm when you step out of Lord Marcus Havenport's pavilion, even though by your reckoning, it must be no more than an hour before midnight.

Despite the late hour, it seems you are not the only one up and about. Low fires dot the camp around you, and from them radiate the sounds of an army at rest: the low burble of quiet conversation, the rattle of dice, the rough sounds of masculine voices in song, and the quiet but omnipresent bubbling of kettles.

For some time, you walk in silence, a step behind Colonel Keane as the two of you head for the part of the camp where your regiment now makes its home. There is really little to say. You had known him only tenuously before the Battle of Blogia and had little chance to speak with him after he was made lieutenant colonel and effective regimental commanding officer. It might be possible that this evening has been the longest you have spent in his company outside the field of battle.

Besides, you tell yourself, it would hardly be proper for a junior officer to demand conversation with a superior. So, for a few minutes at least, you follow your regiment's second-in-command as he makes his way through the rows of orderly tents, his expression lost in thought.

​

Finally, your superior officer speaks.

"Castleton," he begins as he stops and turns to face you.

"Yes, sir?"

"Now that you have been with us for the better part of two months, I would request your opinion regarding the enterprise in which this army is currently engaged," he says, his hand gesturing airily to his left.

You do not need to follow Keane's hand to know exactly what he is gesturing at, for to your left, beyond the field fortifications, the sappers' trenches, and the six hundred paces of dead ground stands the solid, defiant bulk of the walls of Kharangia, still unbroken after five months of siege.

"You want my thoughts on the siege, sir?"

Keane shakes his head. "No. I want your opinion of the war, of which this siege is merely one small part."

[] "I trust the King's plan to bring us victory soon, sir."
[] "I believe we shall have victory but at a great cost."
[] "With all due respect, I believe this whole conflict to be pointless."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "I believe we shall have victory but at a great cost."

"I…" Keane begins to say, only for his voice to trail off.

"I see," he says, this time more quietly, his voice more hollow. "Then it shall be more men into the inferno, then? More empty seats at tables, more toasts to fallen friends, more familiar faces to be snatched away?"

"I suppose so, sir," you answer, "but we shall have victory at last."

When Keane answers, his voice is dead and toneless, his eyes distant and cold. "I suppose one might call it that."

With that, he turns again and continues onward.

You walk the rest of the way in silence.

-​

Corporal Marion is waiting for you when you step inside your tent, a mug of tea already in hand.

"Letters came for you while you were out, sir," he says as he hands you the heavy pewter mug of piping liquid and begins stripping off your greatcoat and helmet. "They are on your desk."

You nod as you take your first tentative sip of tea. You make a mental note to finish it all before you go to bed. After all, you have had nothing to drink since sunset save claret, whisky, and Kian spirits. You can already feel the beginnings of what is likely to be tomorrow's hangover.

"Will that be all, sir?" Marion asks in an attempt to remind you that he is still there in the most unobtrusive way possible.

"Yes, that will be all," you reply. "Good night, Marion."

The Corporal gives you a light bow as he steps out of your tent to return to his own bedroll. "Good night, sir."

Your tent is hardly as large or well-appointed as that of a more senior officer like Lord Marcus d'al Havenport. Still, as an officer's lodging, however temporary, it is by far superior to the quarters of your enlisted men. Where your regular Dragoons, corporals, and even your sergeants must share a small rectangular construction with two or three others, your own tent boasts twice the space of their cramped residences. While they must sleep upon thin bedrolls, as an officer, you have been provided a narrow cot drawn from stores, a small cast-iron stove, as well as a battered chair and a small, weathered desk.

It is this last set of furnishings that you turn your attention to now, for as your batman had promised, a pile of letters sits atop the scratched and battered surface, barely visible in the faint light given off by the embers of the still-hot stove. You take a few moments to settle in your chair and get the small brass oil lamp on your desk burning bright enough, and then you turn your attention to the letters.

The first comes sea-stained and slightly crumpled. It doesn't take long to spot your family's seal pressed into the red wax holding the letter closed.

The second letter also comes weathered and discoloured by some long voyage. It bears a different seal, one you could swear you have seen before. You stop for a moment to take a closer look at the familiar-looking sigil in the flickering lamplight. Then you come to a realisation: you have, in fact, seen its like before, stamped in silver-and-gold relief on the signet ring of a man now nearly three years dead. The letter is from the Hunters of Wolfswood.

The next letter is lighter, flimsier, though just as travel-stained. It has suffered in its passage across the Calligian Sea, as lighter paper often does. Still, it seems mostly intact, and the somewhat hastily pressed royal seal stamped into the wax makes its provenance instantly recognisable: Grenadier Square.

So, which letter will you read first?

[X] I read the missive from Grenadier Square.

You break open the seal with a combination of anticipation and dread. After all, the seal itself gives no indication as to the letter's contents, and Grenadier Square awards commendations and cashiers officers with communiques written on the same type of paper.

Then you unfold the paper, and within moments, your lingering apprehensions wash away.

-​

Captain Castleton,

It is our pleasure to inform you that officers of His Tierran Majesty's government have concluded their assessment of the ransoms taken by Third Squadron, The Royal Dragoons, on the 21st day of the 4th month of the year 607.

The duty now falls upon us to disburse the monies thence gained. Your share of this sum comes to a total of 801 crown, 6 towers, and 18 pence. This amount has been duly transferred to your accounts in the Royal Bank of Aetoria and may be drawn upon at any time.

Your obedient servant,
Major Eldridge d'al Huertas, Office of Ransoms and Prizes

-​

So there it is, almost three years after you, Elson, and Cazarosta captured Josef of Torranobirit in the forests of Southern Antar. You have your prize money, at last. While the skirmish which won you your ransom was soon forgotten after the catastrophe at Blogia the month after, your belated reward for the cunning plan which led you to victory in that battle is far from minor; 800 crown is a fortune to most, enough to pay for your promotion to major once you gain your requisite three years' seniority as captain.

You set the note down and take a deep breath to clear the dizziness from your head. You shall have to make decisions on how to spend your newfound wealth eventually, but for now, you have other letters to deal with.

[X] I read the letter from my family.

You unseal the folded paper with a flick of your thumb, unsure if the letter within is to be one of praise or censure. Your eyes dart to the first words of the page.

-​

Son,

News has come to us that the King's Army has been involved this year in some substantial action. I trust that you remain well and that your actions on the field reflect well on the honour and name of this house.

The funds you have sent back to us have come a long way, if not in the material restitution of our house's debts, then in the knowledge that you have proven yourself the man of honour and responsibility which I had hoped to see you become.

Your brother and sister send their regards and their affection.

I await your reply, and I remain,

Your Father

-​

You set the letter back down and think about your family's finances. It seems clear from your father's words that the money you are sending back will not go very far in clearing your house's debts, but can you really afford to send more?

[] No. In fact, I cannot afford to send any at all now. (+15 Income)
[] No, I cannot. (0 Income)
[] Yes, I can and I will; I commit my entire income to clearing my family's debts. (-20 Income)

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] No, I cannot.

You wish you could send home more, but you simply do not have the resources for it. Perhaps if you were to gain a promotion, with the increase in pay that would imply, but even that would most likely come from purchase, something which would likely be impossible if you were to send all of your money home.

No, the current state of affairs shall have to do unless your circumstances were to change.

In any case, what shall you do now?

[X] I read the letter from Wolfswood.

You run your thumb under the folded edge of the rich, thick paper. The stuff is smooth under your fingertips, far better than what you could afford for sure. You work your fingernail under the edge, and with a single flick of your thumb, you pull the wax seal apart, folding the paper open.

The script is fine and spidery, like the sort taught by the high-priced calligraphy tutors that instruct the children of high nobility to write even better than "lesser" banebloods. It is a note that bears reading carefully. So you do, taking care with every word.

-​

Sir Alaric,

I have never had the privilege of meeting you, sir, but nonetheless, I write to you for it is my great hope that you will be of assistance to me in the cause to which I am now devoted.

It is my understanding that you had the privilege of serving under the command of my late son, the 12th Viscount of Wolfswood. I remember him likely as you do, a man full of enthusiasm for all noble pursuits. I am told he fell upon the field of Blogia whilst performing an act of great heroism and thus stands eligible for elevation as a Saint of the Red.

I intend to see this possibility fulfilled at some time in the future. In this enterprise, I would ask for your aid, both as a man who served under my son's command and as a well-regarded officer of the King's Army in your own right.

This war has already taken both my sons from me. Without them, the great noble house which was so ennobled by their presence will die out forever. This enterprise is my best hope of seeing it remembered.

I pray that you respond swiftly,
Lady Frederika d'al Hunter, Dowager Viscountess of Wolfswood

-​

You set the letter down and let out the breath you did not know you were holding. It is a strangely personal message, desperation and resolve jacketed by stilted formality, but it asks your aid in an enormous endeavour: to effectively elevate your old commanding officer to godhood.

Of course, you have little doubt that Lieutenant Colonel Hunter, as you knew him, fits the criteria for a Red Martyrdom. By all accounts, he had fallen on the field of Blogia whilst performing an act of utmost bravery, rallying his battalion of Grenadiers around him so that two full brigades of the Duke of Wulfram's army could make good their retreat, and yet…

To elevate a man, even an undisputed hero, to sainthood is a long and tricky process, even for a powerful noble house. Worse yet, whatever rivals the Hunters might have would no doubt take an interest in opposing such a move. If you were to offer your support for it, Wolfswood's enemies could become yours as well.

Still, he was your commanding officer once and a fine fighting man, besides. Perhaps it is something you owe his memory.

[] I'll do it. I'll pledge the Hunters my support.
[] I cannot make any guarantees, but I can at least say I am in favour.
[] No. I will not allow myself to be drawn into this.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] I'll do it. I'll pledge the Hunters my support.

You take a piece of paper from your desk drawer and ink your pen. It only takes the space of a few minutes to dash off a letter offering your support in the campaign to elevate your old commanding officer to the ranks of the Saints of the Red.

The reply barely takes up a third of the page, but there is not exactly much to say, writing as you are to a woman you have never met.

You sign your name and titles on the bottom. After waiting a few moments for the ink to dry, you fold and seal the letter with a few drops from a stick of red wax and your signet ring. Then you place the sealed reply in your desk drawer. It is far too late in the night to send anything off, but you make a mental note to order Marion to send it by courier to Noringia tomorrow morning.

You shut your drawer and turn back to your desk. Thus, you deal with the last of your letters. There is nothing else left for you to do tonight save go to bed.

You clear off your desk, finish off the dregs of your now-lukewarm tea, and snuff out your lamp before stripping off your tunic and boots and climbing into the soft embrace of your narrow cot.

-​

You wake in the morning to the sound of cannon fire.

That is not a particularly new occurrence. Every day, the Duke of Havenport's army bombards the city of Kharangia, but the shelling so far has been ineffective. The light guns and mortars of the field artillery are of little use against Kharangia's massive fortifications.

This morning, however, there is a new sound joining the soft thump of mortar fire and the low boom of field cannon: a sharp, echoing, reverberating thing, the sound of two thunderous lions roaring in quick succession. You feel the earth shake, and your tent rattles each time the sound comes.

There is little uncertainty in your mind as to the source of this new sound. Sure enough, when you step outside, you confirm your suspicions with your own eyes. Nestled into the immense earthworks between the siege camp and the city sit a set of monstrous artillery pieces, five of them, each mounting an immense gun barrel of black iron, easily the width of a fully grown horse and likely twice as long. Men in the grey-faced jackets of the Engineers swarm around each piece, dwarfed by the huge guns and the complex structures of metal and stone which serve as their mountings.

As you watch, one of the men standing near the breech of the furthest gun leaps backward, a string in his hands. You see the immense gun heave, the entire construction rolling backward on a set of iron tracks as the muzzle spits a gigantic tongue of flame and smoke.

The sound of the gun's report washes over you as if it were a gust of wind. Before it fades, it is joined by a second, more distant roar. Your eyes follow the new sound to the walls of Kharangia, its stone face newly marred. A cloud of fire and pulverised rock rises from the crater of the shell's impact.

When the dust clears a little, you can see the full effect of the morning's bombardment. Even from a kilometre and a half away, you can see the jagged wounds punched into the walls by the new guns. Before long, those wounds shall become breaches, through which the brave vanguard of Havenport's army must assault.

It should not be long now.

You do not get much time to dwell upon it. Marion is soon at your side with a jug of water, a towel, and a freshly sharpened razor. If the thunderous noise of the monstrous new cannon rattles your batman's nerves at all, he gives no indication of it; the razor remains rock-steady in his hands, even as the siege engines rant and roar their iron battle cries not three hundred paces away.

Breakfast comes after your washing-up: tea, sticks of cornbread fried in the Kian style, and sausage in the Salt Coast fashion, cooked with spicy red pepper. Despite the difficult supply situation, officers like you might still enjoy such meals, not unlike what you might find in a cafe in Crittenden or Leoniscourt. Your enlisted men must make do with their bread and salted pork rations. You have heard that the rankers in the line infantry regiments are lucky to get even that.

Your first meal of the day does not detain you for more than a few minutes. Then, you see to your appointments with Marion. With your subordinates handling the day-to-day business of drilling and ordering your men, you are left with an exceptional amount of free time, more than enough to see to personal affairs; all well and good, as there is little else to do in a siege camp for a cavalry officer, save arrange the occasional patrols and sign off on a few requisition forms.

What do you arrange to do first?

Sir Alaric will have enough time for three of the following activities.

Click to shrink...

[] I would like to see how Lady Katarina is faring.
[] I shall visit Master Garing and see what he is up to.
[] I want to make sure my men are doing well.
[] I think I shall begin writing my recollections on my military service.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] I want to make sure my men are doing well.
[X] I shall visit Master Garing and see what he is up to.
[X] I would like to see how Lady Katarina is faring.

We'll start by checking in on our troops.

Click to shrink...

You spend the day on the open ground outside the camp, watching your men drill and practise the manoeuvres with which war is made under the watchful eyes of their officers. What you see is alarming to the extreme.

It is not that your subordinates are anything but diligent in their duties, nor is it any sort of earnest insubordination. Your officers train their men in accordance with both the spirit and the letter of the King's regulations. In fact, that is rather the problem.

The King's regulations require that the commanding officer of each company of infantry and troop of cavalry see to the training of their own unit independently. Ostensibly, the relevant regulations were drafted to allow the officer in question to gain both the confidence of the men under their command as well as self-assurance in their own abilities.

You can certainly vouch for the success of such an approach yourself. After all, those same regulations meant that you had been given a free hand in the training and preparation of your own troop before Blogia - something which may have saved your life and the lives of many others in that great battle.

Unfortunately, in the case of your own squadron, such an approach has led to your men being trained by three lieutenants of vastly different temperaments utilising vastly different approaches. Sandoral drills his men right out of the manual but punishes infractions with no more than stern lectures. Blaylock, on the other hand, resorts to the flat of his sabre to correct even the most minute of imperfections. Lord Renard's approach seems most bizarre of all. His troop spends the whole day in the saddle, supposedly practising horsemanship; in reality, their boyishly enthusiastic commander leads them about the open field at a gallop as he sabres down imaginary foes and regales them with stories of his famed ancestors in his clipped, dandyish accent.

Already, you are beginning to see the fragile unity of your squadron unravel. You can only imagine what might happen when these increasingly disparate troops are thrown together and sent into battle as a unit.

Then again, depriving your subordinates of their ability to train and prepare their own men would almost certainly serve to stifle their fledgling senses of self-confidence as King's Officers. Perhaps it would be better for you to leave your officers alone and hope they learn the needed lessons themselves before it is too late.

Do you choose to step in? If so, how?

[] I order that Lieutenant Sandoral take over all training.
[] I shall take over training and institute my own approach.
[] I let Staff Sergeant Lanzerel take over the training.
[] I'll not tread on my subordinates' feet; I leave things as they are.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] I order that Lieutenant Sandoral take over all training.
I'll let Sandoral take over training Sixth Squadron to keep things moving. While having Lanzerel do it provides a more dramatic increase, it also negatively affects your lieutenants' autonomy.

Click to shrink...

Ultimately, you decide to take steps. Instead of allowing the current situation to continue, you arrange for Lieutenant Sandoral to supervise the training of the whole squadron.

The other lieutenants grumble, of course, deprived as they are of what would normally be their own prerogatives. However, none seek to oppose you, and when you make it abundantly clear that Sandoral carries out his new duties with your authority, they quickly quiet down.

It takes Lieutenant Sandoral almost a week for his authority to be known. However, when he does manage to get your entire squadron to listen to his orders, his drilling regimen quickly begins to take an effect.

By the end of the second week, your troops seem less like a haphazard amalgamation of men and more like a proper squadron once more. Not only that, but many of the surlier rankers, those turned towards bitterness by Blaylock's thuggery or Lord Renard's eccentric flightiness, become more responsive under Sandoral's more even hand.

Discipline: 52%
Loyalty: 57%

Click to shrink...

-​

The next morning, you note with some pleasure that Garing's new guns have already made significant progress in creating a breach. Even from your distant vantage point, you can see the city's fortress walls begin to give way.

Rumour has it that the breach will be wide enough to be assaulted in less than a month; good news; for summer is beginning to draw to a close.

Until then, you will still have time to see to other affairs. What shall you do?

[X] I shall visit Master Garing and see what he is up to.

It is not in any way difficult to find Edmund Garing. Indeed, you are able to locate him even from the ground before your own tent. The arms merchant sits at a folding table on top of a low platform of pounded earth and wood, not far from the cannon that he had helped design.

When you climb up the stairs to the top of the platform, you find the black-jacketed man in a frenzy of motion, rapidly alternating between scribbling something down on a notepad with a pencil and peering off into the distance down a brass contraption which you quickly recognise as a range finder.

"I would suggest depressing the guns by perhaps half a degree," Garing says, still focused on his device and notebook, perhaps mistaking you for one of the engineers tasked to sighting his guns. His voice is taut and clipped, quite unlike the last time you spoke to him. "Some of the shots are going high now that we've deconstructed much of the top level of the wall." He turns over his shoulder only to stop, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. "Wait a moment. You're not Major Diaz."

Garing purses his lips for a moment. "You are…" He snaps his fingers in a rapid succession born of irritability, once, twice, three times. "You are Castleton of the Dragoons, correct?"

You nod. "Yes, Master Garing, that's correct."

Garing nods, a satisfied little grin on his face. "Good, good. Terrible with names, usually better with faces. Anything you need?"

"I wanted to ask if the new cannon were performing well."

"They are performing brilliantly, sir," Garing replies, his voice full of enthusiasm. "Already, I have identified over sixty faults, including several which make each gun wholly inefficient for the military use for which they are currently employed."

You cannot help but be puzzled by that. "How could you say these guns are performing brilliantly if they are so plagued with defects?"

Garing smiles. "You must remember, sir, that these guns are not just weapons but also prototypes. Works in progress, if you would. Every defect that we discover here shall be corrected in the next iteration. In the meantime, the current versions," he gestures towards the battery of iron monsters before you, "will still serve the purpose for which His Grace, the Duke, required them."

You nod. Once the black-coated man puts it that way, it makes a great deal more sense. The arms merchant smiles at your comprehension. "Was there anything else?"

"I wished to know how you have been settling in, sir."

Garing pauses in thought for a moment, then nods. "I suppose things have been going well enough, though I cannot say that I shall miss living in a tent."

He takes a breath, purses his lips, and gives you a faint grin. "Aside from the lack of what I might consider basic amenities, I have not had much difficulty. Most of the rankers among the Engineers know their business well enough, which means I barely have to deal with their officers at all, thank the Saints."

"Are the Engineer officers really so bad?" you ask.

Garing frowns and shakes his head. "Some of them are decent. Major Diaz, for one. The problem is that even the good ones are uniformly useless."

Your eyebrow rises in curiosity. "How do you mean, sir?"

The black-coated man shakes his head and sighs. "They lack professional knowledge, to the point where they do not even understand the basics of the duties which their men must perform. I would imagine that they had no schooling in the finer points of engineering on the day they purchased their commissions and have had little opportunity to pick them up in the meantime. They are, in fact, glorified couriers, passing orders from high command and leaving the burden of interpreting them to their non-commissioned subordinates."

You nod; that would be a problem. You cannot imagine how a unit could properly function whilst commanded by an officer who did not know his business. It would be akin to a company of foot commanded by a man ignorant of musket drill.

"At least the sergeants and corporals know their business," Garing concludes. "Sometimes, it feels as if they are the ones who should be running things."

Before you can reply, you hear booted feet rushing up the wooden steps leading to the observation platform. The source of the sound reveals itself quickly enough: a young lieutenant, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, in a burnt-orange line infantry jacket faced with the iron grey of the Engineers.

"Master Garing, Sergeant Worthing wants you down by the guns," the boy says, a complete lack of self-assurance in his voice. "He says that he's found some sort of problem in the, ah, elevation screw?" he reports, the pitch of his voice climbing into a question with the last two words as if they had been wholly unfamiliar to him.

"Very well," Garing replies, his voice laden with an admirable amount of patience. "I shall see to it presently."

The black-coated man stands from his chair but stops and turns to you before taking more than a step away. "Ah, yes! Before I forget, Captain: there is something I would like to show you. Come to my tent at this time next week."

He scrawls a quick sentence in his notebook before tearing out the page, folding it in two, and handing it to you. "I am quartered with the Engineers. Give this to the men at the door. They will let you in. Now, if you will excuse me, good day."

With that, Garing hurries off, the nervous, clueless engineer in tow. You tuck the folded note away in your pocket, wondering what exactly one of the men behind the Unified Kingdom's greatest gun-making firm would have to show to a captain of Dragoons.

-​

The first thing you notice about Edmund Garing's tent is the smell: raw iron, sawdust, glue, and the sharp stink of gunpowder. The reason behind it becomes obvious, for in the place of a desk, Garing has set up a small workbench covered in pliers, awls, knives, and a truly immense assortment of drawings.

The man himself sits over one of these drawings now, adding a new line to the diagram of some intricate-looking mechanism with the aid of a pencil and ruler. "Good morning, Captain Castleton," he says absently as he continues his work.

How could he have known it were you? After all, you did not introduce yourself. "How did…" you begin to ask.

"It is the morning of the eighteenth, and the guards let you through. If you had been anyone else, I would have heard gunfire," Garing replies as he puts aside his ruler and pencil. "I trust they gave you no trouble?"

You shake your head. "I showed them your note. They let me through."

Garing smiles. "Excellent. In that case, let me show you what you came here to see."

Garing reaches into the pocket of his vest to pull out a small cylindrical object, perhaps twice the length and thickness of your thumb. He holds it lengthwise between his thumb and forefinger, bringing it up to the level of your eyes. "Take a look at this," he says.

Upon closer inspection, you realise that it is, in fact, a brown paper cartridge, akin to but not entirely like those used by both the Line Infantry and your own Dragoons. There are major differences, of course: instead of being twisted shut, it is closed with a paper plug on one end and stopped up with a musket ball on the other.

"A self-contained cartridge," Garing explains. "It is something I have been experimenting with on the side for some time. Using the same principles as the percussion fuze, it is possible to create a cartridge which might be loaded into a musket as a single package: ball, powder, primer, all at once."

You nod numbly. Even a fool could recognise the repercussions. Instead of laboriously priming a flintlock's pan with powder, then ramming ball and powder separately down the barrel of a musket or a pistol, the entire thing might be loaded at once, increasing a trained soldier's rate of fire immensely. Not since the invention of the flintlock in the days of Saint Stanislaus six centuries ago could a single soldier's fighting power have been increased so drastically.

"How does it work?"

Garing frowns. "It doesn't," he replies sourly. "A flintlock requires the primer and the powder to be separate unless you want to cause the entire mechanism to burst. As far as the firearms you and your men carry are concerned, this new cartridge is useless."

"So, why do you not make your own?" You ask. "A new sort of lock capable of using your new cartridge?"

Garing nods. "My thoughts exactly. Unfortunately, my partners are rather less enthusiastic. They believe it would be better to make slight modifications to the current system, substituting the priming powder with a cap of quicksilver."

You nod. Even such a relatively minor change would be a great improvement. Theoretically, a quicksilver priming cap would reduce the chances of misfire greatly, if nothing else. Still, it would be nothing compared to the revolution that a self-contained cartridge could bring to the battlefield.

"I have done some preliminary design work on a weapon that might be able to handle a self-contained cartridge," Garing continues. "Unfortunately, Gutierrez and Truscott will not allow me to use company resources to pursue the project; 'too much time, too much money, too much risk,' they say." The black-coated man shakes his head. "Which is why I must turn to you and men like you."

You look back up at the arms merchant. "Men like me? King's Officers? Banebloods? Men with money to spend?"

Garing nods. "All three, if possible. I shall need men with money to invest in such a project and men with influence in military circles to see that it is accepted upon completion."

"Could you tell me how much you would need altogether?"

Garing recoils, eyes narrowing as if someone had asked him what the colour green tasted like. "Of course not, sir."

Why the bloody Martyr not? You are about to demand an explanation when Garing appears to realise his own error. He puts his hands up placatingly. "I assure you, sir, this is due to no subterfuge on my part. It is simply that only a fool would attempt to assess the required costs of a project such as this one."

Garing gestures to the pile of designs piled on his table. "I might be able to create a successful prototype from one of these designs next week, or we may be facing a process of research and experimentation lasting twenty years. In either case, we would still need many thousands of crown to set up the machinery and facilities needed to produce the result, but how many thousands is an answer I cannot yet give you."

You suppose that makes sense, but the fact that Garing seems to know little about the eventual costs of the project cannot fill you with a great deal of confidence. "What would I gain from such an undertaking?"

"Well, you shall receive a share of whatever profit that the end result earns, proportional to the amount you choose to invest, of course," Garing replies. "If the firearm which results from development is adopted for general use by Grenadier Square, then that could be quite a substantial sum, indeed."

'A substantial sum' is really quite the understatement, you realise. If the King's Army were to accept a weapon for general issue, then one would be needed for every line infantryman, with thousands more to serve as replacements besides. Even a small portion of the royalties from such a thing could make you tens of thousands of crown, if not more.

Of course, such an ideal result might prove an elusive one; any prospective weapon relying on new ideas and mechanical principles would be years, if not decades in the making. Even if a mechanically sound gun were to be the result, there would be no guarantee that it would be adopted for widespread issue.

The risk would be great, but given a little luck, the result would not only be an immense amount of money but the knowledge that you had helped pioneer a revolution in warfare. "Surely there are richer, more influential men you could approach?"

Garing nods. "I suppose so. I would likely find interest from a great number of colonels and generals-of-brigade. If I felt the need, I could even go to Lord Havenport himself."

You suppose he could. GG&T is hardly some back-alley gunshop. "So why don't you?"

The black-coated arms merchant smiles back. "Because it may take ten, maybe fifteen years to see this project to fruition. Where would those colonels and generals-of-brigade be then? Dead or retired. Who would be standing in their place?" he asks, even though you both already know the answer. "Men like you."

"Not every captain ends up a colonel or a general," you point out.

Garing nods. "True, but some do, and you are not the only junior officer I plan to approach."

You nod. It would have only been good business sense for Garing to have approached multiple officers with the potential for high command. In any case, his words make plenty of sense to you. "Might I take a look at your plans?"

Garing shakes his head as he extends one arm over his scattered technical drawings protectively. "I don't think that would be a good idea. I would rather keep these diagrams away from as many eyes as possible. I would not want a competitor to find out what I was working on, after all."

"Surely you could not expect me to commit my own funds without taking a look at what exactly I am to invest in," you reply. "I must insist, sir."

Garing sighs but ultimately steps back, allowing you to approach the mass of diagrams. "Very well, though I warn you that there are nothing more than speculations at the moment and rather opaque ones at that."

You try your best to make sense of the technical drawings which Garing presents you. Though it is hard going at first, it does not take you too long to understand the basic principles behind each of the intricate technical drawings you are shown.

It also does not take long for you to recognise how each design is fundamentally flawed; some are too heavy, whilst others are too fragile to stand up to the pressures involved in the combustion of the cartridge. Others seem to risk blowing hot gases into any prospective shooter's face.

"It seems to me," you finally conclude after maybe half an hour's examination, "that the main problem is that any design using this self-contained cartridge must be breech-loading. Is that correct?"

Garing nods. "A muzzle-loading system like the sort currently in use wouldn't work. The man loading the gun would not be able to ram the cartridge home without deforming it. Thus, the cartridge must be loaded from the rear of the gun. The problem is that any breech mechanism must not just be able to open, but it must also shut tightly enough to contain the gasses of combustion."

A thought strikes you right as Garing mentions the word 'shut.' "Why not a deadbolt?" you muse.

The other man looks up. "I beg pardon, sir?"

Your mind runs with the idea, filling in the blanks just two or three steps ahead of your tongue's explanation. "If the firing pin and breech block were to be constructed like a bolt, set into the stock of a gun as opposed to a door, one could throw the bolt back to allow a cartridge to be admitted, then push it forward and lock it in place."

Congratulations, Sufficient Velocity. You've just helped invent the bolt-action rifle.​

Garing does not waste time voicing his agreement. He is already reaching for his pencil and a fresh sheet of paper.

"Yes, it is an intriguing concept, sir," the arms merchant notes as he looks over a rough sketch of your idea a few minutes later. "I must admit that I would not have thought of such a thing." Garing turns back to you and nods, his expression resolute. "Yes, I shall take a closer look at the idea. Perhaps it may be worth developing. I shall certainly inform you if it proves so."

The black-coated man's expression softens into a smile. "Might I hope that your technical interest in my little project means you are amenable to making an investment?" he asks.

[] "I am afraid I must decline your invitation."

[] "I would be happy to invest in this project."
-[] 2,000 Wealth
-[] 400 Wealth
-[] 100 Wealth
-[] 20 Wealth

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "I would be happy to invest in this project."

Garing breaks out into a bright grin. "Oh, that is marvellous, sir!"

For a moment, it would seem as if he were about to throw all propriety into the air and embrace you bodily. Instead, he simply snatches up a fresh sheet of paper. "Shall we draw up an agreement now, sir?"

The next few minutes pass quickly. Garing is all but frantic with excitement as he draws up the terms of your investment. Before long, all that remains is the amount you are to commit to the arms merchant's project.

As far as you know, your current available funds stand at 2,388 crown. You've still a healthy income, enough to replenish your reserves steadily. However, it is the recent receipt of the ransom money you won nearly three years ago that gives you a true measure of financial security.

Given the current state of your finances, how many crown will you invest?

[X] 400

Garing's face lights up even brighter when you declare the princely sum you are willing to commit to his new project. "I shall still need other investors, of course," he replies, "but I highly doubt any would be as generous as you."

It only takes a few minutes for Garing to draw up a second copy of the agreement for your own records. Then, with both documents signed, you make your goodbyes and head back for your own tent.

You can only imagine what fruit might be borne from Garing's ambitious project. Perhaps it will revolutionise warfare and make you fabulously wealthy in the process. Then again, perhaps not. For the moment, you've other things to occupy your mind.

-​

As the days wear on, the heavy guns continue their deadly work, pounding away at Kharangia's defences, raining hammer blows of fire and iron upon a thin section of its walls. A gaping wound of rubble and pulverised dust now marks the formerly unbroken line of the city's stone armour. It is only a matter of time before the last of the wall gives way entirely and is made wide enough for troops to assault it.

There are other preparations for the imminent assault, as well; trenches begin reaching out from the camp's forward earthworks, scars etched deep into the cleared earth. Day by day, they advance haphazardly towards the forming breach, twisting and turning in geometric patterns to better protect the sappers advancing each trench from the defensive fire of the walls.

Soon, those trenches shall be full of the fighting men of the King's Army, ready to storm the walls of Kharangia.

Until then, there is still some scant time to see to other business. What shall you do?

[X] I would like to see how Lady Katarina is faring.

It doesn't take you long to find Lady Katarina's tent. Surprisingly, the Royal Intelligence agent has set up not in the section of the camp reserved for camp followers and other hangers-on but near the Duke of Havenport's headquarters.

Even more surprising is that the tent itself stands guarded by a pair of burly, fully armed Grenadiers, muskets with fixed bayonets blocking your path.

"Lady Katarina is indisposed," one of them says as you beg permission for entry. "Perhaps you may call on her again tomorrow."

So you come the next day, only to be turned away as well, and the next, and the next.

For a week and a half, this farce continues. You can only imagine what silly game the Royal Intelligence agent is compelling you to play. You expect to be turned away again the tenth time you go, but this time, the guards let you through.

"Lady Katarina is expecting you," the guard says as he clears his musket from the way in. "Carry on, Captain."

About bloody time.

The interior of Lady Katarina's tent is not so differently furnished from yours. It is the little touches—the hand mirror on the desk, the small dresser by the bed, the pair of maids flanking the door—that mark it out as the makeshift boudoir of a highborn lady as well as a tent in a military encampment.

The lady herself sits at her desk in a strange contraption of a chair. As you enter, she turns to face you, or rather, the chair itself turns, swivelling on some hidden mechanism hidden behind the gauzy mass of Katarina's skirts.

"Good morning, Captain," she says, bringing her hands together before her. "I apologise for my recent absences. I have been indisposed."

You nod. "Er—yes, of course."

"So, Sir Alaric," Lady Katarina continues as she fixes you with her regard. "What business brings you to me? Surely you could not have seen the need to call upon me for no reason save my company."

[] "In fact, I did."
[] "I wanted to see how you were doing."
[] "Actually, I wish to ask you some questions."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "In fact, I did."

"Oh, I see." For a moment, Lady Katarina seems almost blindsided by your reply, though she certainly recovers her composure quickly enough.

She turns in her chair to address her maids in a familiar imperious tone. "Marianne, bring in another chair and a table if you please. Louise, tea." With discreet curtsies and a murmured 'yes, ma'am,' the servants quickly withdraw.

"You may trust them both," Lady Katarina mentions offhandedly as the tent flaps close behind the retreating servants. "They serve Royal Intelligence, just as I do."

You nod. It is certainly a clever idea; to most less perceptive banebloods, household servants are practically furniture—interchangeable, invisible, and with no wills of their own. They would be the perfect agents of surveillance.

The maids return within moments. One sets a chair beside you and a light folding table before you. The other maid quickly sets down two cups and a steaming pot of tea on the table with brisk, practised efficiency. Lady Katarina motions for you to sit down with one hand. "Make yourself comfortable, Sir Alaric, and tell me what you wish us to speak of?"

"Should you not have returned to Tierra by now?"

Lady Katarina replies with a genuine look of puzzlement. "Why would I return to Tierra?"

"Is your work not finished here?"

The young noblewoman smiles, her eyes sparkling with cold amusement. "Did you think I had been sent on Royal Intelligence's behalf, at great effort and expense, merely to deliver a few cannons? No, I am on permanent attachment to the Duke of Havenport's staff."

You nod. So she is to remain with the army for some time. "What exactly is the nature of your work?"

"I collate reports and pass on relevant information to my superiors in Aetoria or the Duke of Havenport's staff," Lady Katarina replies. "I handle confidential information and ensure that it remains as such."

You cannot help but be puzzled by that. According to the young noblewoman's description, her job is little more than that of a glorified file clerk with no discretionary powers whatsoever. "Is that all you do?"

The Royal Intelligence agent smiles and shakes her head. "No, it is not."

"Might you tell me of your other duties, then?"

Katarina's smile grows wider as she shakes her head again. So much for that line of questioning. "How did you come to work for Royal Intelligence?"

"I was recruited, of course," the noblewoman replies between delicate sips of her tea. "It was not a particularly convoluted process."

Your mind forms an image of Royal Intelligence agents in black cloaks riding up to some country manor in a sable-bodied phaeton in the dead of night and bundling the young Katarina off to some secret fortress to be trained as a spy. No, no, no. That would be ludicrous.

"You were approached by Royal Intelligence to work for them?" You finally ask.

"Yes, well, not so openly or directly, but that is the gist of it," Katarina replies. "I met their criteria, and I was offered employment."

"Their criteria?" You ask, curious.

The young lady nods. "Yes: literate, numerate, baneblooded, and entirely contrary to the expected image of a Royal Intelligence field agent."

"My lady, you have just described a substantial portion of the Tierran aristocracy," you note. "Surely you are in possession of other qualities which made Royal Intelligence single you out for recruitment."

Lady Katarina smiles cryptically. "Perhaps, but that is for the man who recruited me to say, not I."

"Might I learn a little more about you?"

Lady Katarina tilts her head to the side in a show of ignorance. "About me? What could you possibly want to know about me?"

"I know very little of who you are, my lady," you reply. "Surely, I could know the basics of your life?"

The young noblewoman shakes her head. "The basics of my life before entering the service do not make for interesting conversation, sir."

From the young woman's tone, it seems clear that she will speak no more on the subject. "Must you be so maddeningly evasive in your answers?"

Lady Katarina looks up from her tea, her eyebrow raised. "Why, whatever do you mean?"

"It seems to me that you seem unwilling to provide any straightforward answer," you reply. "Your answers seem to serve only to replace one question with two."

The young noblewoman smiles as she sets her saucer down. "I have secrets, sir. It is part of the nature of my work, my sex, and my station. If I seem to take a circuitous route to your answers, it is because I am skirting those secrets so that they might be safeguarded."

"Safeguarded even from your allies?"

Katarina nods, her gaze steady. "Especially from my allies."

"That is all. I best be going."

"Wait," Katarina says before you can stand to leave. "There is one more thing."

The young noblewoman hesitates for a moment; whatever she is trying to say is not something that will come out easily.

"Some counsel I solicited recently has compelled me to devote some thought to our interaction on the road from Noringia," Lady Katarina says, her voice still laden with an uncharacteristic timidity. "I have come to understand that my manner may have seemed overbearing. I must apologise, sir, and beg your forgiveness for second-guessing you before your men."

[] "There is no need to apologise."
[] "You are forgiven."
[] "You will be forgiven when you prove to me that you have learned better."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "There is no need to apologise."

"I must insist, sir. The fault was mine," the Royal Intelligence agent replies.

You shake your head. "The advice you gave was sound. No offence was taken, my lady."

Lady Katarina smiles back, with more warmth than you have ever seen from her before. "Thank you, Castleton, and Saints go with you."

You return to your own side of the siege camp, still unsure what to make of Lady Katarina. She is cryptic, prickly, and aloof; that is true. Then again, the young woman also has her own set of charms, not all of them physical. Still, taken all together, sharp mind, sharp tongue and all, you suppose you must take the whole into account whilst forming a definite opinion of her.

What do you conclude?

[] I would hope earnestly to gain her deep affection, perhaps even more.
[] I hold her in high esteem as an acquaintance.
[] Lady Katarina's quick mind makes her almost worth befriending.
[] The young lady is a thoroughly unpleasant person, not worth my acquaintance.
[] My personal opinion does not matter; I need an ally in Royal Intelligence.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] I would hope earnestly to gain her deep affection, perhaps even more.

You try to think upon the matter dispassionately, but all you can envision are her dark curls, her silky voice, the glint of devilish wit in her eyes, the smell of her perfume—

Saints be damned, you think you might actually be falling in love.

It has been a long time indeed since you have thought of courtship. After all, you have been at war for much of your adult life, and with most of the women around you either married, of improper blood or foreign, you have had little need to think on the topic.

Now, however…

You know Lady Katarina to be a baneblood at the very least and likely the scion of a noble family no less distinguished than yours. She might make a good match. Of course, the only question is whether she feels the same.

No, that is a matter for some different time. For now, you must see to other things.

-​

The next morning, Marion greets you with fresh news: an announcement from the Duke of Havenport's headquarters.

In six days, the Duke of Havenport's army is to assault the walls of Kharangia. To serve as an advance party, His Grace requires volunteers for a small force to lead the first wave and secure the breach in the walls before the main force of the assault can arrive: a Forlorn Hope.

As far as you can tell, given your knowledge of warfare, there is no role in any siege or battle quite as risky, glorious, and almost invariably fatal as that of a Forlorn Hope.

The term itself refers to a small party of men, usually led by an officer. To fulfill their task of leading the assault on a fortified city, they must brave the brunt of the defensive fire from the walls, charge up into the breach, and then guard that precarious fingerhold in the face of the assembled fury of the enemy's defences.

Though such a party would only have to hold their position for a few minutes at most, they would have to do so outnumbered and nearly surrounded, and they would face every cunning trap and obstacle the enemy could throw at them. The history of warfare is replete with tales of such parties annihilated to the man.

As a result, the Forlorn Hope itself is composed entirely of volunteers, and the rewards for prevailing as a part of such a force are commensurate with the risk; Havenport promises massive cash bonuses for each man and better yet, a free promotion for the officer commanding.

You could not think of a greater reward. Not only would you be saved from paying for the cost of a promotion, but the normal seniority requirement would be waived as well. This, alongside the great harvest of glory which would come with a successful action, would be more than enough to give your career a substantial boost—if you survive.

So, will you step forward? Or would you prefer to assault the city with the main force alongside the rest of your regiment?

[] I'll volunteer for the Forlorn Hope; glory calls to me!
[] I volunteer to lead the Forlorn Hope, for the reward, of course.
[] I'll stay with the main force; rather safer that way.
[] I'll not volunteer; give some other man a chance to win his glory.

Volunteering for the Forlorn Hope gets us extra dialogue and won't necessarily lock us into storming the breach, so go ahead and choose the response you think suits Sir Alaric best.

Click to shrink...