Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga

[Rogue Attican]

[X] Emptiness; one city will not win us this war.

It is supposed to be a momentous occasion. Were it a faerie story, the rain would have chosen that moment to stop. The long-absent wind would pick up the newly-raised flag, and the clouds would part to shine a single sunbeam upon the unfurled banner, warming the heart of every true-born Tierran in sight.

But this is no story. Within moments, the new Tierran flag hangs just as sodden and miserable as the old Antari one, and you cannot help but depart the ceremony feeling as if very little has changed. The King's Army remains outnumbered, and the Tierran foothold on Antari soil remains dangerously precarious.

There will be far more death and suffering to come before this war is to end.

-​

The main streets of Kharangia have been cleared of rubble and bodies for two days now, but not even the rain has yet washed away the sharp sulfurous stink of gunpowder and the cloying smell of death.

You have become used to the smell now, just as you have become used to the sight of burned-out buildings and the glimpses of piteous clusters of refugees, driven out of their homes by fire or Tierran soldiers and forced to huddle together for warmth. They stay to the darkened alleys and side streets for the most part, hiding from the path of the swaggering invaders.

They have good reason to fear, you suppose. The orgy of pillage, arson, murder, and rape had lasted three days after the city's fall. So great was the carnage wreaked upon Kharangia's citizenry that there was not enough dry wood to burn all the dead; hundreds of bodies had been tipped into the harbour to be washed out into the Calligian Sea with the tide.

The task of actually putting an end to the sack had been an even more difficult proposition. Almost the whole of the army had gone berserk and could not be brought back under discipline. For those three days, the Duke of Havenport's army had effectively ceased to exist, save for portions of its high command, your Dragoons, and a handful of isolated units.

In the end, the Duke had resorted to drastic measures: he had some of the few troops still in good order construct a set of gallows in the main square, then made it known that he would arrest and hang one looter every hour until the men were back under the discipline of their officers.

Still, it had taken nine hours for the looting to end.

You pass under the shadow of the gallows as you cross the main square. A corpse still hangs from the rain-soaked rope, a half-rotting carcass dressed in rags that had once been a line infantryman's jacket.

The rain has driven away the flies, and the carrion birds flew south weeks ago, but the maggots remain, pale-bodied colonies bubbling and churning in the cavities of the corpse's discoloured mouth and the empty sockets where its eyes used to be. It is both a reminder and a warning of what is to happen the next time Tierran officers lose control of their men.

You cannot help but find the whole business to be…

[] Drastic but necessary.
[] Needlessly cruel.
[] Far too lenient.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] Drastic but necessary.

Yes, the situation did call for rather severe measures. Every moment that the army was lost to discipline was another moment in which it was entirely useless for the purpose for which it had been organised. Likewise, each outrage perpetrated on the city's populace would have only hardened their dispositions towards Tierran occupation.

The situation had demanded that the Duke of Havenport take decisive measures. Though no competent officer much relishes the idea of killing his own men, the Duke did what needed to be done without resorting to excessive punishment, which would have lessened the fighting ability of the army as a whole.

Your General did what was needed - no more, no less.

-​

Kharangia is a city fit to make Noringia look like a mere fishing village. Before the siege, it had boasted a population of more than thirty thousand, six times the pre-war population of the provincial port town that had served as the main base of operations for the King's Army until now.

The city had been even greater once. Two generations ago, it had been twice as populous, the major conduit of commerce between Southern Antar and its overseas trading partners. Its massive docks had been built to service that trade, and long ago, the city's superb natural harbour had been filled with ships from throughout the Northern Kingdoms.

King Alaric's War had changed that.

To Tierrans like you, the last war betwixt the Unified Kingdom and the League of Antar had been triumphant proof that Tierra could stand on its own as a naval power. To most of the League Congress, it had been a humiliating but minor defeat. To the rest of the known world, it had been an inconsequential thing, a six-year sequence of naval skirmishes between the fleets of a disunited and declining Antar and a third-rate power that happened to possess a passable navy and a few bold captains.

For Kharangia, it had been disastrous. For six years, the lean frigates of the Royal Tierran Navy and privateers in the pay of bold, young King Alaric Spitfire had stalked the Callingian Sea, dismantling the Antari merchant fleet. By the end of the war, the maritime trade that had been Kharangia's lifeblood had dried up entirely, and the city fell into a long decline.

Still, even in its current state, decrepit, battered, and broken by siege, Kharangia is a massive city full of grand houses and opulent mansions. As a relatively senior officer in the Duke of Havenport's army, you have been given one for use as your billet, a granite-faced two-story manse in the stately High Garden district, complete with a cobbled courtyard and a small coach-house for Faith.

You may be about to winter in a hostile city full of resentful inhabitants as an officer of an invading army, but at least you shall be comfortable.

Marion is waiting for you as you step through the heavy double doors and into the plush-carpeted antechamber. He strips off your soaked overcoat and helmet with brisk efficiency as you allow the warmth of the well-lit room to seep through your wet clothes.

They are next to go, stripped off in the privacy of your bedroom. Perhaps you will have a glass or two of the strong Antari potato wine that somehow escaped the looting intact to help further warm yourself.

Alas, no sooner do you finish changing into a dry shirt and trousers does Marion knock on the door. "Lord Renard is asking for you downstairs, sir," he announces through the door. "He seems quite distraught."

Your drink, it seems, shall have to wait.

Lord Lieutenant Renard d'al Findlay appears to you more than merely distraught as you descend the stairs. "I ain't mean to trouble ye, sir, but…".

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I fear I've found m'self in most dire need of your counsel."

You nod warily. In the past two years, you have never seen Lord Renard in such a state of worry. "Would you like a drink, Lieutenant?" You ask for courtesy's sake.

The young aristocrat shakes his head. "No, sir. This…" He takes another breath. "This best be done with a clear head."

Lord Renard is no drunkard, but you have never known him to turn down a glass of wine. Whatever is on your subordinate's mind must be a weighty matter, indeed. "Very well, Lieutenant. What is it you need?"

"Well…" He pauses and tries again. "It's just that…". No matter how he begins, he cannot seem to avoid choking on his words until finally, he blurts it all out: "Sir, we's on the right side, ain't we?"

Your reaction and your outrage come immediately and automatically. "I beg your pardon, sir?" you ask, flat and cold.

"I was seven years old when this war started," the other officer recounts. "From that time on, I ain't heard nothing save talk of how we were in the right, of the heroism of the King's Army. Ain't any wonder that I'd got meself a commission in my father's regiment as soon as I could, t'come to Antar, kill me some villainous foe, fetch me own glory."

The adolescent lordling sighs. "Two years of this war. I ain't seen glory, and I ain't killed any villains, only men whose crime was t'rise against an invadin' army. Still, I kept me thoughts to meself until…".

Understanding grasps you. "Until we stormed Kharangia."

Lord Renard nods. "If you'd told me that men might commit such cruelty upon other human beings, I'd have thought them liars if I ain't seen it with me own eyes," he whispers, his features taut. "It ain't the Antari to blame, either. Those was men in Tierran colours, our fellows, and we let it happen, encouraged it even. Ain't that make us the villains?"

[] "The sack disgusts me as much as it does you."
[] "It was a cruel necessity."
[] "Do you mean to cling to this childish rubbish about heroes and villains forever?"

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "The sack disgusts me as much as it does you."

Lord Renard nods grimly. "I'd thought it would. We all did. That was why we restrained the men, made sure they wasn't going blood-mad. We'd figured you'd have done the same."

You nod approvingly. "I would have."

The young lordling smiles bitterly. "Then ain't it a pity the rest of the army's senior officers cannot be you," he replies, his voice tinged with admiration. "I must admit, I'm pleased to find myself under your command - not theirs." The young aristocrat begins to turn for the door, then hesitates. "If it ain't trouble you too much, might I come to you for advice on such things in the future?"

[] "It would be no trouble at all, Lord Renard."
[] "Perhaps that would not be such a good idea."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "It would be no trouble at all, Lord Renard."

Lord Renard offers you a firm grin. "Thank you, sir. Good day."

The young officer gives you a light nod before turning towards the door and heading out into the rain.

-​

You are not given much more time to settle in, barely enough to get used to the place and dash off a few letters home. Soon, you find your desk besieged by forms, requests, and complaints, with more coming practically by the hour.

With Lieutenant-colonel Keane gone, the organisational work of keeping three squadrons of cavalry in fighting trim falls to the remaining senior officers of the regiment in Kharangia.

Normally, it would not be so difficult to split the work three ways, but Lieutenant Butler quickly proves himself as hapless in front of a desk as he is at the head of a body of fighting men. Worse yet, orders soon come down from the Duke of Havenport's staff detailing Cazarosta's Third Squadron to patrol Kharangia's hinterlands for more partisan activity.

As a result, you soon find yourself all but trapped at your desk, beset by half a dozen problems at a time. As the days grow shorter and colder, you are required to spend hours dealing with the billeting, provisioning, payment, and discipline of well over four hundred Dragoons. You have little time to rest, for as soon as you reduce your pile of pressing issues to a manageable size, Marion sets down yet another small mountain of damnable vexations before you.

There is no time even to supervise the drill of your men. Thus, it is your subordinates who must take up the entire job of maintaining your men while you deal with the similarly unending problems of a regiment settling into a freshly occupied and still very hostile city.

Sometimes, you cannot help but envy them.

It is not until a day in late autumn that you have time to consider a matter that has been on your mind repeatedly over the weeks.

In the King's Army, it is not uncommon for the Colonel of a regiment to cite soldiers under his command for extraordinary achievement. However, when it is a mere major doing the citing, such actions might be considered presumption or worse, self-promotion.

Still, you cannot seem to shake off the nagging sentiment your men should have at least something to show for maintaining order within their ranks during the fall of Kharangia. While they had simply done what was expected of them and maintained their discipline, they had done so when few other units of the Duke of Havenport's armies had.

Perhaps you should cite some of your men in your next report to Grenadier Square, recommending them for commendations. Of course, even broaching the subject in an official despatch would be overstepping the bounds of your formal authority - something which neither Grenadier Square nor the army as a whole would much approve of.

[] Give men awards for merely following orders? Nonsense!
[] I will single out a few of my best men for awards.
[] I have no intention of being stingy with commendations.
[] I request that my entire squadron be honoured.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] I request that my entire squadron be honoured.

You quickly sketch out a request for a commendation, not for a handful of your men but for your entire squadron. After all, to reward only a few of the nearly two hundred Dragoons under your command for the resolute discipline of all would seem almost an act of supreme unfairness. Thus, you do not hesitate to request some sort of honour that might apply collectively to the entirety of Sixth Squadron, Royal Dragoons.

Not that the boffins at Grenadier Square would see it that way, of course, nor the rest of the army, for that matter. For a man who had never seen combat nor the aftermath of the sack with his own eyes, your recommendation will stink of self-aggrandisement. Still, that is something you are willing to put up with if it means every man in your squadron is given the recognition for their dedication that they deserve.

No sooner do you write out the last sentence does Marion step in with a fresh crop of problems to solve. You hand the request off to Marion so he might include it with your report, and then you turn your attention to other, more pressing matters.

Reputation: 57%
Morale: 59%
Loyalty: 58%

Click to shrink...

-​

As the weeks grind on, you find the volume of incoming paperwork entering a steady and definitive decline. As the Royal Dragoons settle into their new billets and the regiment's junior officers become increasingly confident in their ability to deal with minor issues themselves, the number of problems which you must personally see to diminishes with every day.

Unfortunately, you have damned little opportunity to spend your free time outside your quarters. The unending rains of autumn have turned into the wet, miserable snow that heralds the slow transition into winter. While the rain had merely washed off the cobbles of Kharangia's roads, the sleet turns them into slippery stretches of ice, slush, and mud. Only with the greatest care can either man or horse use such roads for their intended purpose, and the drilling of troops in the city's squares is made a futile exercise.

Only the activity around the city's docks continues in the face of the worsening weather, and then only out of necessity; the last of the year's convoys from Tierra dock and unload their precious cargoes of weapons, equipment, and food with the utmost urgency, lest they be trapped in Antar when the storms of deep winter make the Calligian Sea entirely unnavigable.

When the last ships leave, Edmund Garing is onboard them. He is on his way back to Aetoria to work on the project you invested your hard-earned funds into. Then the docks too are silent, save for the crash of the rising sea and the howl of the winter wind. One morning, you wake to find the outside world frozen, the roads carpeted with freshly fallen snow. The Antari winter has come to Kharangia.

As your days become more dull and empty of anything resembling productive labour, the weather grows increasingly worse. The snow comes down in a greater volume than you have ever seen, and the howling of the winter wind becomes a constant, even through the thick walls of your requisitioned house.

Time passes in a strange, overcast fugue. The clouds become thick enough to blot out the sun. Even at midday, you must keep a lamp lit to see beyond your own outstretched hand with anything resembling clarity.

In one of your now semi-regular games of Tassenswerd with Lord Marcus Havenport, the young Kentauri nobleman, who spent some of his childhood touring Antar with his father, tells you that Kharangia's winters are mild compared to the northern regions of the continent. You find that thought more than a little discomfiting.

Then, one day, the monotony of your long, cold winter afternoon is broken when an unexpected visitor barges into your office, his white-rimmed greatcoat still wrapped around him, snowmelt leaving a trail of wetness across your carpets as he makes his way to your desk.

"I need a second," announces Lieutenant Blaylock, drawing himself up before you.

Lieutenant Iago d'al Blaylock, Royal Dragoons
By Sangiin​

For a moment, you stare in confusion, nearly certain you have misunderstood. "I beg pardon, Lieutenant?"

"I need a second," Blaylock repeats, more excited than annoyed, "for a duel."

"You realise," you reply, giving voice to your first and most relevant thought, "that duelling is punishable under the King's Articles of War, do you not?"

It is, in fact, punishable by death, not that such a fact seems to have dissuaded your impetuous subordinate any.

"He insulted the honour of the regiment!" Blaylock answers, indignant. "What was I to do? I challenged, and he answered, and now we are to resolve the issue with pistols."

You nod grudgingly. A man might insult another man and come to blows, but never would such an affray lead to a formal challenge. For an officer to openly insult another's regiment is a far graver offence. In doing so, not only has Blaylock's would-be opponent cast aspersions on the man himself but on you and every other fellow who has ever served in the Royal Dragoons. To back down after such an insult would have been unthinkable.

"I doubt there's much danger of me losing, of course," Blaylock continues. "Only thing is, I don't have a second. Lord Renard refused outright, and Saints be damned if I'll ask Sandoral when the man barely knows which end of a pistol the balls come out of."

It is hardly a trifling thing for a man to face an impending duel without a second. It is the second who must inspect the pistols to ensure that neither has been tampered with, stand in for the duellist in case he should refuse to show, and witness the proceedings. A duel without seconds is basically murder.

"So," Blaylock concludes, "I have only you left, sir. Might I rely upon you to help me uphold the regiment's honour?"

The problem remains, of course, the fact that should you accept, you would effectively be an accomplice to a breach of military law. The punishment would be quite severe.

That is, of course, only if you get caught.

[X] Inquire further as to the circumstances of Blaylock's duel.

With a little prodding, Blaylock gives you the full story.

Apparently, according to your subordinate, he had been drinking at the officers' club when another lieutenant, an officer of the 8th of Foot, who had arrived from Tierra some months ago, made some rather foul aspersions regarding the Dragoons' conduct at the Battle of Blogia. Blaylock, hothead that he was, immediately confronted the other man, demanding that he retract what your subordinate refers to as 'obvious falsehoods.'

Of course, neither man had actually been present at Blogia, and it is likely both Blaylock's vision of your regiment's heroism and his counterpart's image of its cowardice lie somewhat distant from the truth.

Things escalated from there.

[] Agree to act as Blaylock's second.
[] Refuse to act as Blaylock's second.
[] Refuse and forbid Blaylock from following through with this foolishness.
[] Persuade Blaylock out of this silly nonsense. (Needs 55 Charisma)

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] Agree to act as Blaylock's second.

Blaylock grins wide when you give your reply. "Thank you, sir! The business is to take place at dawn tomorrow, outside the north gate, out of sight of the sentries on the walls. I trust you have no objection, sir?"

You are about to assure your subordinate that you have no objection at all when your mind catches on one possible complication. "Just one, Blaylock. Who else knows about the time and place for this duel?"

Your words give the Lieutenant a moment of pause. "Only Lord Renard, that I know of. A few of the men at the club might have overheard, as well."

You frown. Those few officers are a few too many. "Knowing how rumour spreads in this army, the provosts will catch wind of this soon enough. We shall have to change the location of the duel unless you fancy getting us arrested."

Blaylock's brow furrows in thought for a moment, then nods in agreement. "Best we move the location to somewhere by the western gate. I'll make the arrangements." He pauses for half an instant. "Thank you, sir. I'd not have thought of that," he adds hesitantly.

You smile despite yourself. Admitting that he made an oversight seems to have cost your subordinate considerable effort. "Get some rest then, Lieutenant. Make sure you are fresh for tomorrow. Dismissed."

Blaylock snaps a crisper salute than you have ever seen from him before showing himself out.

-​

The next day's dawn finds you and three other men an hour's ride outside Kharangia's western gate, knee-deep in the snow of a clearing bounded by the skeletal forms of bare-branched trees.

Before you stand the duellists: Blaylock, looking quite composed for a man about to face the killing end of a pistol; and his opponent, a slim young man with the barest wisp of a moustache, the officer who might now be forced to pay for his insults to your regiment with his life.

Your counterpart, a lieutenant of the 8th of Foot, presents you with a box of dark Butean wood. Inside sit a pair of finely made pistols nestled in cushions of red velvet. For a minute, the two of you take out and examine both pistols. It is your responsibility as seconds to ensure that neither weapon has been sabotaged.

This done, you present the instruments to the two duellists. Blaylock looks to the two of you, then to his opponent. "We exchange fire at five paces. Lieutenant Aguilar fires first," he announces with a coolness bordering on nonchalance. "Agreed?"

Blaylock's opponent, Lieutenant Aguilar, accepts readily, as does his second. You can only assume that Blaylock, having, you hope, more experience than you in this business, knows what he is doing.

With the terms agreed upon, the two primary actors take their places. Both you and your counterpart load your pistols. Should either duellist show signs of cheating now, his opponent's second has the right to shoot him dead on the spot.

Then all is in readiness. Aguilar raises his pistol, his hand trembling as Blaylock stands confidently before him, feet planted square, taking not even the slightest effort to make himself a smaller target.

"Go on then. I'm right here!" Blaylock taunts. Aguilar's pistol begins to shake. You cannot understand how, but the infantryman's anxiety actually seems to worsen.

Blaylock's grin grows wider. "Shall I be waiting here all day? I thought you infantry were supposed to be able to manage three shots a minute in any weather, and here you have not yet fired one!"

You are close enough to Aguilar to see his eyes widen in panick. Blaylock's eyes narrow in satisfaction as if he were the man behind the gun rather than in front of it.

"Fire! Saints be damned! Fire!"

Aguilar fires.

The dull crack of the pistol shot echoes through the clearing. For a moment, all is silent. The intended target looks down, then looks back up, expression confident.

He is untouched.

Blaylock's grin turns feral as he raises his own pistol, his hand smooth and steady. "Now, my turn."

Your subordinate brings the muzzle of his weapon up so that it points squarely at his opponent's head. For a marksman of Blaylock's skill, it would be almost impossible for him to miss at such close range. For a second, it seems your Lieutenant is about to blow out his opponent's brains with the most contemptuous ease. Around him, the three of you tense, waiting for the fatal shot.

"I want an apology," Blaylock says, peering at a terrified Aguilar down the barrel of his pistol.

"I apologise, sir," the other man replies, his voice quavering. "I spoke in haste and whilst under the effects of a great deal of wine. I—"

Blaylock lowers the barrel of his pistol until it no longer points to Aguilar's head but to his loins. "Beg," he commands. "Beg hard enough, and maybe I'll leave you with your life and enough gristle to make living worthwhile."

Aguilar sinks to his knees, his spent pistol dropping to the snow. His eyes are stuck wide with fear, and tears run down his cheeks. His voice rises frantically, clouds of breath puffing from his mouth like a boiling kettle until it is nothing more than a sad, uncontrolled blubbering.

The snow beneath him begins to stain yellow.

Blaylock barks out a rough, derisive horse-whinny of a laugh. "Saints be damned. You aren't even worth the bloody powder." With a look that is both one of disgust and triumph, he offhandedly empties his pistol at the far trees, then tosses it into the snow before his humiliated opponent.

"Honour is satisfied," he announces before turning to you. "Best we get out of here."

-​

"I wasn't planning on killing him, of course," Blaylock assures you as you ride back to the gate. "I do not think I should ever want to kill another Tierran on purpose."

"So why bother with the whole business in the first place?" You ask out of sheer curiosity. Now that you have thought about it, your involvement in this illegal duel may actually help you, giving you a reputation as a man who will back his subordinates, and his regiment, to the hilt. It is a thought that improves your mood substantially.

"I only meant to humiliate him," your subordinate replies as you pass under the stone mass of the western gate. The sentries give you strange looks but do not stop you. After all, you are two cavalry officers simply out for a morning ride.

"If I killed him, some might think that there was some truth in the bugger's words and that I had silenced him to keep him quiet," Blaylock continues. "By marking him a coward before witnesses, I have made worthless every single word issued from his mouth. This way, the rumours stop, and we get a reputation as men unfit to be trifled with. I suppose the lads will quite like that."

You nod. If there is anything that a Tierran soldier despises most, it is a coward. Likewise, if there is anything that a Tierran soldier admires the most, it is superiors who stand up for them.

"In any case," Blaylock concludes pridefully, "it is a very conclusive way to win a dispute."

[] "Then I must congratulate you on your victory."
[] "You should refrain from such foolishness in the future."
[] "It was also a very cruel way to win a dispute."
[] "Let us never speak of this again."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "Then I must congratulate you on your victory."

Blaylock chuckles and shakes his head. "It's your victory too, sir. I couldn't have done it without a second." He hesitates for a moment, then smiles again. "Besides, if you hadn't suggested changing the site, the provosts would have likely put an end to the matter before it could have been settled."

You nod; perhaps that is so.

Your subordinate hesitates again as if trying to speak a different language. "I best thank you for that, sir. Wouldn't want my commanding officer to think me ungrateful."

[] "You might thank me next time by seeking my counsel before things go too far."
[] "You're welcome."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "You might thank me next time by seeking my counsel before things go too far."

Blaylock chuckles in reply. "Perhaps I shall, sir, perhaps I shall."

He raises the tips of his fingers to the brim of his helmet. "With your permission?"

You nod, dismissing the other officer, leaving him free to turn his horse towards the house where your officers are quartered. Thus, you are left to ride back to your own billet alone.

-​

As the wind and snow of winter finally begin to give way to warmer weather, the amount of work bound for your desk increases once more.

Though the harbour is still iced over and the streets still covered with snow, arrangements are already being made for the coming campaigning season. Thus, little by little, the preliminary work of getting the regiment ready for action begins to make its weight known upon your shoulders.

There is much to be done: horses must be shod, faulty and worn equipment must be replaced, and those few who have perished over the winter to disease, cold, or skirmishes with the enemy must be struck off the records so that Grenadier Square does not waste the Crown's precious coin on rations and pay for dead men.

Arrangements must also be made for replacements. There will be a fresh draft of men arriving with the first convoy of the year, men to replace those who have fallen, deserted, or been invalided over the past year. Your squadron has taken some heavy losses over the past year. Some reinforcement would be quite welcome.

The problem, of course, lies with the sour but undeniable fact that with each passing year of war, the quality of the newly arrived men grows worse and worse. The flower of Tierran manhood had flocked to the colours at the beginning of the war, but now, eight years later, you are more likely to get gutter scum and criminals, given the choice between the King's dam and gaol.

Adding such men to your squadron's ranks will be detrimental to the qualities of your unit, to say the least.

However, you could try to use whatever influence you might have with your superiors and the Duke of Havenport's staff to ensure that the replacements your squadron gets will be the best available. They will, of course, still be the best of a very bad lot, and there will likely not be very many of them, but it could prove better than the alternative.

What shall you do?

[] I'll request as many replacements as I can.
[] I throw my weight around and try to get the best replacements.
[] It's not worth the trouble; I don't request replacements.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] I throw my weight around and try to get the best replacements.

You spend the rest of the afternoon penning letters and memoranda to the senior officers of the Duke of Havenport's army and the Duke of Cunaris's staff in Noringia. With the successful taking of Kharangia still relatively fresh in their memories, you are sure that the men in question will at least consider the words of one who made himself a hero during the climax of that action.

It takes hours to write every letter. At times, you must call Marion in to look up or confirm the name, title, or post of one of the staff officers you plan to appeal to.

The task proves quite an exhausting one. Once you finally finish sealing the last letter, you find the prospect of yet more paperwork quite unpalatable. So, you put your pen down, clean off your desk, and order Marion to prepare an early supper.

As for the rest, it can wait for tomorrow. Over the next few weeks, the level of administrative work only continues to increase; it seems that the Duke of Havenport and his staff expect Prince Khorobirit himself to send his army to retake Kharangia when the snows melt, and Havenport, it appears, seems intent on making him fight for every pace the Antari advance.

As a result, not only must you prepare solely for the opening of the year's campaigning in the spring, but you must also make preparations for the regiment's needs throughout the summer and autumn months as well—and all of this before the snow has even melted!

At times, you even begin to feel a strange and questionable sympathy towards the officers who man the desks at Grenadier Square, consigned as they are to such tedium for the whole of the year.

During one of these moments, you are jolted out of your unwelcome reverie by a commotion outside, loud enough to be audible through the windows. You peer down the street to see a fast-flowing stream of humanity coursing below you, a strange mix of officers, enlisted men, and even Antari civilians all moving towards the docks in great excitement.

The door half-opens. Marion's head peeks through. "Sir," he says in the half-apologetic tone of a servant intruding on his master, "perhaps you might come to the balcony? There's something you might want to see."

Hastily throwing on your greatcoat, you follow Corporal Marion out through the doors of your bedroom onto the covered balcony.

The house you had requisitioned, like most of the townhouses in Kharangia's High Garden quarter, possesses a commanding view of the city and its environs. While the window in your office looks out over the inland approaches, the balcony on the other side faces the docks, the harbour, and the dark blue expanse of the Calligian Sea.

"There," Marion exclaims, pointing to a low shape slicing cleanly through the water. "There she is."

​

It is a ship. That much is obvious, but it is of a sort that you have only seen once before in your life. It is no bigger and no more heavily built than an idle nobleman's pleasure yacht, but its slab-sided flanks and the midnight black of her hull give her an air of menace. The sharply flared bow and raked masts give her the lines of a predator. She slips into Kharangia's harbour in the face of a winter that has yet to run its course against the wind, her blue-grey sails filled by nothing but banecasting.

A schooner of the Imperial Takaran Navy.

The last time you beheld such a vessel was in the heady days before Blogia. The Takarans had sent a diplomatic observer, though the woman in question did not seem to have a speck of diplomacy within the whole of her body. She had offered nothing but the sneering condescension so regularly given by the strong to the weak and then left days before the disastrous reckoning against Mikhail of Khorobirit's army.

Now, they have come to the war in Antar once again.

[] If the Takarans have come to watch us fight once again, then they are welcome.
[] A Takaran presence will certainly complicate matters.
[] I only hope the new observer will be more polite than the last.
[] The last thing we need is point-eared meddlers intruding in our war!

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] A Takaran presence will certainly complicate matters.

You could not think of anything which would muddy things at this crucial juncture more than a Takaran observer.

It is no secret that the Takarans have their motives for involving themselves, and you have little doubt that the Altrichs' interests align poorly with Tierra's. However, one can hardly expel a dignitary from one of the greatest military powers in creation. As onerous as Takara might prove as an overbearing and scheming third party, it would be nothing compared to the certain doom which would come should Takara become an enemy.

It soon appears as if the rest of the army shares your apprehension. Before long, rumours and whispers are flying like balls at a tennis court, and all meaningful work slows to a crawl as the informal network of informants that is the Duke's staff scrambles to make sense of the Takaran visit. Some say he is an old military man, a former colonel in their imperial guard. Others say it is instead his wastrel of a son. No, comes another rumour. It cannot be, for the visitor is not an observer, but a permanent ambassador, and not even the Takarans would be foolish enough to trust such business to a dissipated dilettante.

The conjecture and hearsay become more outlandish each day, but it does not last long. Four days after the black ship arrives, Marion hands you an invitation; the Duke of Havenport has decided to hold a dinner for the newly arrived Takaran envoy two days hence. Aside from the visitor himself, Havenport has invited many of his senior officers, yourself included.

From the desk of the Duke, such an invitation carries the force of a command. It appears you shall be getting close enough to look at this mysterious Takaran envoy in person.

On that evening, you do indeed manage to get quite close to him. Right next to him, in fact.

Cassius Wilhelm Darien Katsuhiro vam Holt
By Sangiin​

Either through accident or design, you have been seated directly to the left of the point-eared Takaran. He looks very young and would be extremely handsome, had his fine features lacked the characteristic elongated gauntness and death-paleness of the Takaran race. For the first part of the dinner, through the aperitif and the soup, he remains silent, his wide, full lips pursed in thought, his almond-shaped blue eyes wandering about the room wistfully.

It is only when the roast beef is served that you see his expression slip, for he clearly has little experience eating with both knife and fork. He jabs the slice of steaming red meat on his plate this way and that with a genteel exuberance but makes no progress in actually slicing off a piece small enough to eat.

"How does one do it?" He says in accented but excellent Tierran, with a detachment fit only for confronting the truly silly, still stabbing at his beef all the while. "It is like eating with bayonets." It is only then that you realise that he is speaking to you.

"Ah! I have forgotten my manners!" he exclaims. "I am Lord Cassius vam Holt, ambassador on behalf of Aldkizern Reskin vam Paulus ai Takara, to the court of King Miguel of the Unified Kingdom of Tierra, at your service." He extends you a slight bow in his seat.

"Major Sir Alaric d'al Castleton, Royal Dragoons, at yours," you reply.

The Takaran ambassador's eyes light up with recognition. "Castleton? You were the one who led the assault that took this city, yes?"

You nod, a little bit surprised. Has news of that particular feat reached as far as Takara? "Yes, I was the one given the honour."

The Takaran smiles brightly as he inclines his head to you again. "A pleasure to meet you, sir, a pleasure indeed."

Select three of the following questions to ask.

Click to shrink...

[] [HOLT] "What is your opinion of your visit thus far, sir?"
[] [HOLT] "How does Takara see our war?"
[] [HOLT] "You seem to me very young to be an ambassador."
[] [HOLT] "Have you done any soldiering yourself?"
[] [HOLT] "You are of House Holt? As in Darian vam Holt?"