Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "Better banebloods of whatever sex than giving commissions to the baneless."

"Now see here!" the grenadier replies indignantly. "Baneless men may lack for dash and initiative, but at least they have been proven to weather the pressures of service!"

"What rubbish, sir!" you exclaim. "Dash and initiative are exactly what we must require of our officers! The Antari have the advantage of numbers, of casting, and they fight on their own ground. How else would we fight if not for the bold ideas of bright officers animated by baneblood's natural ability for command? Would you prefer that we were ground into dust by any enemy that far outweighs us?"

The other officer shakes his head at that. "Typical cavalryman," he growls, perhaps a little too loudly. "All flash and no gristle."

That was a mistake.

You are not the only cavalry officer present and certainly not the least sober. Your fellow commanders of horse—lancers, mostly—prove remarkably quick to respond to the Captain's insult with a few of their own.

Before long, the formerly ordered atmosphere has degenerated into two clearly delineated groups of men, fuelled by a not-inconsiderable amount of claret, sniping at each other with terse, carefully worded remarks; the highborn equivalent of a drunken brawl.

Indeed, you can imagine that only the presence of the King and his generals keep the more hot-headed of your fellow officers from calling each other out.

The King himself ignores the chaos, instead apparently extracting some drop of amusement from the sight of the Earl of Castermaine, who is even now in the process of burying his face in the palm of his hand.

The Countess looks at you with what appears to be half approval and half exasperation. At the other side of the hall, Lord Cassius offers you a tilt of his wineglass in salute as he follows the chaos with a look of great amusement on his angular features.

The night begins to wind down after a few minutes. It seems nobody has the stomach to debate such a touchy subject for very long.

Soon, the King and his generals take their leave, with Lord Cassius in tow. A few minutes later, you note that Lady Katarina and the Countess are gone as well.

With both ladies and dignitaries out of the way, the atmosphere relaxes considerably. Left to their own devices, your brother officers unbutton their collars and begin to speak of more informal matters. Some call out for brandy to be brought to the tables. With no ladies present to be offended by the smoke, more than a few of your fellows light up pipes, cigarettes, and great brown Butean cigars. The air soon fills with the rich aroma of tabac smoke.

Already, the officers around you are breaking up into small groups to converse with some privacy. Under normal circumstances, you would find some friend or acquaintance and join their circle, but you are new to the King's division; these men are all strangers to you, and you have no companions present to make introductions for you.

There seems to be no profit in staying for much longer. You make your excuses and head out into the anteroom, where Marion awaits you with your greatcoat.

With your batman in tow, you head out into the chill and darkened streets. You do not get more than ten paces from the front gate before you hear a voice to your left. "I was wondering when you would find your way out."

It is the Countess of Welles, now wrapped tightly in a heavy fur-trimmed cloak, standing before a pair of her houseguards. Behind them sits a coach of the heavy Antari sort, perhaps confiscated from one of the local notables.

"Shall I have my driver take you to your billet, Sir Alaric?" she asks, gesturing at her requisitioned carriage. "Consider it a thank-you for your words tonight, as well as an apology for my rudeness at our encounter this morning." She waves one gloved hand at Marion behind you. "Surely your servant can find his way back by himself?"

Corporal Marion looks at you for instruction. Faced with no choice, you dismiss him with a nod. To refuse such an offer from a baneblooded lady—and one couched as an apology, besides—well, your reputation has suffered enough already tonight. Some of your fellow officers no doubt already think you a dangerous radical, and there is no need for them to think you are a cad as well.

A few minutes later, you find yourself sitting across from Lady Welles in her coach as it rattles down Solokovil's cobbled main streets.

"It was a very dangerous thing you did back there," the Countess observes as the darkened shapes of buildings pass by the windows. "One does not stake oneself to unpopular opinions before one's King without risking a great deal."

She has a point. While you have quite a robust reputation, your actions tonight have no doubt damaged it a great deal.

She turns to you, her face outlined only by the faint light of the moon and stars. "So I must ask: why would you place yourself at such risk?"

[] "I have held the opinion for quite some time."
[] "I must confess that it was your argument that swayed me."
[] "I never tire of fighting tired old men nor tired, old ideas."
[] "I merely spoke hypothetically."
[] "My reasons are my own, madam."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "I have held the opinion for quite some time."

The Countess's eyebrow rises. "You value your convictions so greatly that you would defend them in the face of the mass disapproval of your fellows? Your superiors? Your King?" Her lips curl into a smile. "My, but you are brave."

You incline your head. "You compliment me, my lady."

Welles replies with a quirk of her lips. "Partially. I also warn you: an excess of bravery is a dangerous thing. In battle, it could see a man wounded or killed. In society, it might do much worse."

For a moment, there is naught but the sound of carriage wheels rolling over cobblestones. Welles looks away, takes a deep breath, and meets your gaze, her expression set. "If you would plan to continue to lend your support to me, to my cause, to entangle your good name with mine, then there is something I must confess."

Your mind flashes with possibilities as you steel yourself for the shock of some sudden realisation. Does she have some terrible secret? Some great liability?

Welles leans in just enough for the patterns of moonlight to shift over her darkened face. "What I proposed tonight is naught but the first step. I would see ladies of the blood become more than file clerks in uniform."

She takes a deep breath. "I would see women of noble blood lead men into battle in my lifetime."

Saints be damned.

[] "My lady, I fear that where you would go, I could not follow."
[] "Surely, there are practical obstacles to such a thing."
[] "I would follow any conviction, my lady, so long as it was yours."
[] "Then we are of a mind, you and I."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "Then we are of a mind, you and I."
I'll select the option that scores Sir Alaric the most points with Lady Welles.

Click to shrink...

The Countess's lips curl into a smile. "I had not thought that the officers of the King's Army would count among them such a radical," she notes.

"I would not count myself a radical, my lady," you reply. "I am merely someone who believes that every person born blessed with the aptitude of command which baneblood brings should be allowed to use it to their full potential, regardless of sex. I would not consider that a radical thought."

Welles's smile grows wider. "Then we are of a mind, sir."

The coach lurches to a stop.

Welles peers out the window for a moment. "We've arrived," she announces. The coach rocks on its springs as the dark shadow of the driver gets up from his seat, walks around to the side of the carriage, and reaches for the door.

"Your billet should be just across the street," the Countess says as the door on your side of the closed compartment opens. As you step out onto the street, she offers you the back of one hand, the white kidskin of her glove glowing pale blue in the light of the moon and stars. "I very much hope, sir, that we shall soon meet again," she says earnestly as your lips brush the soft leather of her gloved knuckle.

"As I you," you reply. "Good evening, my lady."

"Good evening, Castleton," she answers.

Then, with a bright smile on her lips, she is gone, her coach rattling away, leaving you alone before the darkened entrance to your quarters.

-​

As you walk the short distance to your billet, your mind is occupied by thoughts of the outspoken young Lady Welles.

Lady Eleanora Maria Eudokia d'al Gascoyne ae Welles
By Sangiin​

You cross the street, boot spurs clattering against the cobblestone, still lost in thought. As the chill night wind plucks at the hem of your greatcoat, you think upon your encounters with the Countess on this day, binding each facet of an impression together.

By the time you reach your door, you have come to a singular conclusion.

[] Lady Welles has captivated me utterly; I must see her again, and soon.
[] I rather think that we shall get along famously, Lady Welles and I.
[] To become an intimate of the Countess would serve my ambitions quite well, indeed.
[] To me, the lady seems no more or less charming than most.
[] Saints be damned if I have not ever met a more unpleasant woman in my life.

Let the waifu wars begin!

Click to shrink...

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] I rather think that we shall get along famously, Lady Welles and I.

You come to the realisation that you are quite taken by the young noblewoman, for you find in her the best qualities of Tierran womanhood, from her sharp mind to her handsome features, to her willingness to speak her mind, standing up for what is right.

Certainly, there can be no harm in continuing to associate with such a bright young lady further.

That night, you sleep well, knowing that you have found in the Countess a woman, a mind, and a fellow baneblood worth befriending.

-​

The town of Solokovil had fallen without a fight. The King's division had reached the town in the summer of the previous year. Faced with an army of twelve thousand men, the lord of the city had only been able to muster a few hundred ill-armed serfs to man the town's archaic walls. Ultimately, the man had wisely chosen honourable surrender over suicide, sparing his people and his town the gallery of horrors which was to be visited upon Kharangia not two months later.

As a result, the King's division was able to take the town intact without a single shot fired.

It was a damned fortunate thing in more ways than one; Solokovil is only a fraction of the size of Kharangia, and even with every house undamaged and much of the original population driven out, space is at an absolute premium.

Your own quarters are nothing more than a pair of rooms in what you suppose had once been the house of some prosperous freeholder or other. Your new bedroom is cramped and bare compared to the luxurious quarters you had enjoyed in Kharangia but to your lieutenants, who must make do with one room each, or your enlisted men, packed into single houses by the dozen, the very privilege of even having a separate bedroom is an extravagant luxury.

However, it is the other room given over to your use, your office, in which you spend almost the whole of your waking hours, bound to your desk while your subordinates range out from the town in accordance with His Tierran Majesty's grand plan.

The King, it seems, has taken Solokovil for a specific reason: namely, the fact that the town lies a mere thirty-five kilometres south of what had once been Prince Khorobirit's main camp at the town of Mhillanovil. Though the bulk of Khorobirit's forces has long gone south to retake Kharangia, you are quickly made aware that the Antari continue to route their supplies through their former base.

That is apparently why the King has ordered the Antari remaining in Mhillanovil to be placed under constant watch by all the available squadrons of cavalry under his command, which now includes yours.

For the duration, the three troops commanded by your lieutenants have been broken up into individual patrols and sent off on vedette duty while you must remain in Solokovil with your two remaining troops held in reserve for any eventuality or crisis.

However, that hardly means you have any time for leisure; as a squadron commander detached from your regiment, you are responsible for managing your subordinates' patrol schedules and keeping your command fed, supplied, and equipped. While the men under your command ride out to spy upon the enemy, you spend the day spying nothing but the endless stream of requisition forms, notices, and memoranda that Marion brings to your desk.

As the weeks pass and the summer grows sweltering hot, your subordinates lead their men out on daring sortie after daring sortie while you are left behind to deal with the paperwork.

[] I had hoped squadron command to be more 'dash and heroics' and less 'sign on the dashed line.'
[] To be truthful, I am indifferent.
[] I am eager to do whatever the King's Army demands of me.
[] I do not love it, but I dislike getting shot at regularly even more.
[] In fact, I am rather partial to paperwork.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] I am eager to do whatever the King's Army demands of me.

It is not your place to question the needs of the service. That you know quite well. If the King's Army requires you behind a desk, then behind a desk, you will sit, content in knowing that you are doing your part for Crown and kingdom.

Whatever personal preferences you have regarding the matter, you have long since discarded them as entirely irrelevant. The important thing is that you are doing what the Unified Kingdom requires of you so that your beloved country and the army that protects it might prevail.

All else is pointless sentiment.

-​

One day, early in the afternoon, when the day is at its hottest, your small office receives an unexpected visitor.

"Good day, Sandoral," you manage with some confusion as you look up to see your bespectacled subordinate slip through the door. You know that the reedy Lieutenant's next patrol isn't due to depart for another two days, so what is he doing here?

"Sir," he begins, tugging at his collar, "might I speak to you about rescheduling my next assignment?"

You are not much enamoured of that idea; to reshuffle the patrol schedule would mean a great deal of paperwork would have to be redone. "I trust you have a good reason for it?"

Your subordinate mops at his brow with the tail of his uniform cravat. "Uhm, yes, sir. Her Ladyship, the Countess of Welles is holding a salon three days hence, and I would like to be present."

Already, you can feel your eyes narrowing and the blood rushing to your face. You received an invitation as well, but at least you knew better than to shirk your duties as a King's officer to attend. What makes Sandoral think that he can do otherwise?

"I assure you, sir! It is not a social event!" the nervous young Lieutenant adds hurriedly. "There is to be a discussion of reforms in military doctrine based on the lessons we have learned in the past few years' campaigning. You have my word, sir. My interest is purely in the opportunity to develop my abilities as a King's officer."

In hindsight, that does seem like something a fellow like Sandoral would hold great interest in, not to mention something likely to sharpen your intellectual subordinate's head for command. However, that does not necessarily mean that you are willing to re-arrange three troops' worth of patrols just so Sandoral might spend an afternoon discussing tactics….

Does it?

[] "I'll not upend the entire patrol schedule just so that one junior officer might attend a salon."
[] "Very well, I shall humour you this once, but I'll not do it again."
[] "Consider it done, Lieutenant."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "Consider it done, Lieutenant."

Sandoral breaks out into a wide smile, a mix of joy and relief. "Thank you, sir!" he blurts out.

"I shall have Lieutenant Blaylock take your patrol, and you may have the one after," you reply, already visualising the new schedule in your head. "I shall arrange the paperwork tonight."

"Yes sir!" your subordinate replies, his expression animated with a singular excitement. "Thank you again, sir!"

You catch yourself smiling a little. In his current state, Sandoral resembles nothing less than a bespectacled puppy being offered a bone. Saints above, had you been like him once?

"You are welcome, Lieutenant," you say, still smiling. "Dismissed."

Rearranging the patrol schedule proves to be a daunting task. First, you must order Marion to the King's headquarters to request that the previously submitted schedule be cancelled. Then, you must fill in a new schedule and all the attached forms that must go with it. You spend the evening informing your subordinates and fielding the angry yet entirely understandable complaints that soon issue from the officers and men whose liberty must be cancelled to accommodate Sandoral's request.

In the end, it is nearly midnight by the time you are finished. When you go to bed, you are happy enough just to have the matter dealt with.

Alas, your relief proves premature.

The first ugly rumours regarding Welles's salon reach your ears the day after Sandoral leaves for his belated patrol. It appears that when the group of mostly young junior officers met to discuss the state of the King's Army, the tenor of their discussions quickly turned insubordinate. According to the officers' club gossip related to you by your other lieutenants, the attendees spoke of an end to the purchase of commissions, forcing prospective officers to attend training schools like common clerks, and even of the abolishment of the regimental system, ideas fit to give the more hidebound senior officers of the King's Army apoplexy.

The fact that one of your subordinates was present will no doubt not do much good for your reputation. Few things say that one is incapable of controlling one's own subordinates like being in command of a known radical.

Worse yet, when Sandoral reports in from his patrol, he eagerly informs you of his intention to attend a second meeting.

"It shall be next Tuesday, sir," he relates to you, oblivious to your darkening expression. "As I return from my next patrol on Monday, I'll not need to request another reordering of the patrol schedule, so I hope you have no objections to my going."

[] "On the contrary, your attendance at these salons must stop."
[] "I have no objection."
[] "You may attend if you relate to me the substance of the discussions afterwards."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "You may attend if you relate to me the substance of the discussions afterwards."

Sandoral breaks out into a broad grin. "Of course, sir! I am sure you will find it all very fascinating, as well."

Perhaps you will, but more importantly, you find it an excellent compromise. Sandoral will still be able to attend his precious salon. At the same time, you will be able to catch any dangerous or insubordinate ideas that your guileless subordinate might be exposed to long before they have time to take root.

If your Lieutenant shows any sign of catching on to the thought processes behind your decision, he gives no indication of it. He is still beside himself with joy when you dismiss him.

Perhaps he will be less pleased when he realises exactly how much damage he is doing to his good name by attaching himself to the growing rumours of a cabal of radicals within the King's division. Then again, you don't have much reason to be pleased about that either; your reputation will no doubt suffer for it as well.

As promised, Sandoral returns to you on the evening of the following Tuesday, bursting with enthusiasm. Over a bottle of brandy, he summarises the topics of the salon's discussion. While he does touch upon some controversial issues, the majority of what he recounts to you seems rather more like reform than revolution—the further development of dedicated light infantry, new systems of battlefield communication using signalling mirrors, a scheme to preserve fruit for armies in the field by sealing it in glass bottles—all very solid ideas in your mind.

As for Sandoral, he appears to enjoy discussing the ideas brought to the surface by Welles's salon quite thoroughly, so much so that he seems more than happy to offer to return to speak further when you have some time to spare from your desk work.

You see no reason to refuse.

-​

Weeks pass. The days grow longer and hotter, and still, the King sits within the walls of Solokovil with the bulk of his troops. Every day, you continue to arrange and send out fresh scouting parties in the morning and receive the reports of returning ones in the afternoon.

Every time, the news is the same: the Antari forces at Mhillanovil remain encamped before the city, unmoving.

Meanwhile, the news from the south grows direr and direr. Prince Khorobirit has invested and almost encircled Fort Kharan while the bulk of his army faces the Duke of Havenport's entrenched regiments across a stretch of the river north of Kharangia. A battle of reckoning seems only to be a matter of time.

At the end of your second month in Solokovil, something else comes from the south as well: mail.

Most of the letters are of a very ordinary sort: receipts from your banker back home, back copies of the Aetoria Gazette, and letters for your subordinates, which must be routed through their commanding officer (meaning you). In other words, nothing out of the ordinary.

Buried in the middle of the stack, however, is one small, unimportant-looking envelope. You might even have missed it had it not been stamped with the seal of Grenadier Square.

The bravery which you showed when you led the Forlorn Hope through the breach in Kharangia's walls has, it seems, caught the notice of Grenadier Square; for your courage, they have seen fit to award you the Gryphon of Rendower, adding a golden bar to the medal you won all those years ago on that bridge over the River Kharan.

Only a few hundred men have ever won the Gryphon once. Less than five dozen have won it twice. The bar you are now permitted to add to the white and gold ribbon is a simple, unadorned thing, but it marks you as one of the lionheartedly courageous men in the King's Army.

​

All that remains is one letter on the bottom of the pile, a sea-stained thing of folded vellum, held closed by the seal of the Hunters of Wolfswood.

-​

Sir Alaric,

I write to thank you for pledging your support to our most noble cause and to inform you, sir, of the events which have come to pass in the year since my previous letter.

The past few months have been ones of great progress. I have been truly proud to know that Enrique, so dear to me, was also beloved by so many of this country's great and good. Many have flocked to us, as you have, pledging their support to see the legacy of our great and ancient house preserved. Soon, we will begin the process of elevating my lost son to sainthood in earnest.

It is here that I must regret to inform you that I would require a favour from you. The process that stands before us shall require a great sum of money, far more than what the depleted coffers of our house can afford. Any donation which you might be able to offer would aid our cause substantially.

Again, I thank you for the support you have shown thus far, and I remain,
Lady Frederika d'al Hunter, Dowager Viscountess of Wolfswood

-​

The process of elevating someone to sainthood is not a cheap one. Land must be bought, a vigil flame must be set up, and men must be hired to guard it. It is an endeavour beyond the means of all but the wealthiest noble houses. Thus, it is hardly extraordinary for the dowager viscountess to ask for financial assistance from those who have already pledged their support.

The question is, can you afford to send any?

[] Fifty crown would be a fair donation for a man of my position. (-50 Wealth)
[] I can afford to be generous, and I shall be. I send 250 crown. (-250 Wealth)
[] I've not the money to spare for a donation.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] I can afford to be generous, and I shall be. I send 250 crown. (-250 Wealth)

You write a reply to the dowager viscountess, reaffirming your support and informing her of your donation. While your contribution will likely only end up paying a tiny fraction of the cost, it is a far greater amount than any son of a poor baron might be expected to give. You can only hope that your disproportionate generosity will be rewarded.

With your reply finished, you draft a second letter, this time to your banker in Aetoria, ordering him to transfer the necessary funds and draw up the required bank draft.

This done, you fold and seal both messages, setting them aside to be sent tomorrow morning. You have work still to do before the day is done, and it is best you do it, lest tomorrow's patrol set out without ammunition or rations.

-​

The next day, you return to business as usual. Despite ever more dire news from Havenport's division in the south, the King persists in ordering more seemingly pointless scouting missions.

The endless, mind-numbing routine is wearing on your subordinates as well. Every time they return, they seem more surly, more short-tempered. The frustration begins to show on their faces every time you hand them orders to ride to the same vantage point along the same roads and reconnoitre the same points.

It is at a working breakfast, on one of the rare occasions when all three of your lieutenants are not on patrol, that they finally give voice to their anger.

"I'm beginning to think the King has no idea what he's doing," Blaylock growls, a step short of the fine line between bluntness and sedition as he glowers behind his plate of lamb cutlets. "We've been riding about in circles for ten weeks now, making ourselves useless while Havenport faces off against Khorobirit's entire bloody army."

"I'm sure His Majesty's got a plan, Blaylock," Lord Renard drawls as he sits back, gently swirling the last mouthful of claret in his glass, "though I ain't the slightest idea what it be."

"Whatever it is, I hope the King finds its result worth running all of his cavalry into the ground," Sandoral interjects, the soft-spoken officer's voice edged with a tired frustration. "This constant patrolling is sapping the men of their energy and patience."

Your officers turn to you, the weariness plain on their faces, tacitly soliciting your opinion.

[ ] "His Majesty has a plan, and we must have faith in it."
[ ] "I share your sentiments, gentlemen, but we must remain patient."
[ ] "The King's plan better be brilliant for all the grief he's put us through."
[ ] "I fear Blaylock's suspicions may have some merit."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "I share your sentiments, gentlemen, but we must remain patient."

"Patience cannot keep our commands from deteriorating, sir," Sandoral grouses. "A day of rest for six of patrol in the heat of high summer isn't nearly enough. They must be given some relief soon, or they are like to collapse."

"Ain't rest they need," Lord Renard replies. "It's blood. Give 'em the scent of a good fight, and they'll play up like hounds on a fox, wot."

"No amount of inspiration can allow man or horse to transcend hard physickal limits, limits which we are in grave danger of reaching." The bespectacled officer shakes his head. "If His Majesty intends to keep the current state of affairs for more than another month, then I shall hope his grand plan will not require any cavalry, for by then, he shall have none fit for service."

A glance at your watch tells you that time is short; Sandoral is due to depart with his patrol in less than half an hour.

Leaving fruitless speculation behind, you spend the next few minutes outlining patrol orders, an activity perhaps just as fruitless, seeing as they remain unchanged from the week before and the week before that, with only the details of the routes changed.

When you dismiss the meeting, Sandoral, with only ten minutes left to get his horse tacked up, is out the door almost immediately. More slowly, your other two lieutenants follow him out, leaving you alone with your work once more.

-​

The weeks continue to pass, the patrols grind on, and the Antari summer somehow continues to inexplicably get even hotter.

Your squadron flags under the constant strain that the King's pitiless orders put them through. Men and horses both begin to sicken. It is not uncommon for your dragoons to return from their sorties, all listless with heat exhaustion, atop mounts on the verge of collapse.

The men recover quickly enough; you are able to get even the worst-affected back up to fighting trim by replacing them with a fellow from one of your reserve troops for a few days. The horses are another matter; not all can be saved, and every week, you must set out to the quartermaster's office to replace your lost mounts.

You return from one such trip to find a fresh stack of mail on your desk. The first three letters are hardly worth noticing.

The fourth is stamped with your family's seal.

You tear open the wax as you sit down at your desk, already anticipating the news of fresh developments from your father.

You read the first sentence.

No, that cannot be right.

You read it again as clammy fingers climb your spine and grip your mind with cold, impossible certainty.

"Sir?"

The sound of your Staff-sergeant's urgent voice pulls you out of your dire, galloping thoughts. "Staff?" you manage to reply. "What is it?"

"The King's just called a staff meeting for all officers commanding battalions and squadrons," Lanzerel reports. "We're attacking Mhillanovil. I'd bet my stripes on it."

 

[Rogue Attican]

Chapter IX
Wherein the CAVALRY OFFICER is made aware of several MOMENTOUS developments​

My son,

Your father is dead.

If it might offer any consolation at all, one might take solace in the fact that the end was a quick and quiet one, taken suddenly in his sleep. The bane-healer spoke of an aberration within his heart as the cause, one that would not have been found before it had done its terrible work.

He was put upon his pyre and burned before our assembled household yesterday morning. It is a shame that you were not there to see his mortal remains committed to eternity, though I suppose that you have not been present for a great deal of momentous events these past few years.

Reddingfield is yours now, its debts as well as its history; part of your birthright as the eldest son. Your father hoped you would prove a passable successor to steer us through these terrible times.

I pray that he was not mistaken.

I have the honour to remain,
Your Mother

-​

Slowly, carefully, you fold the letter again and slide it back into your jacket pocket as Faith shifts underneath your saddle.

You don't know how many times you've read the travel-weathered sentences on that one piece of paper in the two and a half days it's taken the King's forces to march north to Mhillanovil, but its words have been etched into your mind. Through the long hours of riding flank guard for the long, ponderous columns of Line Infantry, you have been able to think of little else.

"Sir?" an unfamiliar voice says from behind you. "Are you all right?"

[ ] I'm not all right at all; my grief over my father's death is all but incapacitating.
[ ] My sorrow is great, but I might still do my duty.
[ ] I shall be fine as soon as I get my mind off my father's death.
[ ] I shall be all right, having accepted that all men must die.
[ ] I am quite well now that I am free of that miserable scoundrel. Sir Alaric doesn't hate his dad enough.