Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga

[Rogue Attican]

Humanity in the Infinite Sea is best seen as a pyramid. At the bottom sit 99.5% of the human race: those lacking the ability to sense the Bane within all living and formerly living things. This inability marks them as "baneless." The remaining 0.5% who do possess banesense are known as "banebloods." Of these, perhaps one in one hundred are able to manipulate the Bane and bend it to their own will. They have the capability of influencing the objects and living things in which the Bane resides with the aid of material components like baneseals. These gifted few are known as banecasters. While banecasters may be born from the union of any two banebloods, the child of a baneblooded parent and a baneless parent will not possess the banesense, nor will any of their descendants. These offspring are referred to as "deathborn."

In the Northern Kingdoms (including Tierra and Antar), one of the most important social distinctions is that of baneblood: only banebloods may inherit noble titles, rule as monarchs, or become knights of any of the religious orders. This means that in the Northern Kingdoms, the term "baneblood" is almost synonymous with "hereditary nobility." While there are banebloods without titles, they are still part of the aristocracy, a social class that no baneless person may enter. In the interests of protecting both their noble blood and their pool of banebloods, every single one of the Northern Kingdoms maintains laws that prevent banebloods from marrying or having intimate relations with anyone else, save other banebloods. Harsh punishments, up to and including summary execution, are used to enforce these laws.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] This regimen is impossible! I am barely surviving! (Bad)

Click to shrink...

Unfortunately, it does not seem like you are cut out to be a man of war. You are rather helpless on horseback, and the sparring ring becomes a constant source of humiliation for you.

One day, as you stuff your battered body into your sparring armour in preparation for another defeat in the ring, you see Cazarosta walking past with his training group. Glancing at your numerous bruises, the other cornet's normally expressionless face twists into something very close to pity.

"Don't block the blow," he says quietly. "It'll only leave you open for the follow-up. Try dodging instead."

You try following his advice, but your feet are clumsy and slow to move. You barely avoid tripping over yourself, trying to sidestep your partner's blow, and almost still get hit for your trouble. As you regain your balance, you see that your opponent's attack has left him open. You swing, and your wooden blade almost connects before your foe dives in and puts the wooden point of his sabre at your throat. It is the closest you've ever come to winning.

This continues. Every time Cazarosta walks by in training, he offers you some sort of terse but useful advice. You almost begin to look forward to it. Over the next few weeks, your fighting skills improve immeasurably. By the end of it, your drill sergeants proudly declare you almost competent.

-​

Drilling and physical training mercifully end at noon, just as the days get to their hottest. Within the cool stone walls of the old fortress, you eat simple but hearty fare with the other junior officers before being shuffled off for instruction in more academic pursuits. Some of the barracks rooms of the old fortress have been converted into classrooms. Throughout the afternoon, knowledgeable lieutenants and captains run you through the rudiments of tactics and command. Military history, geography, mathematics, and more esoteric subjects are all covered thoroughly.

You also learn how to maintain your equipment and weapons properly. For example, the spiral grooves of your rifled carbine are easily fouled and require constant maintenance. You are taught how each man must wrap a cloth patch greased with pig's fat around each carbine ball when firing, so it may grip the rifling without fouling it. Your instructors pound this and a thousand other scraps of information about every single piece of your gear into your head, promising you eventually, such comprehensive knowledge of your own equipment will find a way to save your life.

How do you fare?

[] I do excellently in the academic training. (Good)
[] I do all right, but academics have never been my strong suit. (Okay)
[] It seems that book learning is a great weakness of mine. (Bad)

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] I do excellently in the academic training. (Good)
I forgot to mention this earlier, but you would've lost a whopping 25% in Soldiering had Cazarosta not liked you enough to give you pointers. However, since you're the closest thing he has to a friend, you only lose 15%. You also boost Intellect by 20%.

Click to shrink...

You quickly leave your peers behind. Your instructors are all but falling over each other in their haste to proclaim you a prodigy. You are commended again and again for your quick mind and thoughtful responses.

-​

When your academic lessons end at six o'clock, you are set at liberty for the remainder of the day. Most of the other officers in training gravitate to the officer's mess, to eat their supper amongst their peers and superiors. This is the prime time for gossip, debate and other such social pursuits.

In a group of young gentlemen of good family and fine education, conversation naturally commits itself to wider subjects than the common barracks-room chatter about training, harvests, and girls. Political debates are common and it is not an especially rare sight to see two officers pitched against each other, waxing rhetorical over the pros and cons of some act of the Cortes printed in that day's broadsheet. Skill and physical prowess may rule the day, but wit and likeability carry the evening. One could almost tell the popularity of an officer solely by the amount of comrades clustered around him.

What about you? How do you usually take supper?

[X] I may not be the most personable of men, but I rarely eat alone.

Although you are not excessively popular, you still manage to make some friends. You are certainly welcome at almost any table you choose to eat at. Rarely are you ever refused a chance to speak.

-​

By the second week of your training, you come to the realization that you have never seen Cazarosta at supper. While some officers certainly do avoid the evening meal to avail themselves of the pleasures of the town, you doubt that your ascetic roommate would be so morally lax. One evening, you resolve to make a particular effort to look for him in the officer's mess, but see that he is quite conspicuously absent.

[X] I will go look for him.
[] It's none of my business.

As the guy running the thread, I'll go ahead and automatically select the choices that give us more information so long as they don't have a mechanical impact on Alaric.

Click to shrink...

As soon as you finish your supper, you decide to look for your erstwhile roommate. After first ensuring that he is neither in his room nor in any of the other common areas of the fortress, you make the rounds of the massive old stone building.

After half an hour, you finally find him in Fernandescourt's small, dimly-lit chapel. He is kneeling before the small, centuries-old statue of Saint Talbot and silently tending to the shrine flame of the patron saint of House Cazarosta, his lips fluttering open and shut in quick, repetitive prayer.

Unable to break the holy silence of the chapel, or meet the gaze of the hundreds of statues of the other saints arrayed around the room, you quietly leave the small chamber of worship.

-​

Throughout your instruction, you often find yourself training alongside or against your roommates. Cazarosta has proven himself an excellent horseman and a first class carbinier, while Elson seems to always be surrounded by other nobles' sons. Their mutual rivalry remains strong and the two will never speak to each other unless absolutely necessary. Regardless, after supper, you find yourself at liberty to further a prospective friendship with either. What do you do?

[] Practice sparring and marksmanship with Cazarosta.
[] Socialize with Elson and his friends.
[] Try to reconcile Cazarosta and Elson.
[] I don't need friends, I need to improve my skills.

 

[Rogue Attican]

The Northern Kingdoms are relatively unified under the worship of the "Pantheons of the Saintly Martyrs." Saintly Martyrs (or "Saints," as they are more commonly referred to) are baneblooded exemplars who died in a way which allowed them entry into one of the three Pantheons. Saints of the Red die in battle, leading their soldiers to victory or staving off a hopeless situation. Saints of the Blue die protecting the weak and innocent against injustice or tyranny. Saints of the Green sacrifice their lives for the pursuit of knowledge, exploring the unknown or long-lost.

The process of canonizing a Saint is very simple. Any baneblooded individual can make a shrine to a martyr: a flame which must burn continually for an entire year, in the presence of one of the chapterhouses of an established order. As long as the fire does not go out and is not put out by some proactive critic for that year, the deceased in question is considered Sainted, and dispensation is made to create an order of knighthood for them.

Knightly orders are powerful organizations. Only baneblooded can apply to become knights. Baneless and deathborn can only join on the explicit invitation of the Grand Master of the Order. These knights seek martyrdom in the manner of their saint's pantheon. Knights of the Red are, for example, determined to die in battle and often lead armies from the front. Below them are their baneless compatriots, Seekers, who serve as clerical workers and priests as well as squires and retainers. It is believed that there is no distinction made between Seekers and Knights after death, so long as they gain martyrdom. Baneless and baneblooded alike, their patron saint awaits them in a shining palace, ready to induct them into his or her celestial retinue.

Knights of the Red are often the most politically powerful of the orders. Focused on martial prowess, they naturally carry a great deal of influence both in inter-ordinal politics and within their host states. They are commonly referred to as the "Orders-Militant." The representatives of these orders meet semi-regularly in the Principality of Mersdon to discuss politics and dictate policy. In addition, the "Convocation of the Orders-Militant" (as this meeting is called) has the ability to declare Holy War: They may proclaim a state Pariah-Among-Nations, which gives the targeted state a choice: they may either immediately put their entire ruling house to the sword, or face invasion by the assembled Knights of the Red, a prospect which would inevitably lead to destruction.

The League of Antar possesses a similar, but different religious system. About three hundred years ago, certain theologians speculated about a "Mother of Ascension," a supreme being who alone adjudicated the saintly status of a martyr. One of the earliest adherents to this belief was Prince Eugen of Antagia, the founder of the League of Antar. As a result, the "Ascensionist Heresy" became the state religion of Antar, and its Church Hussars fight not for individual Saints, but for the Mother, depicted as an impossibly beautiful winged woman in her thirties clad in a suit of silver armour.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] Practice sparring and marksmanship with Cazarosta.
By spending time with Cazarosta, you've completely regained all the Soldiering you lost by choosing it as your dump stat.

Click to shrink...

You become indispensable to each other, almost friends.

In a rare moment of rest, he explains that should he prove himself the best new officer in the regiment, he will likely be assigned to lead a final planned exercise. Should such an assignment go well, Cazarosta could find himself eligible for a rare brevet promotion to lieutenant, a singular opportunity for a man without patronage or wealth in the Tierran Army. The promotion would only last until the end of hostilities, but it would give Cazarosta the chance at a troop command long before he could secure the funds to buy a permanent promotion.

"It would not be guaranteed, of course. My competition is hardly inadequate," he says quietly, looking you dead in the eye.

You get the feeling that it is the closest thing to a compliment that you are going to get from him for a long time yet.

-​

One morning halfway through the sixth week of training, you arrive on the parade grounds to see your instructors notably absent. Your fellow officers in training are milling about aimlessly. After a few minutes, Captain Montez himself comes out, his pinched face even more wrinkled in anxiety than usual.

He announces that His Majesty the King has finally given orders for the Royal Dragoons to join the rest of the army. A squadron of warships is to arrive within the week to ferry you across the Calligian Sea.

Before then, there is to be a final exercise: a mock charge across an open pasture with live steel and ammunition. Every newly commissioned officer is to participate. Leading such an exercise would be a great honour for any cornet. More importantly, it would mean that they would have a chance at a brevet promotion, should they acquit themselves well enough to be considered suitable for a position of higher responsibility. The crowd is rapt as Montez announces the name of the man to lead the exercise: Cornet Caius d'al Cazarosta.

You cross the parade grounds to congratulate a slightly more cheerful Cazarosta, but he brushes it off as if the whole affair were nothing.

"I merely did as I was bid to do as an officer of the King's Army, is that not so?" he responds.

"I followed my instruction to the best of my ability, and if Montez was able to see enough ability in me to assign me this post of honour, I will continue to do so. However, I am not deserving of your congratulations. The Saints do not inspire us to glory so that we could receive accolades for doing as we are bid."

That being said, the two of you head for the officer's mess for breakfast without another word.

Training officially ends the next day. After that, the Old Fortress seems even more abuzz with activity. The enlisted men are conscripted into stacking crates of ammunition, supplies, and rations for man and horse alike in preparation for the convoy's arrival. You and the other cornets are briefed on the nature of the exercise you are to take part in.

The mock charge will involve all of the new officers and nearly the full strength of the regiment. In attendance will be the regimental commander: His Grace, the Duke of Cunaris. Montez does not hesitate to stress how important the exercise would be. While the Dragoons are not meant for frontal charges, this exercise would be the Dragoons' last and only attempt at manoeuvreing as a whole regiment before departing for Antar, when the next such manoeuvre could be into the teeth of a row of enemy muskets or pikes.

The day of the exercise dawns bright and cloudless. The regiment forms up, squadron by squadron on the parade grounds before marching to the starting point in a vast field outside the fortress walls. By the time the sun is high in the sky, all six squadrons of the regiment have assembled.

Your first view of the entire assembled regiment is breathtaking: over a thousand men atop their horses, wearing the green-grey and blood-red of their long uniform jackets. Cazarosta is visible — barely — at the head of your squadron. In one hand, he holds the regimental colours; in the other, his sabre shines in the morning sun like a sliver of light.

Cazarosta slowly moves ahead of the assembled regiment, his horse at a slow walk. You take your position behind him. You take note that Elson is near the rear, which, considering his terrible horsemanship, was probably a dose of sound judgment on his part.

The field is silent as all six squadrons of the Royal Dragoon Regiment sit atop their saddles, straining to hold back their anticipation to a man.

From each assembled troop, a sergeant walks his horse forward. Each senior enlisted man wheels his force around, staring men and officers in the face.

"Who're we?" the NCOs bellow in unison.

"The first to fight!" comes the automatic reply, made a solid mass of sound by a thousand voices. It is a response drilled into every single Dragoon since their first day.

"Who're we?"

"The last to leave!" the shouted response comes even louder.

"Who're we?"

"The first a-horse!"

"Who're we?"

"The last a-bed!"

"Who're we?" You can feel the air course with anticipation as men and officers tremble with enthusiasm.

"Royal Dragoons!"

"Who're we?"

"Royal Dragoons!"

"Who're we?!" the Sergeants scream, their voices hoarse with exertion.

"Dragoons! Dragoons! The King's Dragoons!" The reply is deafening, and you hear your own voice being added to the chant despite yourself.

"Dragoons! Draw… swords!"

The regiment draws its sabres as a single body. You snap your head to face front just in time to see Cazarosta give the signal to charge with the traditional battle cry of the Royal Army.

"Tierra and Victory! Advance!"

The regiment flows into motion as trumpet blasts and kettle drums pound at your ears. Soon, the cacophony is joined by the thunderous beats of five thousand hooves on the grassy turf as the regiment eases into a trot, a canter, and finally, a full run. The ground seems to shake under you as your horse pounds down the field in the company of a thousand others. Wild whoops and shouts fill the air as the entire regiment picks up speed. In the corner of your eye, you can see the fluttering red dragon on white of the Duke of Cunaris, observing from specially built stands on the side.

You spur your horse onwards as you lean forward in the saddle, the reins clutched tightly in your hands. With the exhilarating feel of the wind rushing through your hair, it is hard to remember to turn to check your flanks as you rapidly approach the line of straw dummies serving as your enemy. As you do, you notice Elson almost beside you, his horse straining to push its rider yet further forward. Did he speed up to try to reach the forefront of the charge?

From the corner of your eye, you see a flash of motion: Elson tumbles from his seat, wrenched free from the saddle by the wild momentum of his mount. A fraction of a second is all it takes. What seems like half the squadron turns their heads at his frantic screaming, punctuated by sickening thumps as his careening horse flings his body behind it like a rag doll.

You look ahead for orders to stop the exercise, but out of either callousness or complete obliviousness, Cazarosta continues on. No order to stop is given.

Elson's panicked screams terminate with a sharp, sickening crack. As you turn your head, you see him being dragged along, entirely limp, his other foot still in the stirrup.

You make a split-second decision to:

[] Continue on: I cannot impede the exercise. Elson will have to fend for himself.
[] Ride ahead: I must try to get Cazarosta to stop the exercise.
[] Stop the exercise myself! It's the only way!
[] Stay behind: I must try to help Elson.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] Stay behind: I must try to help Elson.
As a result of his heroism, the Reputation of Alaric d'al Castleton now sits at 30%, and his Idealism is now 59%. Mercy now wins out over Ruthlessness by 8%.

Click to shrink...

You rein your horse in and turn around, right into the huge dust cloud following the charging regiment. You stumble out, your eyes burning and your throat raw from coughing.

Elson's horse barrels out of the dust a few paces in front of you, bucking wildly. The young aristocrat's limp body still hangs from the stirrup, flung to and fro by his rampant mount's wild twisting and turning.

Your hand lashes out quickly as you bring your horse alongside. With a sharp tug on the reins, you bring the wildly thrashing horse to heel. Carefully, you are able to calm Elson's mount down enough to dismount and pull its unconscious rider from the stirrup. With a quick glance, you are able to identify your fallen comrade's injuries. Tearing strips from his undershirt, you improvise a crude bandage to stop the bleeding from the wide gash on Elson's forehead.

By the time the healers arrive, you have the situation well in hand. The uniformed banehealers thank you for your quick intervention and hurry Elson off to the infirmary.

When he wakes at the end of the day, Elson sends for you. When you arrive, he offers his personal thanks. The healers credit your rapid reaction for the young aristocrat's quick recovery and write you a personal commendation.

Montez proves less angry at your choices during the exercise than you had feared. While he seems quite annoyed at your choice to prioritize the well-being of a very junior officer before the overall objective, he does not seem as entirely displeased with you as the circumstances would seem to demand. He gives you a rather limp lecture on maintaining priorities in battle. With a weary dismissal, he orders you out of his office, but before you reach the door, he fires off one last parting shot.

"Cornet Castleton, what you did this morning was a display of initiative and quick thinking far above the call of duty. It was an action which places you among the ranks of the finest of men."

Montez gives a thin smile, something in-between a grimace and a smirk.

"Don't do it again."

Strangely enough, your heroic action seems to have denied Cazarosta his promotion: When the promotion board heard about your heroic actions, some voted to brevet you instead. Eventually, the board tied and ended up promoting neither of you.

-​

A few days later, you wake to the steady roll of a kettle drum. Dressed and equipped, you step out onto the open sea-side parapet to behold the lean, dark forms of half a dozen warships, each flying the tower and gryphon of the Royal Tierran Navy.

The parade grounds are full of horses, men, and equipment being loaded onto boats for the short trip over the water to the waiting ships. You are ordered to gather up your pack and join your squadron in preparation for the same.

You are taken aboard one of the boats with a dozen other men of your squadron. The trip to your transport is slow, but the wind is relatively light, and the receding tide helps you on your way out.

The warship assigned to carry you to Antar is the HMS Victorious, a predatory-looking frigate of forty-four guns. The Captain is a thin, balding Aetorian named Walken. He welcomes you aboard with a short, perfunctory speech and has his petty officers assign you quarters. As an officer, you are allowed the privilege of sharing a small quarterdeck cabin with Elson and Cazarosta, as opposed to the gundeck hammocks to which the enlisted men will be relegated.

The ship's bell rings just as the three of you arrive in your new temporary quarters. The deck above your head reverberates with the rhythm of bare feet on wood. You hear the Captain's muffled voice giving orders to cast off.

You come back on deck in time to see the Victorious' sails unfurl. All along the coast, the ships of your convoy cast off in an attempt to make it into the open sea before the tide turns against them. You watch from the quarterdeck as the Victorious takes its position at the rear of the column and as she takes you away from the receding coast of Tierra and off to war.

 

[Rogue Attican]

Chapter II
Being the story of the cavalry officer's voyage aboard His Majesty's Ship VICTORIOUS and the events which did there take place.​

The first few days of your sea voyage could not possibly be counted as eventful. The hours are parcelled into an endless cycle of drums and bells with only the pendulous back-and-forth movement of the deck as proof that you are even travelling at all. Elson spends most of his time heaving his guts out over the railing.

Cazarosta passes his days either entirely engrossed in silent prayer or face-deep in his books: namely, histories of the League of Antar and its component peoples. While it is no doubt good to learn about your enemy, it does not make him any more sociable.

The sailors are, to a man, too busy to pay attention to the spurious questionings of a band of turf-loving fops.

Of HMS Victorious' company of some four hundred men and officers, only the half-company of grim, stolid Royal Marines pay you and your fellow Dragoons any heed. Despite the normal interservice rivalry which tends to crop up between the Royal Marines and the rest of the army, they are more than happy to show you some guidance when it comes to navigating the seedier aspects of the soldier's trade.

What do you do in the first few days of your sea journey?

[] Pick up some fighting tips from the Marines.
[] Try to socialize with the common sailors.
[] Make conversation with the ship's officers.
[] I brush up on my knowledge of the League of Antar.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] I brush up on my knowledge of the League of Antar.
Since he hit the books, Alaric now has 66% in Intellect.

Click to shrink...

You manage to borrow a few charts and texts from the Victorious' midshipmen and begin the process of getting to know your enemy.

​

The League of Antar is a vast nation comprising the whole of the Calligian continent, where Northern civilization first arose. While once ruled by an imperial family, the Antari now swear fealty to no monarch, instead being governed by the League Congress, an assembly of several hundred noble lords, each with the right to vote and veto each other's motions in the assembly chamber.

You also learn about the Antari way of war, not much removed from the Takaran-descended doctrine the King's army uses, but one which places less emphasis on infantry and more on heavy cavalry: namely, the powerful noble-born Church Hussars, with their baneruned banded mail and arcs of feather and steel lashed to their saddles and made to look like angels' wings.

​

Over the next few days, as you study the history of your enemy, you realize that the Antari are less different than you had thought. They too rebelled against tyrants, fought to unify their lands, and had great men and women whose martyrdoms elevated them to sainthood. It almost seems a pity that your nations, so alike in many ways, must be at war….

Almost.

-​

In the early morning of your fifth day at sea, you awake to the sounds of drums and the louder, deeper beat of someone frantically pounding at your door.

It is one of the Victorious' midshipmen. In a squeaky, terrified voice, he announces that the Victorious has sighted a merchantman flying the white eagle on red of the League of Antar. The boy, barely twelve, tells you that Captain Walken has made the decision to break off from the rest of the flotilla and engage the enemy vessel directly.

As you walk up onto the quarterdeck, you can hear the Victorious' captain laying out the situation plainly, both to his own lieutenants and your own senior officers. A fat, slow merchant vessel would be an excellent source of prize money; both the cargo and the heavy, capacious hull of the captured vessel itself would be worth a substantial amount of cash once she is sailed back to a Tierran port and sold.

However, he notes sourly that no Antari merchant vessel would be so stupid as to travel unescorted, especially this close to the Tierran naval base at Northern Pillars. He quickly concludes that the vessel is likely a trap: packed to the brim with heavily armed Antari soldiers ready to overwhelm any boarding party.

Despite the protests of his own officers, you hear him insist that the risk is worth the reward. He restates his orders to capture the enemy vessel.

Within half an hour, you see the Antari vessel for yourself. She is a lubberly, ungainly thing floating low in the water.

As the minutes pass, it becomes clear that the Antari vessel will not escape. Its hull is too fat and the sail plan it carries was obsolete half a century ago. As you draw closer, you can see the deck of the merchant vessel. Her raised forecastle and quarterdeck are overflowing with mobs of Antari sailors, armed with clubs, axes, cutlasses, and a smattering of muskets. They are hardly a professional fighting force, but it is clear that they plan on defending their ship to the death.

A pair of marines rush past you, long rifled muskets hanging off their backs: snipers. They grab onto the rigging and begin climbing up the ropes with simian grace. Your eyes follow them as they hoist themselves up to the tops of the mizzen mast, passing the half-dozen marines already in position in the rigging.

Suddenly, a puff of smoke issues from the form of one of the Marines. A sharp crack echoes across the deck. The Antari at the wheel of the other ship clutches his forehead and falls to the deck, his face a ruin. More gunshots ring out, and more Antari die.

The Antari merchantman is barely a few hundred metres away. From your position on deck, you can see its ragged crew bracing themselves for a boarding action. Even from this distance, you can hear their taunts and prayers in their alien tongue.

The thunder of a broadside issues from the Victorious' guns. The Antari vessel is showered in gore as grapeshot tears apart those crewmen unlucky enough to be caught in the open.

The Victorious' deck, already cleared for action, is filling with the orange-coated bodies of two dozen barefooted marines, assembled in ranks, muskets in hand. You realize with a start that a few of your fellow Dragoons, Elson, and Cazarosta among them, are rushing in to fill out their ranks. Each new addition is given a warm nod and a slap on the back from the grizzled salt-and-pepper-haired marine sergeant leading the boarding party.

The lieutenant watching beside you grimaces. "Poor stupid fools. Captain Walken said he'd give any volunteer a cut of the prize. Bloody stupid. Men without their sea legs have no place in a boarding action. They'll just get themselves killed."

The naval officer has a point. The deck still feels slick and unsteady under your feet.

The lieutenant leans forward, squinting as if he cannot believe his own eyes. "Saints have mercy. I think one of your friends is trying to convince poor Sergeant Toriston to let him lead the action." You look down to see Cazarosta pushing himself to the head of the formation, towards the NCO readying to board. The lieutenant's frustration and shock are palpable. No matter how veteran the Victorious' Marine sergeant is, he would have no choice but to give way to a commissioned officer, no matter how junior.

Including you, in fact, if you had a mind to lead yourself.

You decide to:
[] Take command! We should not leave the conduct of the battle to a mere sergeant!
[] Join the boarding party. I will show them the stuff that Royal Dragoons are made out of!
[] Go below decks. I shouldn't get in the way. The marines are trained for this sort of thing, I'm not.
[] Try to talk the other Dragoons in the boarding party out of it. They'll only get themselves killed.

A word of advice: you're not going to get very far in your military career if you play it safe all the time.

Click to shrink...

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] Take command! We should not leave the conduct of the battle to a mere sergeant!
It's a good thing you guys decided to save Elson, because otherwise, Cazarosta would've led the boarding party as brevet lieutenant.

Click to shrink...

You walk up to the Marine sergeant leading the party just as Cazarosta approaches from the other side.

Before you can say anything, Cazarosta taps the sergeant on the shoulder and points at you.

"Sergeant," he begins. "Allow Cornet Castleton to lead the boarding party."

The sergeant scowls, but Cazarosta cuts him off with that same flat, icy glare you have seen so often.

"Sergeant, you will need an officer to lead these men. Is that not so?" The sergeant nods. "Then Cornet Castleton will do. He is an officer of some competence."

Almost despite himself, the sergeant relents and speaks up to announce that you are now in command. Cazarosta gives you a stern look.

"You are tolerable company, Castleton. Try to avoid dying."

With that, he returns to his place.

By the time you finish checking over your sabre and pistol, the Victorious is barely twenty metres away from the staggering Antari vessel. There is no time to make a speech or any last-minute preparations.

Another volley of cannon fire assaults your ears. Once again, thunder and flame lash across the stricken enemy vessel's side. As the smoke clears, the sergeant gives the order to lower the gangplanks.

A handful of marines crawl forward, carrying heavy wooden boards. At a pre-arranged signal, they slip the boarding planks over the top of the sailcloth bulwarks as more marines atop the quarterdeck and forecastle hurl grappling hooks over the side. Before long, the lines haul the stricken enemy vessel up against the oaken side of the Victorious. The sergeant signals that they are ready to go and allows you to give the order to attack.

"Tierra and Victory! Advance!"

You lead the marines across the gangplanks through the smoke. The choking powder fog is thick enough to obscure you from Antari snipers but not enough to leave you disoriented. You step onto the enemy ship just as the smoke clears.

The deck of the Antari vessel is a still-life of carnage. The dead are everywhere, transfixed by musket balls, ripped asunder by grapeshot, or torn to shreds by splinters. The wooden planking is slick with gore. The iron-sweet smell of spilled blood and burned flesh forces its way up your nostrils.

As you advance with sabre in one hand and pistol in the other, you feel a curious tugging sensation from the corner of your mind. Flowing streams of faint, sickly green light play patterns across your vision.

You:
[] Ignore it. I'm probably just seeing things.
[] Hold up the boarding party and try to figure out what it is.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] Hold up the boarding party and try to figure out what it is.

Click to shrink...

You halt the boarding party with a quick hand signal as you try to figure it out. You follow the green light with your eyes and watch as it traces patterns onto the blood-slick deck. Everything clicks. Your eyes dart from side to side, quickly picking out the seals affixed to the sides of the ship's deck.

"Fall back! Boarding party! Fall back!" You scream, but the patterns of light grow in intensity until the entire deck seems to be glowing like the surface of some harsh green sun.

Banefire.

"Down!" You bellow as you go prone. The deck explodes with eldritch force. You feel the heat wash over your back as bright green light sears through your tightly shut eyelids.

There is silence for a moment, as you and your men pick themselves off their feet, mostly unharmed. The Marine sergeant sends a grin and a nod your way.

Then, there is a great roar, and Antari soldiers in mail and boiled leather pour out onto the deck to join the battle.

The ship around you descends into a swirling maelstrom of musket smoke, bared steel, and individual battle cries. The Marines quickly form up in front of you as the sergeant effortlessly seizes their attention. Your fellow Dragoons withdraw into a loose formation behind them.

"Present! Arms!"

The Marines bring loaded muskets to their shoulders as the Antari rush you by the dozen in a vast, disorderly mob.

"Platoon! Fire!"

The Marines give a disciplined volley at fifteen paces, scything down the first wave of attackers with a wave of fire and smoke.

"Platoon! Fix bayonets!!"

As one unit, they fix long spike bayonets to the muzzles of their guns and form a cordon around the gangplanks. The sergeant looks to you for orders.

You make the decision to:
[] Be bold: Take the forecastle and the quarterdeck. With the high ground, we can control the battle.
[] Be cautious: We can hold midships and force the Antari to come to us.