Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "I think these new inventions may be the heralds of a new age of progress."

Castermaine's eyes narrow as he turns to you. "Is that so?" he asks. "Judging from the results of the demonstration before us, one would hardly think to consider such machinery anything more than an expensive way to make loud noises and stop traffic. So what hidden insight, pray tell, brings you to believe that they will be of such far-reaching effect?"

"It is precisely the examination of the machine before us which brings me to such a conclusion, sir," you reply.

Wulfram leans in, his eyes alight with interest. "Is that so?" he asks. "Would one be so good as to enlighten us?"

"Conventional high-pressure vapour engines only use a single fire tube to heat the water inside the boiler," you begin to explain. "This boiler has multiple such tubes—"

Castermaine raises a hand. "I beg pardon. Forgive my ignorance, sir, but what exactly is a 'fire tube?'"

"It is a pipe which conveys the hot exhaust from a firebox to an exhaust," Wulfram explains before you can reply. You try not to look as surprised as you feel. It is rare indeed for a man of Wulfram's position—or yours, for that matter—to be well-versed in the mechanical arts. "The metal of the tube is heated on contact, which in turn heats the water in the boiler, evaporating it at great speed and thus creating pressure."

"I see," Castermaine replies, his brow still furrowed in thought. "What I do not understand is the significance of having multiple such, ah—'fire-tubes' in a boiler."

"By increasing the number of tubes, the surface area of hot metal in contact with the water is significantly increased," you answer. "Which means the water in the boiler may be evaporated faster, building pressure more rapidly."

A tinge of excitement fills Wulfram's handsome features. "So that is why the boiler burst. It could not handle the greater pressure!" he exclaims, with all the triumph of a child who has solved a riddle. "But once that fault is corrected, such a boiler could produce prodigious amounts of power, more than—"

A fresh commotion rises from the crowd as the clatter of hooves and the high clanging of handbells echoes down the street. The throng parts to reveal another pair of Intendancy constables, followed by a pony-drawn pump cart bearing the colours of one of Aetoria's private fire companies.

"Well, it seems there is nothing more to see here," Wulfram declares as the Intendancy men begin examining the machine, and the crowd finally disperses. "We'd best get moving. The club is only a block down. Castermaine, when we get indoors, might I oblige you to send your man to retrieve Forsythe and my coach?"

Castermaine nods but eyes the still-steaming traction engine warily. "It might be a while before the road is clear. Her Grace may take issue with your lateness. Take my coach instead."

"No worry," Wulfram replies with a slight grin. "The Duchess knows exactly where I am, and I dare hope she trusts me enough not to think ill of me for getting home late." With that, he points his hand down the street to where the crowd is already melting away into the gaslit gloom. "Now then, shall we get going?"

-​

The premises of the Rendower Club are practically a palace in their own right. Past the wrought-iron gate and liveried guards, Wulfram leads you through polished oaken doors into an entry hall hung with row upon row of banners emblazoned with the crests of the House of Rendower and its cadet branches. The music of a chamber orchestra wafts down the plushly carpeted corridor from somewhere not too far away. The names of members and former members line the elegantly panelled walls in gilt script, glittering in the lamplight as you pass them by.

Then it is past a reflecting pool topped by a statue of Edwin the Strong and up a staircase, its banisters worked with gryphons and towers. More footmen await at the top of the stairs. Wulfram and Castermaine hand them their coats and hats without breaking a step. You try to do the same. At long last, yet another pair of attendants open a pair of double doors, and the three of you enter into the sanctum beyond… The stateroom of the Rendower Club is filled with the smoky aroma of expensive liquor and the buzz of masculine voices. Everywhere you look, you can see figures in perfectly tailored jackets lounging in elegant armchairs at tables of the finest Butean wood, drinking, chatting, and generally taking their ease.

Wulfram and Castermaine bring you to each group in turn, introducing you to a selection of names, faces, and titles. Your reception is warm, for the most part. A few do not seem to know what to make of you, but most are happy to be introduced and shake your hand, at least.

You try to be as friendly as you can in return. The men in this room are some of the foremost in the Unified Kingdom. Even if you are not acquainted with them personally, you can recognise the titles of some of the greatest landowners, financiers, and statesmen in the realm, each passing before you just long enough for you to recognise, and no longer.

In truth, it looks as if the whole of Aetoria's men of high society is here. Only the soldiers are absent. Aside from you and Castermaine, it seems there are few military men here, and when you make inquiries, it appears that almost all of them have spent the entire war at either Grenadier Square or Admiralty House.

Before long, you cannot but begin to feel a little out of place in your surroundings. You've spent most of your adult life as a soldier. In that time, you've become accustomed to being judged as a soldier for your ability to lead men into battle, not your politickal stances. To be at peace among men who have spent their entire lives at peace is an alien experience. Though Wulfram and Castermaine endeavour to make you welcome, you begin to long for a time when the men you spoke to identified more by regiment than by fashion or faction.

When a liveried footman enters to announce that dinner is to be served, it's almost a relief.

As the guest of honour, you are placed at Wulfram's right-hand side at the head of the table. As the first round of aperitifs is brought out by yet more liveried footmen, the topic of conversation once again turns to the traction engine, with Wulfram enthusiastically extolling its potential to transform the Unified Kingdom's industry and Castermaine discounting the entire thing as a pointless extravagance.

In a way, they are recapitulating the arguments they made before you not an hour ago, but this time, they do it for the benefit of a much larger audience.

Before long, other club members are joining in with their own thoughts on the matter. By the time the first round of drinks is taken away and the soup is brought out, two friendly but clearly defined factions have formed, one supporting Wulfram and the other Castermaine. In between mouthfuls of a particularly fine Kian consommé, they argue the matter back and forth, debating the possibility of using vapour engines in fields as diverse as agriculture, road-building, and even the propulsion of ships—a possibility which even Wulfram must admit is patently absurd.

"In any case, I fear that this discussion may yet be premature," Wulfram remarks ruefully as the soup course is being taken away. "Any effect these machines might possibly have on the state of the realm will be severely curtailed so long as the baneless classes do not have the capital to purchase them or the goods they produce. I fear that as long as His Majesty insists on placing the needs of his army before the needs of the commons, we shall be hard-pressed to maintain the industries we have."

Heads nod almost in unison. In this, at least, the membership of the Rendower Club seems to agree.

"Then let us not put the cannon before the limber," Castermaine interjects sourly. "Why speak of these fantasies of vapour engines when we must first convince the King to put an end to his war taxes and reduce the army?"

"Indeed," Wulfram replies. "If the realm must beggar itself to support the implements of war, we shall never be able to flourish in peace." He turns to you. "Would you not agree, Lord Reddingfield?"

[ ] "I would agree wholeheartedly, sir."
[ ] "I fear I cannot agree, sir. The army must be maintained."
[ ] "Can we not find a way to maintain the army and end the war taxes?"

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "Can we not find a way to maintain the army and end the war taxes?"

Castermaine frowns. "Perhaps my lord is not aware of the financial extremities the late war has pushed us to," he replies tautly. "It will not be a simple matter of selling a royal hunting lodge or selling a few baronetcies. The Crown is in dire straits. I daresay that the Saints themselves would be hard-pressed to find a way out of the hole we have spent ourselves into."

Wulfram holds up a hand. "Please, Castermaine, I am sure Lord Reddingfield is well aware of the state of the kingdom's finances." He looks to you. "And I trust one already has a measure of some sort in mind?"

[ ] "What of the reparations we are owed from Antar?"
[ ] "Could we not seek economies elsewhere?"
[ ] "Perhaps there is some way to redistribute the burden of taxation?"

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "Perhaps there is some way to redistribute the burden of taxation?"

"Redistribute?" Castermaine asks, his brow furrowed as he leans forward. "And what does one mean by that?"

"If it is the poor who suffer the most under the current scheme of taxation, then perhaps the Exchequer might be able to shift the burden away from them," you explain. "If the poor are taxed less and those of greater incomes are taxed more, then one could receive the same revenue whilst lowering the effect of such levies on those most likely to suffer from them."

"I fear it is not so simple as that," Wulfram replies. "In cities like Aetoria, the poor do not work the soil. Instead, they gain employment directly from the middling classes. To increase taxes levied on shop owners and barristers may allow us to alleviate the burden on the poor at first, but when those shop owners and barristers adapt to their greater costs by hiring fewer servants and assistants. The result would be a scarcity of employment overall."

Some of the men further down the table shift uncomfortably in their seats. Money is never a comfortable subject to speak of, even in such general terms. Some part of you cannot help but feel as if Wulfram has dirtied himself ever so slightly by condescending to speak of it at all.

"If the taxes remain the same, the poor in the country starve," he concludes. "If they are adjusted to weigh more heavily on the middling classes, then the poor in the towns starve. Which can only leave…"

Which can only leave the possibility of submitting the baneblooded classes to taxation. The room falls into a shocked silence. Banebloods have been exempt from royal taxation since the very inception of the Unified Kingdom, and for good reason. If your estates were subject to the same taxes on land that a baneless proprietor would pay, such a burden would be enough to ruin you instantly. Judging by the looks of sheer horror and disgust around the table, you are sure you would not be the only one.

Wulfram shakes his head. "No, that is a ludicrous thought," he states firmly, as if physically straining to expel the notion from the room. "Surely you did not intend to speak of such extremes. Forgive me for even broaching such a ghastly topic."

Before you have a chance to reply, you are interrupted by the opening of the doors at the far end of the dining room.

In strides a slim young man with an air that is half dandy and half king. His hair is cut and tousled in the latest fashion, his jacket and waistcoat fitted just so, and cut just daringly enough to transcend the limits of the fashionable to touch the realm of the radical. A tiny scrap of white silk protrudes from under his jacket, and an enamelled pin bearing a white rose sparkles on his breast.

"Good evening!" he announces as he makes his way towards the head of the table. "I ain't missed much, have I?"

"You are late," Castermaine replies acidly, his exasperation mastering his courtesy. "And you have missed a great deal, Your Grace."

Recognition hits you between the eyes. There are only five dukes in the Tierran Peerage. The King serves as one, the Duke of Aetoria. Neither Havenport nor your old commanding officer, the Duke of Cunaris, are in the capital. With Wulfram sitting next to you, that must mean the man now approaching your side of the room is—

"My lord," Wulfram begins as he stands from his chair. "May I introduce His Grace, the Duke of Warburton."

So this is Warburton.

You've heard stories about him. It is practically an open secret that he was not the old Duke's biological son but a bastard sired upon his mother, the Duchess, by one of her paramours. Likewise the fact that he was only "confirmed" as legitimate because there was nobody else who could inherit. There are even wilder speculations: that young Warburton's claim to royal blood comes directly from the man purported to be his real sire, the famously lecherous old King Edmund IV—a rumour which would make Warburton the King's half-brother.

Not that you have the time to speculate on such matters. Even in these closed circumstances, the decencies must be preserved. When Wulfram introduces you in turn, you stand and bow, as a baron ought to when presented to a duke.

Warburton himself doesn't seem to care much for such deference. "No need for that, my lord, we're all equals at this table," he replies with a flash of a grin. "But do budge over a bit, will you? I'm famished…"

Within seconds, footmen are springing into action, bringing an additional chair to the table, followed by a fresh set of plates, silverware, and a napkin. It seems that this has not been the first time Warburton has arrived at the dining room mid-meal.

"I see I've already missed the soup," the young duke notes with a tinge of petulance as he settles into his chair between you and Wulfram. "A damned shame, that."

"You are more than an hour late, Your Grace," Castermaine points out with a tone better suited for addressing an impudent child than one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the Unified Kingdom. "Perhaps if one had been more punctual, one would be less hungry."

"Impossible, I'm afraid," Warburton replies as he leans back into a languid slouch. "Pressing business, couldn't let it go unanswered."

"Intelligence business, was it, Your Grace?" someone asks bluffly from the other side of the table. A round of chuckles follow in its wake.

Warburton replies with a look that somehow manages to be sly and boastful at the same time. "Oh no, nothing like that. Not even toil for Crown and Kingdom would keep me away from this table," he replies grandiloquently. "This was a rather different sort of intelligence gathering. Under-covers work, you could say."

Half the table chuckles at that one. Castermaine lets out a sigh of exasperation. Wulfram's eyes narrow as he reaches into Warburton's jacket and pulls out the bit of silk you noticed earlier for all to see: a lady's stocking, still smelling of perfume.

Under-covers work, indeed.

He gives his fellow Duke a meaningful look. "Might I inquire as to whom this may belong to?"

"And sully the reputation of a lady? Don't be ridiculous, Wulfram," Warburton replies with a mock look of offense as he snatches the stocking away and stuffs it into his pocket. "If you are so very curious as to her identity, you shall have to come along with me."

Another round of laughter. You swear you actually see Wulfram's cheeks redden. "You know I cannot do that," he replies with as much sternness as he can muster.

"And what about you then, Lord Reddingfield?" Warburton asks as he turns to you. "Are you the rollicking sort? There's more than one likely young lady out there drawn to cleverness. Saint Joshua knows that's why they don't call on me!"

[ ] "I fear I cannot approve of or condone such conduct."
[ ] "Unfortunately, I am already committed elsewhere."
[ ] "I do not think I've the temperament for such activity."
[ ] "Perhaps I am. I've not tried it yet."
[ ] "It certainly sounds like an interesting way to spend an evening."
[ ] "My word, that does sound rather exciting."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "Unfortunately, I am already committed elsewhere."

"Oh, don't let that stop you!" Warburton exclaims as he leans back in his seat. "It don't stop half the rogues at this table, that's for sure!"

A handful of chuckles breaks out at that. One fellow even has the poor grace to guffaw.

"Yet it appears that Lord Reddingfield would not count himself among 'the rogues at this table,'" Wulfram points out. "And for that, I am eternally grateful."

"On the contrary," Warburton answers, grinning like a mischievous child all the while. "Lord Reddingfield is a cavalryman, ain't he? Surely he knows better than anyone else how important it is to reconnoitre the field thoroughly and vigorously before choosing to engage?"

A fresh wave of laughter fills the room. Only Wulfram seems unamused.

"Oh, very well," Warburton replies with an air of resignation too heavy to be entirely serious. "I suppose I've given you and Castermaine enough colic for the evening. When exactly is the next course?"

No sooner do the words leave the Duke's mouth do the doors to the kitchen open to yet a fresh volley of cheers, revealing an immense cart laden with a row of steaming roast ducks. All eyes are on the trolley as two cooks wheel the trolley towards the centre of the dining room. A muscular fellow in a Kian chef's robe follows, a gigantic cleaver belted at his waist.

"Keep a close watch," Warburton tells you quietly with that same roguish grin. "One cannot see a show like this at the Admiralty Club, that is for damned sure."

You need barely wait a moment before the nature of the 'show' in question is revealed, for the instant that the trolley rolls to a stop, the Kian chef draws his cleaver from his belt, letting it glitter in the lamplight to the increasingly rowdy cheers of almost all present. The man's hand blurs, and the next instant, he is carving the first duck with a speed and precision which would put a Takaran swordmaster to shame. One by one, slices of crisp skin and succulent flesh appear on the dish before him as if by magic.

Saints above, you could have done with a fellow like that in Antar!

In just a few moments, it is over. The first duck is little more than a skeleton, retaining only the barest scraps of meat. The cheers only grow louder as he begins on the second. By the time he finishes the last, the atmosphere in the dining room resembles more that of a common public house than the inner sanctum of a members' club.

It seems there will be no more serious conversation tonight.

Matters go on in an increasingly raucous manner. As the last courses of dinner are taken away and the serious drinking begins, the scene transcends any condition that might be considered 'proceedings' and advances well into those best described as 'antics.'

The dining room devolves into an anarchy of boastful anecdotes, half-remembered songs, and endless gales of laughter. Some part of you marvels as you watch men of immense power and influence jest and carry on with the informality of brothers. Even frowning Castermaine seems to join in, though he makes strenuous efforts not to admit enjoying it.

Warburton is at the very centre of it all, joking and chattering with what seems like half the men in the room at once.

Wulfram, by almost explicit contrast, seems to sit away from the action, having given up on any attempt to be heard entirely, and seems content to sip at a snifter of brandy and watch the goings-on as the night passes in mirth and merriment.

-​

"I must apologise for Warburton," Wulfram says to you in his coach several hours later as you rattle through the midnight streets towards your lodgings. "He has a singular talent for rendering almost any situation frivolous and absurd."

The Duke glances out the window for a moment at the darkened shapes of Aetoria's buildings passing by.

He lets out a sigh. "Perhaps it would have done him good to listen to a serious conversation for once. I fear that without some useful occupation or steady influence, he shall merely dissipate himself and come to no good."

[ ] "Does he lack such occupation, Your Grace?"
[ ] "Why not you, Your Grace?"
[ ] "I must agree. More discipline will do him good."
[ ] "Perhaps he will mature with age?"
[ ] "With respect, sir, what makes it your business to judge?"
[ ] "He is yet young. He ought to be able to enjoy himself."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] Perhaps he will mature with age?
To keep things moving, I'll select the option that alienates neither Warburton nor Wulfram.

Click to shrink...

"Perhaps he shall," Wulfram muses, "though I daresay I do not hold out much hope for it. He is already well into the age where one ought to take oneself seriously and consider pursuits beyond those which amused him in childhood."

He shakes his head. "No, he may believe himself to have all the time in creation, but men do not live in sealed jars. He has obligations to fulfil, to his house, to those in his power, and to his country. They cannot be expected to wait for him to grow up."

The coach lurches to a stop. Wulfram peeks out the window as you hear the coachman dismount from his perch. "I believe these are your lodgings, my lord."

You look out the window too; so they are. The door swings open, and you step out into the cold night air.

"Oh, and Reddingfield?"

"Sir?" you turn, some part of you wondering if it is the brandy or something else which has caused Wulfram to address you on such familiar terms.

"You don't happen to have any Rendower blood, do you?" he asks.

You search your memory for a moment, mentally looking down the genealogy which had been drilled into you as a child, but in the end, you must shake your head.

"I fear not, sir," you reply.

Wulfram frowns. "A pity. We could use a fellow like you at the Club. If you do find a link, let us know. You would be most welcome to join. Good night, Reddingfield."

Then there is the thump of a door closing, the shape of a coachman climbing back into position, the rattle of wheels against cobblestones…

And you are alone in the darkness.

It is hard going up the steps to the door of your lodging house. Drink and darkness make you unsteady as you carefully step around the slumbering, rag-swathed heaps clustered around the entranceway. These days, in this part of the city, the homeless and the destitute seem everywhere; entire families huddled against the niches and alleys like piles of refuse, desperate for the bare hope of some protection from the elements. They were there before the war too, as far as you remember, but never in such number.

You can only hope that they will find some more robust form of shelter before the weather turns. Tierran winters are nothing like the Antari variety, but even a mild frost can kill when one has neither food nor shelter.

You open the front door. From the corner of your vision, you glimpse a pair of eyes wrapped in the shabby remains of what might have been a fine riding cloak. For an instant, you seem to see those fugitive orbs staring hungrily at the door which you have opened; the door to warmth, shelter, to the flickering light of the fire still blazing in the parlour beyond.

You step inside and look back out into the cold, perhaps—

No, but there is nothing now - only darkness.

You shut the door behind you.

Exhaustion begins to creep into your limbs as you climb the narrow staircase up to your temporary lodgings, your feet leaden lumps as you drag them up each step.

Most of your luggage is already packed and waiting in your rooms, piled in neat stacks by the wall of the parlour. Moving only by sheer will, you check the bed to make sure that the maidservant laid down a spare suit of clothes, as you requested.

You sit down on the bed next to them, taking only the time to pry off your unfamiliar civilian shoes before collapsing into the pillows, too tired to even pull the covers around you. Tomorrow is not so far away and you best be rested by then.

Tomorrow, you will begin your long journey back to a place both strange and familiar, a place you can barely remember, a place whose memories run in your very blood.

Tomorrow, you are going home.

 

[Rogue Attican]

Chapter I
Wherein the LORD OF THE CORTES returns to the PLACE of his BIRTH and is reacquainted with the affairs of his NOBLE HOUSE.​

"As you may have noticed, my lord, the roads remain in terrible condition—"

As if to prove the point, your family's rickety old coach chooses that moment to lurch violently from one side to the other. It's all you can do to keep your seat, but facing you, the cadaverous form of Efraim Saundersley, your family's solicitor, does not seem to shift at all.

"Yet the roads are not what alarms me the most," the lawyer continues, without even pausing to regain his breath. "As I am sure your lordship is aware, times have never been easy here, but the war appears to have made them harder than ever."

You nod along, trying to keep your attention and your seat as the coach trundles along the uneven track. Saundersley greeted you on the docks at Tannersburg, waiting with your coach to accompany you on the last leg of your trip to your estate. He had spent most of that trip in silence, leaving you alone with your thoughts, but now that you've finally entered within the boundaries of your own lands, he's been nothing if not verbose.

"—Another fifteen tenant families left last year. I do not think I can blame them, to be honest. Every year, the Crown taxes seem to grow. Every year, more and more of our buyers in the big cities go bankrupt or are bought out by the Kian, who purchase only their own grain from their own country."

You cannot blame him, you suppose. Saundersley was saddled with much of the work of maintaining the estate after your father's death. Now that you've returned, it has become his duty to educate you on the state of the very lands and people you have so recently become lord and master.

"In truth," he admits, "those who remain mostly hold out hope that your lordship will be able to ameliorate matters. Now that you have returned, some will expect a great deal out of you."

[ ] "Rest assured that I will not let them down, Saundersley."
[ ] "I make no promises, but I will do what I can."
[ ] "What brutes they are, to rely upon another to better their own condition!"

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "Rest assured that I will not let them down, Saundersley."

Saundersley nods wearily as if that was the answer he'd been expecting all along.

"It is what your tenants would hope to hear, I imagine," he concedes, "but I would advise not to promise too much too quickly, not where your publick can hear. Improvements will require money, as well as energy and fine intentions, and a broken promise will be looked upon more poorly than one not made at all."

"Rest assured, Saundersley," you reply. "War is a profitable enterprise if one does not get in one's own way."

"The war is over, my lord," the solicitor replies bluntly. "There will be no more ransoms to be had, and you've still your debts to think about."

You're past the fields now. Beyond the battered and cracked coach window, you can see the cottages of Reddingfield village, constructions of half-timber frames and steep shingle roofs like the images that still sit deep within the recesses of your memories, the images that the word 'home' had conjured within you during your long years in Antar.

Yet the scenes which confront you now seem different from what you remember. The figures who trudge from cottage to cottage seem duller and more stunted than the stout, happy folk you recall. Everything seems smaller, dirtier, tawdrier. Even the air seems to hang in your nostrils, heavy and fetid.

You cannot help but get the impression that this is not your home. Everything is off. Everything is wrong. Even as your eyes register the dilapidated old village shrine, the battered market stalls on the village square, and the remaining lengths of orange bunting from the just-past High Harvest Festival, you cannot shake the unease in the back of your head. The more familiar your surroundings become, the more alien you feel.

And what of your family? Will your cold, distant mother even acknowledge your presence? Will your brother and sister still remember you at all after a decade away?

The village is far behind you now, its last cottages receding into the distance. Ahead, there's only the long, lonely path up the rise to the manor house where you lived for so many of your early years.

Even from a distance, it too is somewhat less than you remembered, the steeply sloped roof filled with holes and imperfections, the stonework of the foundation dingy and worn, the bulk of its oaken frames more precarious than imposing. The home of your childhood has been reduced to a sad little edifice - a rickety pile atop its hill. Half its windows are broken or blocked up, its perimeter fence is tumbled down and entirely collapsed at places, and the grounds are almost overrun with wild tangles of growth and shrubbery.

There can be no safety in a frail half-ruin like this. It would be so easy for a band of determined attackers to advance under cover of the brush up to the very perimeter fence. From there, it would be child's play for any band of assailants to find and advance through one of the gaps in the fence, enter through one of the broken windows, and place the entire house at their mercy. Even if you were able to shut yourself up in some secure wing, you doubt it would take any piece of artillery greater than a six-pounder to batter the whole edifice down within an hour, with you still inside—

It is only then that you realise that you have, through long force of habit, begun thinking like a soldier again.

Only through a conscious effort do you force yourself to stop. The war is over. No partisans are skulking about in the woods around Reddingfield House, looking to do you harm. You may have enemies in Tierra, true, but nobody so barbarous as to attack you with cannon. Surely to apply military patterns of thought to your life at peace would be ridiculous.

Wouldn't it?

[ ] The lessons of war have made me stronger. I'll not abandon them.
[ ] I may no longer be at war, but some of what I've learned may yet be of use.
[ ] My days as a soldier are over; I must stop thinking like one.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] My days as a soldier are over; I must stop thinking like one.

True, the ways of the soldier had been of much use on campaign, but you're in Tierra now, and Tierra is at peace. No more must you act as if you were still on the battlefield, where the only currency worth mentioning is force, and civility is only a byword for indecision.

Civilian life plays by wholly different rules, regulations, and codes of behaviour, and you shall have to follow them if you mean to prosper. It wouldn't do to address your valet as if he were your batman or your tenants as if they were your Dragoons. You couldn't imagine the scale of the injury you would do yourself if you were to disport yourself before your fellow country gentlemen as if they were brother-officers in a regimental mess.

No, it will do no good to cling to a soldier's way of thinking here. The sooner you discard it, the easier it shall be to adapt to your new circumstances.

Your family home: a somewhat aged example of rustic Wulframite architecture.​

The coach trundles on, past the rusted wrought-iron gates and up the paved drive, to where a row of figures await, turned out to receive the new lord of the manor.

They're all here, the half-dozen men and women who had served your father and are now to serve you. They're smaller and greyer than you remember, their clothes more worn and threadbare, but one by one, the sight of their faces pulls a name from the deep recesses of your memory: Fernand, the foul-mouthed old groundskeeper; Mistress Ibanez, who'd run the kitchen as her own personal realm; Armand, the footman, who had once played constable-and-roadsmen with Willie Fenton in that very same yard.

You remember them, all of them.

And they're not the only ones waiting for you in that battered yard.

Your lady mother is there too, as straight-backed and imperious as ever; stoop-backed old Mistress Fenton is standing beside her.

Louisa and Karl were still children when you went to war. Now your younger siblings stand tall and proud beside your mother, transformed into a man and woman fully grown.

You had sent word ahead, of course. Perhaps you were never truly cut off from them. You exchanged letters regularly whilst you were in Antar.

But letters aren't the same as seeing, hearing, and breathing the same air.

At last, the coach lurches to a stop on the uneven cobbles. Thumps echo across the ceiling as the coachman makes his way down to the side of the carriage, and then his black-gloved hand pulls open the door. With a deep breath, you step out onto the drive, back into the world you left so many years ago.

"Mother," you report as you step off the running board, "I've returned."

Your mother nods in return, stonily, sedately. It's a nod of approval, to be sure, but it's the approval given to a particularly well-liked petticoat, not that given to a son newly returned from years of war.

So your mother is still as cold as she's always been. On some level, the familiar lack of affection is almost comforting.

Your sister, on the other hand, all but springs into your arms, pausing only to deliver the requisite curtsey you're now owed as lord of the manor.

"Oh, how good it is to have you back, Brother!" she cries as she wraps her arms around your neck and stands tip-toe to kiss you on the cheek. "How long we have hoped this day would come."

"Have you?" you ask mock-seriously, your sister's spirited disposition quickly beginning to affect your own.

"I have!" she protests in much the same fashion as she sets herself back. "Why, ever since we got the news, Karl has spent every morning staring out the front window, waiting for your coach."

"Louisa, you are a liar and a rascal," your younger brother interjects as he steps forward, his expression a look of sternness far too intense to be even the remotest bit serious. "I deny everything, utterly and categorically, and besides…". His face finally breaks out into the broadest of grins. "You were waiting for him with me."

Still smiling, Karl seizes you by the shoulders and pulls you in for a tight hug. "Welcome home, Brother. It has been boring here without you."

Only the servants are left now, the coachman and Saundersley among them. You can see the unease and uncertainty in their expressions as they deliver their bows and curtseys.

True, you were the young master to them when you were a boy, but boyhood seems far away now, and the gulf of years that separates you has become a wide and bottomless chasm. While they spent those years in this quiet and rural backwater, you fought at the forefront of the largest and bloodiest war in the Unified Kingdom's history. Could they even think to fathom the trials you have faced? What stories have they heard of the war in Antar, of you?

Perhaps it's time for some words or a gesture. Anything to lay their uncertainties to rest.

[ ] No. If I am to reassure them, it will be by deeds, not words.
[ ] I must reassure them that things will not be so much different.
[ ] I shall try to inspire them, convince them that we are bound for greater things.
[ ] Words are cheap. I'll offer the staff a substantial bonus instead. (-40 Wealth)

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] Words are cheap. I'll offer the staff a substantial bonus instead. (-40 Wealth)
To keep things moving, I'll have Lord Reddingfield pay his staff extra to boost the fief's Contentment with their new lord. If we had at least 45 Charisma, I would've gone with WestOrEast's decision to make a speech.

Click to shrink...

It isn't difficult to see the situation from the perspective of your retainers: for all that you remember them, you are still, for all intents and purposes, a complete stranger. They cannot know to what degree and in what fashion your years at war have changed you if they have changed you at all. The only inkling of your present character they might now possess is that of memories more than a decade old. What good could words do in such a circumstance?

No. If you are to make an impression, you shall have to resort to action.

One by one, you call up the staff, and one by one, you deposit in their hands a handful of coin, a reward for the long years of service they have given your family and the long years of service which you mean to expect of them from here on after.

You doubt you've bought their loyalty entirely, but opening with something like this will no doubt be a good foundation. You must take care not to antagonise them now and to maintain a reputation for generosity. It will take some time to earn their loyalty. You know that. However, as you watch each one of your old retainers withdraw with your gift in hand and note their looks of gratitude, you cannot help but be filled with some sense of satisfaction.

No, you do not have their devotion yet, but you have made a start of it.

-​

Dinner is almost a feast. There's a platter piled high with blood sausage and a bowl of mushroom preserves. There's a bowl of pickled cabbage fried and chopped until almost creamy. There's black bread and black beer.

No Aetoria City hostess would have been caught dead serving such fare, and no regimental mess either. It has too much of the air of the backwoods rustic and lacks any of the sophistication of Kian or Takaran or M'hidiyossi cooking, with ingredients determined less by any culinary theory or high fashion than by price and sheer proximity to the kitchen which is to prepare it. You can imagine the polite condescension of some of your higher-placed acquaintances if they were served such food. Others of their class would likely be far less civil. "Food for peasants," they would likely sneer, "and people who live like peasants."

But for you, it is the food of your childhood, and even if the rest of your past before the war seems dull and foggy and only half-recalled, you remember this more than well enough.

It is the taste of home, and you spoon it up with gusto.

Your mother sits apart from you, carrying the same air of detachment she had possessed through much of your childhood. At some tables, you suppose, such silence would be considered unnatural. At yours, it is almost yet another familiar part of being home.

"Alaric," she finally says after what must have been a quarter of an hour at least. "It is time you got married."

"Married?" you manage, your fork suspended halfway betwixt mouth and plate. "A bit sudden, don't you think?"

"It is overdue, that's what it is," your mother replies stonily. "You're getting too old to be unattached the way you are. You've spent far too long gallivanting off in who-knows-where when you should have been finding a wife and siring an heir."

"It was my duty, Mother," you remind her, doing your best to keep your voice even and temperate. "The realm was at war."

"Now it is at peace," she replies dismissively as if your years in Antar were nothing more than a misbegotten diversion. "And you are still in need of a wife, a respectable one. Your father was attempting to arrange a match with the Torrenburg girl down the road when you ran off, do you remember?"

Yes, you remember that, though only barely. Your father had been rather set on helping you find a respectable match, especially seeing as the son of a poor baron was not exactly the most glittering of prospects for any baneblooded lady of a titled family. The fact that one lived only a few hours' ride away had been a stroke of luck, and negotiations had entered a most crucial phase just as the war interrupted.

In the end…

[ ] [AMALIA] …I agreed to an engagement with some enthusiasm.
[ ] [AMALIA] …an engagement was thrust upon me, though I wanted no part of it.
[ ] [AMALIA] …the talks came to nothing. There was no engagement.
[ ] [AMALIA] …I made what promises I needed to, but only so I could take the Torrenburg girl to bed.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [AMALIA] …the talks came to nothing. There was no engagement.

"There were negotiations," you admit, "but nothing came of them."

"I see," she replies icily. "A pity, and one which must be rectified quickly."

She leans forward, her eyes cold and flinty. "I am sure you will agree that finding a wife and siring an heir ought to be your highest priority. I expect you to begin the search for a new prospect immediately and for you to bend every resource at your disposal to that end," she commands. "It must be done."

[ ] [MOM] "I do not know. Give me time."
[ ] [MOM] "I will find someone, make no mistake."
[ ] [MOM] "What if I wish to marry no one at all?"
[ ] [MOM] "There is already someone else I have in mind."