Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga

[Rogue Attican]

The practice of using the Bane to manipulate the physical world to the will of a particular mind, or "banecasting," is an exceptionally versatile and powerful ability when used properly, prized throughout the human realms of the Infinite Sea. Banecasters have been able to heal otherwise fatal wounds, turn the tide of battles, and create armour and weapons of impossible durability and strength. However, this immense power is limited by four main constraints: natural ability, resources, casting medium, and the laws of physics.

The first, and often considered most important constraint is that of the natural ability of the human component. Banecasters are only born from the exalted ranks of the banebloods, and even a child of the blood has only a one in one hundred chance of being gifted with the mental traits that allow him or her to bend the Bane to his or her will. In addition, all banecasters might be trained, but their ability to implement their training varies from individual to individual. Human banecasters are divided into ten calibres: banecasters of the first calibre have very little ability, while banecasters of the tenth calibre are capable of such awe-inspiring feats as pulling entire bulldings down with their power, or summoning gouts of blue or green banefire hot enough to incinerate human bodies instantly.

The second constraint is that of the material components needed for any sort of banecast: baneseals. These are discs of wax, approximately ten centimetres in width and five centimetres thick, attached to a strip of parchment paper upon which banerunes are written in fresh blood (be it human or otherwise). These seals serve as the anchor points which focus the caster's mental powers and allow them to be amplified and channelled properly into the casting medium. Baneseals must be arranged in the proper pattern to achieve the desired effect of the cast. While simple procedures like the creation of heat or the minor acceleration of entropy might be achieved with a few dozen baneseals, more complex casts, including the much-studied and extremely difficult process of healing injuries and wounds, can take hundreds of seals and multilayered patterns that might take hours to prepare. In addition, banecasting is a physically and mentally exhausting activity, partially due to the fact that the process of casting also syphons off a small amount of the caster's own Bane. Those casters who use their powers regularly often live considerably shorter lives, withering away by the age of sixty-five from a combination of mental and physical fatigue.

The third constraint stems from the nature of the Bane itself, as it is an entity which only exists within objects which are or were recently alive. As a result, banecasting can only directly affect those sorts of materials. This is why baneseals must be marked with fresh blood, why armour and weapons must have runes etched into them and anointed with oils to be bane-hardened or otherwise enchanted, and why weapons such as the longbow have long been made obsolete as weapons of war.

The last constraint should be self explanatory: even banecasters must respect the laws of inertia, thermodynamics and conservation of matter. For example, their ability to "create" heat is merely the temporary conversion of bane into heat. If there is no source of Bane nearby to be used, there is no way to cast.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] Be cautious: We can hold midships and force the Antari to come to us.
It was a smart move not to be bold: Alaric doesn't have enough Soldiering (40%) nor a cool sword to prevent losing Health.

Click to shrink...

You convey your wish to avoid unnecessary risks to the Marine sergeant, who nods in agreement. He turns to his orange-jacketed professionals. "Platoon! Prepare to receive infantry!"

The Antari continue to rush in but are met only by the fixed bayonets of the marines or the bared sabres of your fellow Dragoons. Though heavily armed and armoured, these Antari clearly have no experience fighting at sea. Their footing is precarious upon the pitching deck, and the Marines take full advantage, impaling their unsteady attackers with effortless ease.

In the pitched battle, a few of your Dragoons fall, and two or three of the Marines go down as well, but in the end, the battle's outcome was never in doubt. The Antari continue fighting for only a few more minutes before they eventually capitulate.

You lead the entire boarding party through one last sweep of the ship, rounding up prisoners. Thankfully, the Antari captain proves as well versed in Tierran as he is in banecasting. He surrenders his ship gracefully and without rancour.

Soon, Lieutenant Briggins of the Victorious comes over the gangplank with a pair of midshipmen and two dozen able seamen to form a prize crew. You are relieved and are sent back to the Victorious with the other Dragoons and half of the surviving Marines.

You reach your cabin before the others and collapse eagerly onto your cot. You awake a few hours later to the sound of an insistent fist pounding on your cabin door.

It is once again one of the Victorious' midshipmen. Captain Walken has requested your presence at a debriefing being held in the wardroom. You dress quickly and put some vain effort into making yourself presentable before stepping out into the cool evening air.

The Victorious' crew moves around you as you walk across the deck. Some are busy loading supplies onto the newly captured Antari vessel, whilst others are repairing the damage inflicted on both ships during the battle. Soon, the captured prize will be sent back to the Tierran naval base at Northern Pillars while the Victorious continues north towards Antar.

The wardroom is full to bursting as you enter. Cazarosta, Elson, and Captain Montez are on one side while Captain Walken of the Victorious and two of his lieutenants sit on the other, with Lieutenant Briggins standing before them, making a report on the state of the prize vessel.

"Our prize is a grain ship, nothing too valuable. It was likely sailing south to Callindria or Takara to trade grain for weaponry. I suppose its owner decided to rig a surprise for us in case it was attacked. It was most unfortunate that we did not bag this one returning north. We could have all taken Callindrian swords as trophies."

You take the seat reserved for you as Briggins finishes by proclaiming his newly captured prize ready to set sail within the hour. Now Walken turns to you and your fellow Dragoons.

"Major Montez," (for an army captain is always addressed as 'major' at sea as to avoid confusion aboard ship.) "I would first like to congratulate your men for their work in today's action. Allow me to offer them my compliments first, lest the criticism to follow breaks their unhardened spirits, hmm?"

You get the distinct feeling that your regiment has just been insulted. 'Unhardened spirits' indeed! Walken shakes Montez's hand and continues. The naval captain turns to you, his expression blank.

"You were in command, were you not, Cornet Castleton?"

When you answer in the affirmative, the captain breaks out into a small but warm grin. "Well done spotting that banefire lad. Splendidly done for a first action, especially for one at sea. You used my Marines well and your own troopers too, I suppose. Should you ever wish to serve in a real fighting force, the Royal Marines would be lucky to have you."

It is clear that Walken has a low opinion of the land-bourne regiments of the Royal Army, but his praise is heartfelt regardless.

The captain continues, going over every stage of the operation in detail. He praises some of your tactical choices and criticizes others. Montez chimes in on occasion as well, but Elson, Cazarosta, and the Victorious' lieutenants remain silent unless asked to answer, as good obedient subordinates are supposed to. After an hour, Walken dismisses you all, and you return to your cabin.

The three of you return to the cabin in high spirits. From a hidden pocket of his jacket, Elson produces a small bottle of Kentauri whisky. The three of you drink quietly for a few minutes before a stilted, stiff conversation begins. As the night wears on and the liquor begins to take hold, the three of you speak more freely about training, the day's action, and the many battles to come. When you finally fall asleep, you do so drunk and in high spirits.

-​

The Victorious' prize ship and Lieutenant Briggins' prize crew leave at dawn. The next few days are uneventful. The wind is good, and the weather is calm.

You spend the time as you did before, aimlessly speaking with sailors, officers, and your fellow Dragoons. After another week, the lookout finally announces that he has spotted the bleak grey of the Antari coast on the horizon.

What follows is an interminable period of waiting. Having reached the Antari coast and rendezvoused with the rest of the squadron, the Victorious must now wait for the wind to change enough for it to complete the last stretch of its journey, sailing west along the coast to reach the Tierran-held port of Noringia, where you and the rest of your regiment are to disembark and make final preparations before proceeding to the front.

For the next week and a half, you wait, with nothing to do besides fish, read and indulge in idle conversation. On the tenth day of waiting, the lookout reports a ship approaching from the south: a small, sleek vessel flying the gryphon and tower of Tierra. The vessel is a courier sent directly from the naval base at Northern Pillars. Aboard are dispatches from Grenadier Square for Captain Montez and orders for Captain Walken.

In addition, the vessel brings news that the Antari merchantman the Victorious had captured has already been bought out. As a result, the prize money due to the ship's crew and members of the boarding party is duly doled out. Your share comes, to your surprise, in a brown leather pouch filled with gold coins.

"No banknotes, lads," the courier explains. "No Tierran banks in Antar. Banknotes ain't much use if you can't cash them."

Cazarosta and Elson each receive their own pouches.

For your part in leading the boarding action, you are given a large share of the prize money — almost as much as the amount awarded to Captain Walken himself. You end the day 150 crowns richer than you had begun it. You are also awarded the Cross of Saint Jerome for your excellent leadership of the boarding action and your quick thinking in the face of the Antari banefire trap.

​

The next day, the wind changes, and the squadron continues on its way.

Two days later, you finally make landfall on Antari soil.

 

[Rogue Attican]

CHAPTER III
Wherein the cavalry officer makes landfall at the port of NORINGIA and prepares to discharge his MARTIAL DUTY.​

The Antari port town of Noringia is far from impressive.

Nestled between two low hills, the cluster of strange, steep-roofed houses is hardly a match for the glittering beacon spires of Aetoria or the orderly mills of Tannersburg. However, that has not stopped the town and the bay it presides over from bustling with activity.

As the Victorious sails into Noringia's sheltered harbour, you see a forest of masts. Supply vessels, horse transports, line-of-battle ships, and lean frigates like the Victorious, each flying the gryphon and tower of Tierra, crowd the port, looming over the shattered defences that the local lord had tried to use, in vain, to hold off the Royal Army.

It takes almost four hours for the Victorious to weave its way through the shoals, breakwaters, and other ships into its assigned place in the harbour. As you pass other vessels, you hear a scattered back and forth of hails, cheers, and shouted hellos from your ship to the others. One vessel, a third rate of seventy-four guns flying the red and white pennon of a Rear-Admiral over the gryphon and tower, offers no response. Her crew is too busy trying to keep her afloat despite the massive house-sized hole punched into her hull.

Montez is on the first boat. As he departs, he orders everyone to assemble with the other squadrons of the regiment in the town square. By the time you say your farewells and are bundled on a boat, it is past midday. Neither Cazarosta nor Elson are on the boat with you, leaving you with only the faces of a dozen rankers and a handful of very taciturn oarsmen for company.

The time seems to pass slowly. Every sloshing sweep of the oars seems to last an eternity. After an hour of torturous monotony, your boat finally pulls up to the primitive wooden pier.

You half-expect something momentous to happen as you set your foot down on the weather-beaten planks: some kind of fanfare to announce your arrival on this foreign and hostile land. Yet there is nothing. Thousands of men like you, serving the same king, have already landed on this very pier. Thousands more will likely do the same in the days to come. Your arrival is no special occasion.

As you walk down the pier and join the other assembled Dragoons waiting in the town square, you learn that Captain Montez, like the other squadron commanders, has been called away to a staff meeting with His Grace, the Duke of Cunaris. The assembled regiment has inevitably reduced itself to knots of friends and acquaintances. It seems that no amount of training in the world is going to keep twelve hundred young men standing still in the sun unless someone is yelling at them to do so.

After a few minutes of waiting by yourself, Cazarosta finds you in the crowd and greets you with a grim wave. He tells you that it is likely that you and he will be assigned to different places along the front.

"The land of Southern Antar is too forested, too rugged for large-unit cavalry work. They'll want us as skirmishers. Only a complete idiot would not split us up along the entire line so that we might exploit weak points and head off enemy raids when needed. Perhaps when we break into the open plains to the north, we shall meet again."

You realize belatedly that this is his roundabout way of saying goodbye. Before you can speak further, the two of you see a party of officers, led by the Duke himself, approaching the square. You and Cazarosta part without a word and quickly form into ranks with the others.

The portrait in Fernandescourt does not do the Duke justice. In the full harness of a Knight of Saint Jerome, he casts an imposing figure, towering at least half a head over most of the regiment. His armour shines in the setting sun, banerunes glowing a fae blue invisible to all but baneblooded eyes.

"Dragoons! Welcome to Antar." His voice rolls over you, a rich baritone laden with authority.

"When His Majesty made the decision to fight the Antari on their home soil, we all knew that we would not be fighting a conventional war. Our enemy is strong in numbers, strong in arms, and strong in banecasting. Thus, we cannot face him in open battle."

The Duke pauses for a moment and allows the regiment to grumble. Many had signed up expecting a quick, exciting campaign.

"Where the enemy is strong, we are weak, but we have our own strengths. If we are to win this war, we must fight intelligently. His Majesty has decided upon a campaign of skirmishes and raids. As a result, the majority of you shall be detached in small units to serve at His Majesty's pleasure. Expect to receive your orders over the next two days. Your squadron commanders may require some of you to depart immediately."

Speech delivered, the Duke sweeps his gaze back and forth over the assembled regiment once as if capturing an image in his mind. Then:

"Regiment dismissed!"

As the assembled regiment disperses, you see Captain Montez making his way through the crowd, handing out orders in thin envelopes to the squadron's five lieutenants, each assigned to command a troop of forty.

As the crowd thins, you see Elson standing in front of you, a wide grin on his face.

"My dear fellow. I have just received the most wonderful intelligence. The fellow I was standing next to tells me that some fine gentlemen have set up an officer's club on the landward side of the town. Seeing as we are like to get our orders soon, what would you say to losing a few dams to me at Tassenswerd before we are compelled to depart for our grim duties?"

[] I have better things to do. I'll explore the town instead.
[] Of course. I would not turn down a chance at leisure before I receive my orders.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] Of course. I would not turn down a chance at leisure before I receive my orders.

Click to shrink...

The makeshift officer's club is a low, half-timbered building standing atop a foundation of grey fieldstone. Bright light pours out from every open window, spilling warm yellow and the sounds of laughter onto the street. A pair of sentries in the orange of the Tierran line infantry stand at attention at each side of the front door, bayonets fixed to the muzzles of their long pattern muskets. They are clearly there to keep out the riff-raff.

As you approach, the two guards bar the door with their muskets. One leans forward to check the lot of you for proof of your officers' ranks. Although the unusual colours and unique insignia of your regiment give them a bit of trouble, they do not detain you for longer than a few moments before nodding and letting you pass.

You step through the doorway into a great hall blazing with light and warmth. Two great hearths burn merrily as enlisted stewards and hired staff scurry about, platters of food and wine glasses balanced upon each elbow. Scattered around the room are a half dozen tables, crowded with officers, their wives, and mistresses, all bantering or partaking in various games.

As Elson steps in after you, he waves to a tall, slim man with similarly blond hair and a thin mustache, who excuses himself from his game of Caster's Folly and approaches you.

Weeks of training override your conscious mind, and you snap to attention as soon as you see the insignia of a superior officer glistening upon the approaching man's shoulders. An instant later, you hear the others behind you do the same. The man idly waves you to be at ease. Awaiting his cue, Elson steps forward.

"My dear fellows, may I introduce my cousin-by-marriage (his, not mine), Lord Captain Winthrop d'al Hartigan, eldest son of the 4th Viscount of Hugh, currently with the 5th Regiment of Foot."

Captain Hartigan greets each of you with a warm handshake. Moving with the grace lent only by high nobility, he leads you to his previous table, only to find his card game already finished and the players preparing to leave.

"What's all this?" Captain Hartigan demands, his tone eminently civil. "Must you all leave so soon?"

One of the other men, a lieutenant, nods gravely. "Afraid so, sir. Wiltshire needs to be on sentry duty in half an hour and—"

The lieutenant looks over to the other side of the table, where a petite brunette stands, staring at him with a rather impatient expression. "I think my wife wishes to leave. Good night sir."

With that, the two officers vacate the table, leaving you alone with Elson, two of your fellow Dragoons, and Lord Captain Hartigan. The captain looks around for other occupied tables which might deign to accommodate all five of you. You notice Elson almost unconsciously falling in as well, trying to help his older cousin. It is clear that the younger officer sees the elder as something of an example. After a moment, the captain turns back to you with a defeated expression and shrugs.

"Well, it would appear that we are free from the obligation of joining another table. Seeing as this one is empty, I would say that sets us at liberty to choose our own diversions for the evening."

Captain Hartigan presents you with three options. There is, of course, the classic game of Tassenswerd. A game more of personalities than luck, it would be a simple thing to set up a game for five players.

Hartigan has also brought with him a box carved out of dark, fragrant wood. He informs you that it is meant for the playing of Quie, a Kian game of some antiquity, favoured by the generals and statesmen of that southern power and famed for the complexity of its play.

Both games would naturally require you to stake some of your ready cash; for a gentleman of your rank, such a thing would only be proper. Of course, if you are unwilling to stake money on the outcome of either game, Hartigan seems unopposed to merely talking the entire evening, perhaps giving you a concise background of the war.

[] Play Tassenswerd.
[] Play Quie.
[] Talk about the war.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] Play Quie.

Click to shrink...

Hartigan places the box on the table and undoes two tiny metal latches along the sides. Opening what is now obviously a container, the Captain takes out three dozen finely-carved pieces, half made of ebony and half of ivory. As he sets up the board, he begins explaining the rules to you. You have a little bit of trouble learning Quie's ruleset at first. Still, after a quick practice game, you rate yourself proficient enough at it to play for keeps. Your first opponents go down easy, and after a struggle, even Captain Hartigan proclaims his position on the board to be untenable, conceding defeat just short of twenty turns.

Surprisingly, it is Elson who manages to finally best you. As you move your pieces in position to capture his fortress, the aristocratic officer springs his trap, rushing his horsemen into an area you thought safe and taking your Magistrate, ending the game.

As Elson congratulates you for your well-fought match, you see that none of the others are really in the mood for Quie any longer, especially as you have divested most of them of a substantial sum of money. Thus, you feel it wise to conclude the evening's entertainment. A few minutes later, as you walk towards your billet, Captain Hartigan has a few words with you.

"You are brilliant, you know. If you can put your mind to war anywhere near as well as you put your mind to play, I shall expect great things ahead of you. Just let me offer a few words of advice from someone who's been in the mess you're about to be sent through: the Antari are determined. They are strong, and they are superb horsemen. In return, we must be clever. On this night, I have seen the full capacity of your wits and mind. Those shall be your greatest weapons on the field of battle. You will not be able to outfight the Antari in the open, but I have little doubt that you will find outwitting them a far easier prospect."

Hartigan stops in the town square where you had assembled with your regiment just a few hours before.

"The Dragoon officers' barracks are over there. If you will excuse me, I must return to my quarters."

The barracks turn out to be a large, stately building of grey stone, built with the curved roofs and elaborate stone scrollwork of the Kian style. Judging by the expensive work on the mahogany doors and the thick red carpets, the building had likely been the winter home of one of the great lords of the Antari congress.

The Tierran officers who had come before you have certainly left their mark. Every instance of the Antari double-headed eagle you come across has been defaced, sometimes brutally. One carving in the main hall, too big to be cut down, is instead draped with the gryphon and tower banner of the Unified Kingdom.

Despite the thorough job the first Tierran residents did of vandalizing the place, the furnishings were left mostly intact. As such, it is quite easy for the corporal at the door to find you a relatively undamaged room for the night. With the assurance that your personal effects are to be transferred from the Victorious in the morning, you proceed to your room.

Your temporary quarters seem almost impossibly luxurious, especially after a few weeks in the cramped and constantly rocking cabin on the Victorious. Before you can work up the urge to do anything else, you sink into the too-soft mattress of the ornate four-poster bed and fall into a deep, exhausted sleep.

-​

You wake in the morning to the sound of an insistent knock on your door. After taking a few moments to make yourself presentable, you open it to find a stocky, well-muscled sergeant wearing a Dragoon jacket at least two sizes too small for him and an impressive set of sideburns. He introduces himself as Sergeant Solhammond Lanzerel, a recent transfer from another unit that had taken too many casualties in the final assault on the town and had been broken up to provide reinforcements for newly-arrived regiments like your own. He hands you an official-looking envelope stamped with a government seal: your orders.

If you haven't already seen it, this is the cover art for Sabres of Infinity, made by the author himself.
On the left is your fellow officer Davis d'al Elson, and on the right is Sergeant Solhammond "Sideburns" Lanzerel.​

You are to command a patrol of five enlisted men, including a sergeant. Your small unit of six is to report to the commander of the outpost at the Kharan river crossing in four days.

Producing a map from his jacket pocket, Sergeant Lanzerel points out the location of your new assignment. You guess that it would take you a day and a half of riding to get to your new posting. Lanzerel, with his greater knowledge of the country and the roads, gives an estimate closer to three days.

That would mean you would only have a single day and night in Noringia before heading out to your new posting. In that time, you will be required to ready yourself with everything you need: a personal mount and a veteran ranker for a sergeant to pick your enlisted men and advise you.

Both the quartermaster's office and the personnel assignment office work on a first-come, first-served basis. The earlier you request a horse or get your men recruited, the better quality they will be.

What do you deal with first?

[] I get a horse first.
[] I select a sergeant and assemble my unit first.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] I select a sergeant and assemble my unit first.

Click to shrink...

There is no room for the thousands of soldiers in the King's army within the walls of a town the size of Noringia. While baneblooded officers like yourself get comfortable billets, the common soldiery must seize houses from the local populace or set up tent camps outside the walls. As a result, the men in charge of looking after them must move with them. The officers in charge of personnel for each regiment make their office in a large, semi-ruined farmhouse outside the walls.

You meet with your regimental clerk, scanning paperwork and regulations under the light let in by the half-collapsed roof. Standard procedure stipulates that the commanding officer of a newly formed combat unit must choose his own sergeant who, being more suited to judge and choose men of a similar low station, will pick the rest of the unit.

The clerk sends a runner out to find candidates available to serve under an officer with your lack of seniority.

"You'll get the bottom of the bloody barrel of course," Lanzerel says, quiet enough so that only you could hear him. "A just-commissioned cornet won't have much chance of getting a good sergeant. The more senior officers will have snapped them up already."

Soon, the runner returns with three men, each wearing the grey tunic of the Royal Dragoons and sporting two yellow chevrons on each sleeve: corporals with the appropriate seniority to be eligible for promotion to sergeant.

The first to enter is Corporal Hernandes, a bespectacled young man with unkempt whiskers and a mop of long black hair. It only takes you a few minutes of conversation with him to realize that he is well-read on the art of war and has a head full of ideas for the ordering and training of fighting men.

The second candidate is Corporal Harlech, a large, two-fisted fellow with ten years of service behind him. Boisterous and hotheaded, he is exactly what you'd expect of a sergeant, rough and confident. He tells you about his "lads," a group of high-spirited ruffians more than willing to see some action under your command. However, his brusque manners and downright insubordinate attitude do not give you much confidence in his ability to follow your orders in the heat of battle.

The last corporal for your consideration is a familiar face: Fenton, the eldest son of your mother's lady's maid. You recall that he had left to join the army some time ago. You remember him as a good-natured lad, faithful to his friends and your family.

You:
[] Pick Hernandes as my sergeant.
[] Pick Harlech as my sergeant.
[] Pick Fenton as my sergeant.
[] Decide that none of these men will do. Lanzerel is still unassigned, might I request him instead?

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] Decide that none of these men will do. Lanzerel is still unassigned. Might I request him instead?
Aside from the power of his sideburns, Lanzerel also grants you a well-rounded unit and sound advice. Had your Soldiering and Charisma been higher, Alaric would've picked up on Hernandes and Fenton's bad qualities.

Click to shrink...

The clerk is surprised at your question but nowhere near as startled as Lanzerel himself.

"All due respect, sir. I'm too new. I don't know the men, and I don't know the kit—"

You overrule his objections. Convinced by your insistence, Lanzerel finally gives in and accepts his new place in your unit. As soon as you dismiss him, he heads out, promising to return with the best men he can find. Two hours later, with the sun nearing its apex, Lanzerel returns, four men in tow. All of them look big and healthy: indeed, each seems to be a hardened professional, good at his job, and ready for a long slog, if necessary.

"I hope these will do, sir."

You assure him that they will, indeed, do quite well. You instruct your new unit to assemble at the ruins of Noringia's landward gate at 8:00 the next morning, giving you plenty of time to finish your business in the town. You and Lanzerel make your way to the pastures outside Noringia's ruined town walls as the sun begins its long descent from its apex. The establishment of Noringia as the main port-of-arrival for the King's army has made it a feeding ground for those willing to make a profit out of the war. Accepting this as a fact of campaigning, the quartermasters of the Royal Army have set up their offices outside the walls. The grasslands outside the walls are now covered with orderly rows of tents and pavillions.

The quartermaster's office is a large circular pavilion of dull, grey cloth. You barely have time to enter before the man at the desk sees the spurs on your boots and directs you to the stablemaster's tent on the other side of the assembled tent city.

It takes you half an hour to make your way to the correct tent. The stablemaster's pavilion is a small half-open canvas structure hosting a series of manned desks and very little else. Behind the tent stands a large corral made from rough-hewn logs.

The horses wandering upon the churned-up turf of the corral are hardly prize specimens. They are almost all mares, considered more tractable and better behaved, but smaller and with less raw power. Most of the horses available look sickly and malnourished: their eyes are sunken, their coats dull, and you can see the ribs sticking out from the bodies of the worst afflicted. Clearly, the long sea voyage and the makeshift conditions under which they are being housed have not done the poor animals any favours.

Lanzerel does mention an alternative though: several horse merchants, both foreign and local, have set up shop in the tent market. The scarcity of tolerable mounts for the King's Army has driven horse prices up, and these merchants have clearly come to profit. Regardless of their motives, these private sellers do offer superior horseflesh… for a price.

"Just be careful, sir," he advises. "A big charger may look impressive on the field, but stallions are nasty-tempered and stubborn cusses. Find yourself a mare or a gelding if you want something easier to ride."

You:
[] Requisition a horse from the official stables.
[] Buy a horse from a merchant with my own funds.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] Buy a horse from a merchant with my own funds.

Click to shrink...

Coming to the decision that a few extra crowns will be of little use if you are caught with an inadequate horse in combat, you decide to spend a little bit extra to acquire a more impressive and capable mount.

Many of the horse merchants have already closed up shop, having sold their stock of mounts for the day. After two hours of searching and haggling, you and Lanzerel examine your options, as meagre as they are:

A grey mare named "Faith," a stolid, timid-looking animal with a few white spots on her neck. Although small-ish and hardly impressive, she seems reliable and healthy. Her owner is willing to part with her for 20 crowns.

The only other horse you find for sale is expensive beyond the pale, but clearly, the finest horse in the entire camp, a gigantic black stallion named "Thunderer," a mount suited for a Knight of the Red or a general. Stallions are notoriously hotheaded and difficult to control, but you have no doubt that you will cut a dashing figure perched atop such a magnificent animal. He commands the downright-exorbitant price of 100 crowns.

[] Buy Faith. (-20 Wealth)
[] Buy Thunderer. (-100 Wealth)
[] It's not worth the money. I requisition an army horse.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] Buy Faith. (-20 Wealth)

Click to shrink...

You make up your mind about buying the mare, figuring that her humble reliability and easy manner to be well worth the cost. You go up to the merchant to purchase your new horse. Haggling ensues, but it's largely perfunctory. The seller refuses to budge from the advertised price of 20 crowns.

The purchase completed, you stop by the army stablemasters' tent to pick up a set of saddlery before leading your new horse to the officers' stables. You barely have enough time to catch a quick supper at the Officers' Club yourself before the sun goes down. Returning to your comfortable room for the last time, you write off a few letters to your family and go over your equipment and possessions, ensuring that all is in readiness.

After a full night's sleep, you dress, wash, and assemble your kit, leaving out the door half an hour after sunrise. It is the work of a few minutes to saddle, feed and prepare provisions for Faith and set off.

You hear Sergeant Lanzerel long before you see him. As you draw closer, the sounds of his dissatisfaction only grow louder. By the time you arrive, the bellowing sound of his voice has stopped, leaving only the veteran himself, along with four terrified Dragoons, each with newly-dulled metal fittings and long canvas covers over the shiny barrels of their carbines.

Thus finally assembled, the six of you ride out the gate in single file, along the Old Imperial Highway.

Glory — or infamy — awaits.

 

[Rogue Attican]

Chapter IV
Wherein the cavalry officer serves under a KNIGHT OF THE RED and faces a BANELORD of ANTAR.​

The Kharan River Crossing outpost turns out to be a barely fortified and very rudimentary camp some ten kilometres from the actual bridge across the river itself. Hidden in the forests of southern Antar, the outpost serves to prevent the Antari from moving troops or supplies down the Old Imperial Highway.

To that purpose, the King's Army has garrisoned the outpost with some of its best: a half company of the elite Grenadier Guards Regiment. Your small unit of Dragoons has been assigned to accompany them as messengers, scouts, and if necessary, a cavalry reserve.

Thus, your duties are simple: patrol the area around the outpost, keep eyes on the bridge over the River Kharan, and maintain contact with other nearby outposts and high command.

For six months, you have discharged these monotonous duties, leading your men through endless patrols through the seemingly-boundless forests of Southern Antar. You have spent countless days riding single-file down narrow dirt trails and game tracks rain or shine, through sickness and health.

Of course, you have not been idle over this long stretch. You have had plenty of time in between patrols and courier missions to see to the condition of the men under your command. You have used that time profitably to:
[] Drill my men relentlessly.
[] Gain the loyalty of my men.
[] Inspire my men by example.