Sabres 6.06
[X] Question the two Grenadiers about their other missing comrades.

You step forward menacingly, your hand resting on the hilt of your sabre. Your men follow your lead. "I was told that six of you had left the outpost. Where are the rest? Don't lie to me. I know the six of you were out here to fight the partisans, so let's hear it: where are the others?"

The Grenadiers whisper amongst themselves for a few moments. Their hushed words grow more and more panicked until finally, one of them speaks up. "Well, sir, we were along the road when we found this grisly scene. The sergeant flew into such a rage that he ordered us to stay behind and give the bodies some respect while he and the others hunted down the bastards responsible."

The Grenadier points at a slight opening in the trees a little up the road. "They went through there, sir."

The corporal points at the sad sight of the suspended bodies. "Might you help us with these poor folk, sir? I'm sure the others will be back."

[] Help the Grenadiers bury the bodies.
[] Search for the others myself.
 
Sabres 6.07
[X] Search for the others myself.
Since we're tied, I'll proceed with this option, as it leads to more information and choices.
You leave two of your men behind to guard the Grenadiers and go into the forest with the rest of your men.

You and your men walk into the deep forest, leading your horses behind you. The woods here are not like the well-tended and constantly trimmed forests of Tierra. There is no soft, mossy carpet or carefully tended shrubbery here. The Antari forest is dark and full of ragged bushes and treacherous footing.

You follow what appears to be a narrow game trail; the rough pine branches whip at your face, and fragrant needles pinprick your exposed skin with annoying regularity. Your tracking skills stand you in good stead, allowing you to follow the trail closely. Navigating almost solely by compass and a rough map drawn from your previous patrols, you find an area marked as a clearing with a side lane that leads to the main road.

You burst through the underbrush into the wide clearing. In the distance, you see a pillar of smoke rise from the trees. A quick look at your map confirms that the smoke is coming from a point away from the main road. Grabbing your horse's reins in one hand and waving at your men to follow with the other, you plunge back into the undergrowth, heading for the rising smoke.

Your men rush in, carbines at the ready, to come face to face with a quartet of Grenadiers, their faces and uniform jackets besmirched with soot and blood. Behind them stands the remains of a stout farmhouse, one which might have been inhabited by a family of freeholders. Smoke pours from the shattered windows, and the shingles hang curled and blackened, the only hint of the maelstrom of flame and darkness roiling within.

Your training takes over. You bark a few quick orders. In the space of half a moment, the Grenadiers have their muskets on the ground, their hands raised in peace as you approach them with sabre in one hand and pistol in the other. Deserters or not, these men still snap to the words of a baneblood and an officer. You send your men to look over the rest of the scene as you keep guard over the Grenadiers and their discarded weapons.

Your sergeant returns to report. Lanzerel is as unfazed and professional as ever. "We found the bodies of the inhabitants, sir. Freeholders. I took a close look. The girl had a king's silver dam' around her neck. Hole drilled right through His Majesty's likeness. I'd figure their livelihoods for brigandage against His Majesty and their deaths better than they deserved."

The Grenadier sergeant looks over his shoulder and steps forward.

"Sir, I know you must think us deserters for leaving our posts and criminals for discovering us as the culprits of such a scene, but I assure you, our actions were spurred by the love we bear our king. We suspected these folk to be partisans, and after that last attack, we had to test our suspicions. We crept out and found the poor fellows driving the cart in a gruesome state close to this homestead. We searched the place and found proof of their treachery, so we gave them the King's justice."

Your eyebrow cocks itself inquiringly. "And what is this proof that I have not yet seen?"

The Grenadier NCO nods at a long, low shape leaning against the tree beside you: a solid-looking flintlock shotgun. "We found that in the house. You think some honest farmer from Rendower'd be carrying a heavy piece like that? That's a weapon for killin' men."

The sergeant has a point. No Tierran farmer would own such a weapon, but this is not Tierra. Tierra has foxes and small, runty wolves. Antar has mountain lions, snow tigers, and great bears. Such a weapon would be useless for hunting, but for the purpose of defending one's home, it would be ideal. You find yourself increasingly suspicious of the sergeant's "proof."

You see another column of smoke rise from beyond the burning farmhouse, and you nod with satisfaction, knowing that your men have given the bodies the dignity of a proper cremation. A few minutes later, your men return, Sergeant Lanzerel with them. "Right, sir, the bodies are dealt with. What do we do with this lot?"

Your orders were to bring these men back in chains, but the orders you were given this morning have little bearing on the situation as it stands.

There is, of course, the fact that loyal king's men or not, these men have obviously committed murder. As set down by the Articles of War, these men deserve death.

On the other hand, if these men did indeed execute a bunch of vile partisans, then they were dispensing the King's justice. They deserve reprimand, but certainly not the indignity of being escorted back in chains. Besides, Captain Lefebvre might look upon you favourably if you were to treat his pet attack dogs well.

[] Drag them back in chains.
[] Escort them back as guests.
[] Have them shot for murder.
 
Meeting Lanzerel
I know that our Sergeant is more competent than the three choices we left behind... but I don't know how much of a read on his character I can recall.
If you had chosen to explore Noringia instead of going to the officer's club with Elson, you would've met Lanzerel sooner. Perhaps the following dialogue from that alternate route might help you gain a better understanding of our senior NCO.

-​

You turn to see a tall, brawny man in his late twenties sporting some of the most impressive sideburns you have ever seen. He wears a rather ill-fitting Dragoon uniform and carries a lit torch in his right hand. He approaches with a brisk swaggering gait, a shotgun slung over his shoulder.

"Cornet Castleton, I presume?"

When you answer in the affirmative, he sketches a quick salute. "Sergeant Solhammond Lanzerel. Your captain told me to find you. Not safe to be doing that alone, not after dark. We've whipped most of these moose-shagging bastards well and good, but some aren't so easily cowed. A few of them still have it in their heads that their overlords may reward them if they draw a knife across one of our boys' throats every few days or so."

Suddenly, the alleys seem to have grown a lot more menacing. The town is now more than dark: it is in shadow. Every corner and every house seems more threatening now that there is the possibility of a hidden ambusher with a knife hiding in the shadow of every stray barrel or fence.

"If you don't mind, sir. I'll show you where the officers are billeted."

The two of you make idle conversation as you walk across town. You feel assured that while any lone idiot might attack a single unprepared Tierran, two soldiers armed with weapons and a lit torch would give any would-be assassin pause.

"I was one of the first men to land on Antari soil four months ago," boasts the Sergeant. "I'm — was, Second Battalion, Fourth Regiment of Foot."

Come to think of it, the man does seem less at ease with his uniform jacket than a sergeant with some years' service would have any right to be. If he had, up until very recently, worn the burnt orange of the line infantry, that would certainly explain his discomfiture.

"I've some advice to offer you lad, if you'll have it."

[X] "Of course!"
[] "If I need advice, I'll ask for it."


Lanzerel gives a rough grin. He stands up a bit straighter as he speaks.

"Alright lad, you want to stay alive out here, remember this: The Antari aren't hares on your father's estate. They aren't foxes, they aren't wolves, and no matter what they'd have you think, they aren't bears. They're folk: thinking, breathing folk, and we've just invaded their homeland."

Lanzerel takes a deep breath as he pauses for a moment, as if he were about to say something truly distasteful.

"We lost fifty men storming the heights outside the city, another thirty digging saps to the walls. When we finally led the King's army into the city, we left two hundred men dead behind us. There wasn't enough of Second Battalion left to reform into a company. They sent the officers back to Aetoria to put together a whole new battalion, and left the rest of us up here for the other regiments to gobble up. Some captain in your regiment was told I could handle a horse, so they gave me this jacket and told me I was one of them now."

You are quite shocked by the Sergeant's recounting of his regiment's woes. To have had a battalion of six hundred fighting men reduced to less than forty was not something you had expected out of a single minor assault against a decrepit castle town. Lanzerel sees your expression in the guttering torchlight, and his mouth hardens to a thin slash across his face.

"You're shocked. I can tell. You saw those pathetic walls. You can imagine how many guns our fleet trained on them. They weren't what did it. Those walls were breached three hours after we finished our siegeworks. Do you know what did?"

[X] "A hundred Church Hussars, with flaming swords in hand and angel wings unfurled, ready to sally?"

Lanzerel laughs, a short, barking and scornful thing. "Saints bedamned, you've got an imagination, lad! No. Not a single one of those damned Antari winged hussars was seen that day."

[X] "A perfectly placed ambush: by a dozen expert marksmen?"

Lanzerel shakes his head with a grim chuckle. "If only. That's what we'd come in expecting. If it'd been an ambush, we'd have flushed them out in minutes."

[X] "A powerful banecaster, eighth or ninth calibre, calling up lightning and flame?"

Lanzerel says something impolite under his breath and makes the sign of the Red Martyrs with one hand, an old folk tradition to ward off the scrying of powerful casters.

"No, sir, nothing like that. The Antari place even more value on baneblood than we do. Instead of just following the celestial mandate and all-hailing banebloods as lords, they actually set the most powerful casters as overlords over the most powerful fiefs. The most powerful baneblood we found in this town was all of six years old. We sent him south last month. He'll fetch a ransom, but not for being some sort of banecasting prodigy."

[X] "I have no idea."

Lanzerel shakes his head. "You've probably got two or three maybes dancing in your head: ambushing soldiers or Church Hussars or something. No, it was nothing like that at all.

[X] "The townspeople, given courage and aggression by the fact that they were defending their homes?"

Lanzerel nods, the pain in his face obvious. You feel as if you had just told your favourite schoolteacher that his wife was cheating on him.

"Aye, that's right, sir. It was the townsfolk. When we broke in, the few professionals guarding the city who hadn't already deserted pulled back to the castle. We didn't face no soldiers at that breach, or even at the walls."

Lanzerel pauses for a moment, gathering another breath.

"No soldiers, just folk, like the ones back at home. Tapsters, bakers, tailors, smiths; them and their wives and their children. Half the bloody town turned on us as we came through. They shot at us with heirlooms and hunting pieces, they hacked at us with saws and dirks and saints-damned eating knives. They threw stones and bricks and cobbles and anything else they could lay hands on and—"

You almost know what he is going to say next. You have seen the burned wreckage which stand as the sole remnants of much of the town, you remember the huddled remnants of the former populace, sheltering in the shadow of the shattered walls.

"We killed them, damn near as many as we could, and they killed us. By the time we cleared the breach and the rest of the army came through, there was barely anybody left standing, under our colours or theirs."

Suddenly, the narrow street along which you and Lanzerel were walking along opens to a great mass of darkness. The town square, which had seemed so open and inert that afternoon, now seems a roiling expanse of vengeful shadows. You step along briskly as the chill night wind tugs at your jacket. Lanzerel pays it no notice, having long since grown used to this cold and bitter country.

"Lad, if you forget everything I've told you today, remember this: the Antari will fight us every step. Every single one of them will fight us if they've half the chance. Man, woman or child, they come at you with a blade or musket, you don't hesitate. You cut them down. If you've a soft heart, you have no place in this war or any other."

The Sergeant stops in front of a large stone building. "Here we are, just go through the door. G'night, sir."

With that, Lanzerel snaps off another salute and waits for you to return it before leaving you at the entrance to what you assume must be the impromptu officer's barracks.
 
Last edited:
Sabres 6.08
[X] Escort them back as guests.
This is the option that Lanzerel favors, boosting your troops' Loyalty to 40%. Trust me - you'll want your men to have your back, no matter what you decide to do about Lefebvre.
You set the Grenadiers aside to tell them that you thought their actions entirely justified. Your men escort them back to the cart to rendezvous with the remainder of your unit. Sergeant Lanzerel seems to approve of your decision. He does you the favour of quieting the grumbling of the men on the long ride back. Together, the lot of you return to the outpost, handing off your unbound and entirely unbattered "prisoners" to the sentry before heading off for a quick dinner of hard tack and thin soup.

You report to Captain Lefebvre with your men fed and the prisoners duly returned. You tell the Captain about the sojourn of his personal death squad and the "success" of their mission.

"Thank you, Cornet. I assure you, keep silent, and you shall be well rewarded. Dismissed."

-​

A choice now stands before you.

You could keep silent, as Captain Lefebvre would wish, but that would mean letting his death squads get away with murder. It also means that you would be able to rest easy knowing that your career is safe. Perhaps Lefebvre, despite his cold personality, would serve as a powerful friend if ever you are in need.

Alternatively, you could tell Major Hunter, hoping that the Major's own connections would forestall any attempt by a vengeful Captain Lefebvre to ruin your career.

[X] Ask my sergeant for advice.

Lanzerel figures out what you're there to talk to him about before you even open your mouth. "No, sir. Don't even think about it. You bring this matter to Major Hunter, it'll not only set Captain Lefebvre against you, but it'll ruin the names of who-knows-how-many men, every single one of them more committed to winning this war than saints-damned near everyone in this outpost."

[] Keep quiet.
[] Tell Major Hunter.
 
Sabres 6.09
[X] Tell Major Hunter.

The next morning, you tell Major Hunter everything you know. He calls for Captain Lefebvre to confirm the story. The Captain's face goes livid with betrayal and rage as he sees you when he reports in.

"With all due respect, sir. This… toy soldier is merely spinning stories in the wind in some vain attempt to destroy me for some perceived slight. His report reeks of the falsehood and lies that he has so liberally slathered upon his words!"

You argue your case the best you can, but it does not seem like Major Hunter is entirely on your side. Conflicted, he calls in your men to corroborate or refute your story.

Your men back you to the hilt, confirming everything you said as truth. With the testimony of your own soldiers backing you, Hunter begins to take your side. "I think I have heard enough, Cornet. Captain Lefebvre, your actions besmirch the honour of the King's arms and the noble cause for which we fight. Though I cannot directly offer you any suitable punishment, rest assured that Grenadier Square will know of your foul actions."

Lefebvre says nothing, but you can see his spirit crushed behind his eyes. If Hunter reports him to the army's high command at Grenadier Square, he would likely be cashiered in disgrace. Even if he did manage to weather such a charge, his chances of promotion or future patronage would be all but non-existent.

"You are dismissed, Captain. Get out of my sight."

After Captain Lefebvre leaves, Hunter beckons you to approach his desk.

"Cornet, I am not a fool. Captain Lefebvre is an intelligent and vindictive man who will stop at no length to destroy you. You are a good soldier Castleton. We may not agree on our finer points of philosophy, but as your actions have proved today, you are still a man of integrity, however much you would seem to want to deny it. Tierra has too few men of your sort, and I will not suffer Captain Lefebvre to destroy your career for your virtues."

Major Hunter produces an ornate glass flask from under his desk and pours two small glasses of amber liquid. "I must ensure that you are beyond the good captain's reach. Tomorrow, I will order you to return to Noringia. My friends in Grenadier Square can work out the reasons why later. You will be taking a letter of recommendation from myself and a note allowing you to draw on my funds."

The Major takes one glass and offers it to you. You take it, numb. The Major is not only offering you the protection of his powerful reputation but also the ability to access his considerable fortune.

"This money will be made available to you for the purpose of purchasing your promotion to lieutenant and acquiring a higher command within your regiment."

Major Hunter takes the other glass and across the table towards you. "It is my belief that the Royal Army needs more men like you. To the King and your success, Lieutenant Castleton."

You drain the glass in one swallow. The Kentauri whisky burns its way down your throat. You leave feeling warmer than you have in weeks.
 
Sabres 7.01
Chapter VII
Wherein the cavalry officer receives a PROMOTION to the rank of LIEUTENANT.

You feel the heat from the Duke of Cunaris's banefire longsword on your neck as its razor-sharp edge hovers a thumb's width from your exposed throat. You meet your regimental colonel's steady gaze as best you can, acutely aware of the fact that three more swords are also pointed at you from each side and back, each just a step away from putting twenty centimetres of steel through your throat. Cunaris speaks; you hang onto every word.

"Do you, Alaric d'al Castleton, swear to always uphold the King's Laws in your service, to maintain the security of the realm, and to follow, without compunction, the orders of His Majesty the King and those he has placed as your superiors?"

You hesitate for a moment, a moment which seems to last an eternity. You make a nervous gulp before finally re-composing yourself. "I swear, by the Saints and by my sacred honour."

Cunaris does not miss a step. "Do you, Alaric d'al Castleton, swear to protect the person and interests of His Majesty the King upon the field of battle? Do you swear to discharge this most vital duty so long as you have eyes to see, legs to stand upon, and an arm to fight with?"

The answer comes more easily this time. "I swear, by the Saints and by my sacred honour."

"Do you, Alaric d'al Castleton, swear to live a life clean in both mind and deed and serve as an example to those bound to follow you?"

"I swear, by the Saints and my sacred honour."

Cunaris gives a small, knowing smile and withdraws his sword. All around you, you can hear his aides doing the same.

"Then, by the authority of His Majesty, King Miguel the First of House Rendower, I hereby appoint you lieutenant in the service of His Majesty's Royal Dragoon Regiment. Saints guard the King!"

-​

You exit the large stone building serving as the Duke of Cunaris's command headquarters, feeling no different than you had before. When you were in training, you could not help but look enviously at the lieutenants, the two shining pips upon their collars, and the rooms they got all to themselves instead of having to share. However, now that you have spent some time in service and have earned that fateful rank yourself, you realize that all your Lieutenancy means is a more ornamented uniform, a larger room, and more responsibilities.

Worse yet, you have not been given consideration for a command. After all, leading a patrol is work for a cornet or an NCO, not a lieutenant. You had to leave your old unit behind when you left Major Hunter's outpost for Noringia two weeks ago. Some of the men spoke their farewells with genuine affection, although you had no doubt that some others were cheering your departure in the silence of their own minds.

You spend the afternoon and evening being fitted for a new uniform bearing the silver tower and two gold pips of a lieutenant of horse. Unlike enlisted men, who must make do with the often ill-fitting issues of assigned uniforms, as an officer, you are expected to pay for a new uniform as part of the cost of your commission. As such, your new tunic and trousers have been made to fit you by a tailor residing in Noringia specifically for that purpose. After a few hours of fitting and alterations, your new uniform is complete. To your pleasure, it fits you perfectly.

It is now past sunset, and you are most exhausted. You remember the way back to the officer's billets well enough now, and the intervening time and a substantial garrison have considerably improved the conditions at night in Noringia.

As you cross town in the darkening gloom, your thoughts turn quickly to your new promotion. You now float in an uncomfortable limbo: you are too senior to command a patrol and still too junior to be given command of a troop currently led by a more experienced officer. Your only hope is to be given a newly formed unit or to replace an officer killed in action. Honestly, you have no idea what your next posting will be. The entire future of your career is up in the air, relying entirely on the whim of His Grace, the Duke of Cunaris, and of course, the boffins at Grenadier Square.

How do you feel about that?

[] I feel very confident! I am sure I will get a new command soon!
[] I am uncertain. Having a field command made it much easier for me to win merit and plunder. Now, I am without a command and I have no idea when I shall get a new one.
[] Requesting a promotion was a mistake. I would much prefer to be back at the outpost with my men.
 
Sabres 7.02
[X] I feel very confident! I am sure I will get a new command soon!

Perhaps your opinion will be vindicated in the days to come. Then again, perhaps not.

-​

Only the moon and stars remain in the sky when you get to your quarters. Stopping a moment to allow the sentries at the door to verify your identity, you are led to your room by an enlisted man stationed just for that purpose. You wearily strip off your old cornet's uniform and place your new, neatly folded lieutenant's jacket and trousers in your wardrobe.

Soon, you will be moved to a larger room more befitting your improved station in His Majesty's army. For now, you are perfectly content to fall into your bed and drift silently into sleep.

The next day, you dress in your new uniform. Heart in your throat, you report to regimental headquarters for new duties. Unfortunately, no new field commands are available. Your new assignment is to the Duke of Cunaris's staff. Normally, that would mean that you would be required to help maintain the administrative duties of the regiment, shuffle reports, and bring the most important requests to His Grace himself for his consideration.

In reality, with squadron and troop commanders handling their own paperwork, your new post effectively sets you at liberty. Over the next week, you quickly learn that, save for a requisite check-in every morning, your actual duties basically involve sitting at your cramped desk and watching your regimental commander read Kian philosophy and write letters to his family. Your posting seems little more than an excuse for His Majesty's Army to keep you on hand until real work comes up. None of the other desks seem occupied save for maybe a few in the very early morning. On the sixth day, the Duke finally takes you aside.

"Lieutenant Castleton, I assure you, there is no need for you to waste away your youth waiting on me." Cunaris's expression is a mix of pity and bemusement, like what you would expect of a kindly uncle. "Go on. I set you at liberty. I'm sure there is something else you would rather be doing."

-​

With your entire day freed up by your regimental commander's orders, you suddenly find yourself with more free time than you have ever had since you joined the army. Without a unit to maintain or the immediate threat of combat to demand constant readiness in mind or equipment, you stand at a crossroads regarding how to spend your days. A few options present themselves:

First, there is the officer's club, which has remained exactly as it was on your first visit to Noringia. With a garrison of some twelve hundred men, the town offers enough fellow officers to provide tolerable company. Most use the time to gamble away their pay at the constant games of Tassenswerd; some extra funds could be won on the side if your skills are good enough.

In addition, you learn of a rather crude but well-maintained training grounds outside the town walls proper, which the garrison uses to maintain drill discipline and train up new arrivals. While you no longer have a unit to train with, your own skills could always use improvement.

There is also a genuine advantage in remaining at your post in the Regimental office. With little other company, you could ingratiate yourself with your regimental colonel. After all, the Duke of Cunaris is a wealthy and vastly influential man. He, or those who might come to you to petition him, might prove most useful acquaintances in the future.

Lastly, you could deal with the fact that you still have little comprehension of the language of those you are fighting against. For a small fee, you could hire some local to teach you the rudiments of the Antari tongue, which might prove useful in the future.

After some deliberation, you decide to:

[] Gamble and socialize at the officers' club.
[] Hone my body and mind at the training grounds.
[] Remain at the Duke's service to ingratiate myself.
[] Learn the Antari language. (-10 Wealth)
 
Sabres 7.03
[X] Learn the Antari language. (-10 Wealth)

As it turns out, a handful of crowns is enough to entice a well-educated and thoroughly bilingual former merchant captain to teach you the basics of the language. You arrange bi-weekly meetings with your tutor.

The Antari language is a difficult one to learn. The intonations, grammatical rules, and even the alphabet are alien to anyone who has grown up speaking Tierran. Regardless, over the next year, you begin grasping the basic concepts of the language. Within a few months, you can comprehend, more or less, the conversations of the townspeople who have remained in Noringia. By the time of the first snowfall, you are stringing together sentences. When spring finally arrives, you have begun learning how to write too.

Little more than a year after your promotion, you report to the Duke, only to be informed of some rather interesting news.

"I am afraid," the Duke says, "that I shall not be seeing too much more of you in the future." His face is a mask of some slight regret but no sadness.

The Duke explains that thanks to the Royal Dragoon Regiment's distinguished service, including (as the Duke is none too reluctant to mention) your own, Grenadier Square has decided to increase each squadron's size from five to six troops each.

"This, of course, means that your squadron now has an open field command position. As the senior officer without a command currently serving under Captain Montez, the honour will naturally be yours."

You are to have your own command again!

-​

It is the work of a few minutes to confirm your new assignment with the clerks and notaries. You are given receipts and told to collect the equipment required for the command of forty men and horses. A great stack heap of schedules, regulations and drill books is placed in your arms. You are told that the first of your men are not to arrive from Tierra for another two weeks. You have until then to ready yourself.

Finally, the Duke offers his own parting gift.

"I am sure that you would not wish to take command over an entire unit of strangers. Thus, I've spoken with Major Hunter and reassigned your old patrol from the outpost over the River Kharan. They will form the nucleus of your new command, and they should arrive within the next three days."

Sure enough, one evening, two days later, Lanzerel, now wearing the three crowned chevrons of a Staff Sergeant, presents himself before you in your quarters, with your men following close behind. As such, you formally recognize them as the first members of Sixth Troop, Third Squadron, Royal Dragoon Regiment.

With all this done, Lanzerel gives you a firm handshake and a slight smirk. "Here we are, all together again. A fine thing, isn't it?"

You can't quite tell if he is being sarcastic or not. Some desultory conversation breaks out, but the men, obviously uncomfortable inside an officer's room, take their leave after a few minutes.

-​

Two weeks later, a ship arrives with the first dozen of your men. They are likely the worst soldiers you have ever seen.

The first inspection proves that however much appreciation Grenadier Square might show for your efforts, it is not enough to send you proper soldiers. You find their carbines in abhorrent condition, their sabres rust-spotted, their uniforms slovenly, and their ability to follow even the most rudimentary drill sequences all but nonexistent.

Worst of all, when you receive their files, you note that most of them carry a stamped "C" next to the names: your new men are, for the most part, conscripts - usually criminals given the choice of the King's dam or the gallows. When you tell your regimental commander of your situation, Cunaris is sympathetic but far from surprised.

"I'm afraid you'll get no better recruits for the rest of your men," he warns you over a glass of Kentauri whisky. "When war broke out, all the best men, like yourself, volunteered. The financiers were thrown into panic by old King Edmund's death; they began hoarding their coin instead of spending it, and those who counted on their custom suffered for it. That meant a great host of honest, hardworking folk took up the King's arms to feed their families.

"Now those good men are dead or already in service. We've naught but the women, the children and the dregs of society left, and even the best of that scum is being skimmed off by the Admiralty. I am afraid this is all we have left, my boy."

The Duke puts a great bear-like hand on your shoulder, his eyes meeting yours in a steady gaze. "A warning, lad. These rats won't dare raise a hand against you in Noringia, not with a thousand armed honest men around them; but the second you lose sight of the walls, they may turn on you. I'm keeping your troop in reserve until an emergency arises. Use that time to make sure that your men will not disgrace the King's colours when they are finally put to the touch."

Cunaris swills around his glass for a moment. Perhaps he thinks his words have been too harsh. "You've a good lot of men from your last command. Use them."

With that last piece of advice, the two of you down your drinks. His Grace dismisses you with a simple, "Good luck."

-​

It takes another month for the rest of your men to arrive and another week on top of that to get them mounted and properly billeted. With Captain Montez and the rest of your squadron on detached duty with the Duke of Wulfram's army, you effectively have free rein to put your new command into fighting trim. A fine thing, as drastic measures are quite obviously needed.

All of your new men are as bad as the first batch. Discipline is deplorable, the men's weapons and saddlery are in a frightful state, and perhaps worst of all, they all seem to resent you as nothing more than a lordling like the ones back home. You doubt that any would follow your orders under pressure.

You know full well that the first thing you must do is appoint new corporals and sergeants to command the individual six-man patrols which constitute your unit. While Staff Sergeant Lanzerel will return to his previous post as your senior non-com, the other slots must be filled.

How do you appoint your new non-coms?

[] I pick the biggest and most dangerous-looking men.
[] I pick those who seem the most literate and well-spoken.
[] I pick the most popular men.
[] I pick the men from my old patrol.

Discipline: 25%
Morale: 20%
Loyalty: 25%
 
Sabres 7.04
[X] I pick the men from my old patrol.

You promote the Dragoons from your last command to non-commissioned rank. At first, the new men grumble, but the battle-hardened veterans soon assert their dominance with stories of your previous actions, advice from long years of experience, and a judicious application of the riding crop.

The men begin to warm up to their NCOs. Somehow, your new command seems less desperate than it was just a few days before.
Discipline: 30%
Morale: 25%
Loyalty: 30%
-​

With the non-coms appointed, you can finally set to the work of turning your unit of thieves, rogues, gutter rats, and beggars into a proper fighting force.

As it stands, the men are reasonably disciplined, dispirited, and don't resent you overly much.

[X] "Staff Sergeant Lanzerel, what's your advice?"

"It's your choice, sir." The old sergeant seems noncommittal. "If those dregs are the best we've got, then any work on 'em would be an improvement, a bullet to the brains included. Just remember that if you work 'em to distraction on one task, something else will suffer, so I suggest you not concern yourself overly with just one thing, lest the others slip."

What do you work on first?

[] The men need discipline above all else. I drill them until they faint!
[] I have them clean their equipment. If they look like proper soldiers, they will feel like proper soldiers!
[] Perhaps a light hand is what they need. I give them light duties for a few months.
 
Sabres 7.05
[X] The men need discipline above all else. I drill them until they faint!

You run your new men through the drill manuals: slowly at first, to make sure they have the rudiments of the King's Manual of Arms, then faster and faster until they can load, present, fire, reload, dismount, mount, and perform a handful of other common actions without even thinking. After a few months of constant practice and improvement, you think they might even turn out to be proper soldiers.

Unfortunately, the constant drill does not overly endear you to the men you are running ragged. Being berated by sergeants and ordered around by an officer from dawn until sunset with time for little else does not do the men's spirits much good.
Discipline: 40%
Morale: 20%
Loyalty: 30%
-​

Months pass, and the falling leaves and cold rains herald the beginning of the cold season. Like the rest of the enlisted men in the town, your Dragoons are to be moved to winter quarters inside the city walls, as maintained and paid for by the army. As a courtesy, you are allowed to inspect them beforehand.

They are, in a phrase, the worst lodgings you have ever seen.

The floorboards are rotting, the thin and lumpy beds are packed with insects, termites infest the timbers, there is no chimney, and the only windows open downwind of an exposed latrine pit. You have no doubt that should your men be forced to lodge here, they will be far from pleased.

You decide that:

[] These are the lodgings provided. My men shall have to bear with it.
[] Surely I can intercede on my men's behalf and find better quarters for them!
[] If the army refuses to house my men properly, I shall have to rent better for them myself. (-60 Wealth)
 
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