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I hope we get to fire grapeshot down city streets to disperse the mob in Book Four!
Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga
- Thread starter Rogue Attican
- Start date
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Bloody martyr, you're a Dragoon! Run the peasants down like the cavalryman you are, sirrah!
Spoilers...
IamtooSleepy
I came here to be an ant
Well, we possibly won't be firing grapeshot, being cavalry and all that, but at least we can enact our own version of Peterloo Massacre.
No, no no, regardless of how much people said the third game is called "Warcrimes Simulator Part 3", I assure you we won't be doing warcrime in that game. Since wee are not officially at war yet until the very end, it can't be warcrimes, only sparkling human rights violations.
No, no no, regardless of how much people said the third game is called "Warcrimes Simulator Part 3", I assure you we won't be doing warcrime in that game. Since wee are not officially at war yet until the very end, it can't be warcrimes, only sparkling human rights violations.
Sabres 10.04
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"I think I shall speak with the Takarans," you say.
Elson nods. "Very well, I'll go with you."
The Takarans seem neither happy nor annoyed to see you approach them, Elson in tow. You begin to introduce yourself.
"I am—"
One of the envoys, a tall strawberry blonde in the very first days of middle age, cuts you off.
"Lieutenant Castleton and Captain Elson of the Royal Dragoons. Yes, we know who you are; we know all about you," she says tersely in a hard voice made sharper by her guttural accent. "I have the pleasure to be Intendant Ulrike Eckharts."
She gestures to the broader, lighter-haired woman beside her. "Captain Helena Viztelas, my military attache."
There is an awkward pause for a moment as you and Elson try to respond. After all, to speak so bluntly and out of turn in such a setting is beyond rude. Perhaps the Takarans are more blunt people. Then again, it is more likely that they simply do not give much thought to the customs of those they see as their inferiors.
The older woman, Intendant Eckharts, picks a glass of wine from a passing tray without turning to look at it. She looks at it with an annoyed expression for a moment before you feel the lightest whisper of a touch brush the inside of your mind. A second later, you see the delicate wineglass in the Takaran's hand fog up as if suddenly chilled. It is the most subtle and casual use of the Bane you have ever witnessed.
"You had questions, did you not?" she says, her tone impatient. "Ask them!"
[X] I ask the Intendant how she knows who I am.
The Intendant shakes her head.
"Your government gave us files on the list of Tierran officers in your army and their standing orders before departing Varsovia. Standard procedure," she replies as if nothing could have been simpler.
You hide your puzzlement as best you can. As far as you know, your government would never reveal such information to the representatives of a foreign power, especially one possessing relatively cordial relations with Antar. Perhaps Eckharts is hiding something.
"Did you have any more substantive questions to ask?"
[X] Ask the Intendant about what she is doing in Antar.
The Intendant chews her lip in annoyance. Clearly, she has been asked the question half a hundred times before.
"I am here on the orders of his Imperial Majesty, Reskin vam Paulus, Aldkizern vam diir Takara. My sole instructions were to observe your army and report my recommendations to the Imperial government. My words and the words of my counterpart embedded in Prince Khorobirit's army, will determine our policy in this conflict: or rather, if we are to intervene."
"Will you?" Elson asks nervously. "Intervene, I mean?"
Your captain has very good reason to be anxious. The Takaran Empire fields one of the finest land armies in the world and the largest navy besides. Takaran intervention in favour of one side or another would less tip the balance of power than upend it entirely.
Eckharts gives a harsh bark of a laugh, answering anxiety with dismissal. "This long stalemate suits us perfectly. If Tierra and the League are at each other's throats, they are not encroaching on our monopolies or spheres of interest. Regardless of who wins, both sides will be exhausted. The Antari will be humbled, and Tierra, well, I doubt there will be enough of Tierra left to give us much trouble for at least a century."
There is a shocked silence for a moment as you process the sheer insignificance that the Takarans attribute to the war around you. The thought is sobering, frightening, and more than a little bit infuriating. The Takaran sips her wine as you do so, watching you and Elson's shocked expressions with something quite akin to pleasure.
"Anything else you wished to ask of me?"
[X] Ask the Intendant about Takara.
The Intendant narrows her eyes at your question. "What is Takara like? The same as it has always been. Varsovia is a pit of enraged vultures, the Richsgraav vam Holt's slut of a son is stirring up trouble in the Senate again, and the Minister of the Fleet will be committing public ritual suicide within the month if the allegations of graft and corruption are true."
Eckharts's tone is disdainful to the extreme. Captain Viztelas opens her mouth as if to object, but the Intendant cuts her off with a sharp motion of her fingers. "Yet, I would still give a leg and both my ears to be there…"
She looks at those around her, you included, with an expression of pure contempt. "…and not here."
[X] Ask the Intendant for her opinion on the state of the Tierran Army.
A vicious ghost of a smile flashes across the Intendant's lips as you ask her opinion on the Royal Army. "Where do I start? From what I have seen of your army, your musketry is sloppy, and your tactics are primitive. I can say without a trace of irony that I have seen schoolchildren with better drill. It is the sheer ineptitude of the Antari forces which keeps you alive and fighting. Nothing more, nothing less."
Elson replies before you do. "Surely, the talents of our senior officers and statesmen must have something to do with our successes in the field."
Eckharts sneers at your squadron commander's words.
"I was a mynschen of sixteen when your Edwin d'al Rendower proclaimed your petty little kingdom from the heap of stones that you call the Northern Keep. Since then, I have met many of your countrymen. Out of those, I have met one worthy of my respect, a diplomat and a man of a far greater family than you."
You feel your curiosity getting the better of you. "Who might that be?"
The Intendant dismisses your question with a flick of her fingers. "It doesn't matter. He is long dead, and his line extinct."
The Takaran's eyes seem to focus elsewhere for a moment, towards one of the far, darkened corners of the hall. "Or rather, it will be soon enough."
Echkarts takes another sip of wine, effectively declaring the topic closed. "Was there anything else?"
[X] I take my leave.
You make your excuses. Perhaps you will find a less abrasive group of people to speak with. Eckharts doesn't seem to care either way. "Very well. Come Viztelas, let us see if we cannot find a few less ignorant individuals."
The more junior of the two Takarans leans in as the Intendant turns to leave.
"She's really not that bad of a sort once you get to know her," she says, quietly and apologetically.
"Now, Viztelas." The Intendant's tone is clearly impatient.
"Not that bad?" Elson sneers quietly to you as the two Takarans make their retreat. "No, dear fellow, I reckon she's worse."
-
As you begin to make your way toward Cazarosta, Elson takes you aside by the elbow.
"Are you quite sure that's wise, dear fellow?" he asks quietly, his smile obviously forced.
"Why would it not be? He is my friend," you reply.
The Captain frowns. "Of course, but he is still deathborn. Your superiors will think you a man of low principles if they see you favouring the company of a… fellow of his sort over your own kind."
[] "Perhaps you are right. I will seek company elsewhere."
[] "No, I shall insist on speaking with him: Cazarosta is my friend, and it would be rude not to."
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[X] "No, I shall insist on speaking with him: Cazarosta is my friend, and it would be rude not to."
Fuck it. It'll suck to lose a few points of Reputation, but sometimes you raise things like that just to be able to survive the hit.
Fuck it. It'll suck to lose a few points of Reputation, but sometimes you raise things like that just to be able to survive the hit.
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What did you think of the Takaran Intendant, Laurent?
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Quite an asshole. She seems to hate most things... and us even more than the general background radiation.
I doubt all Takarans are like that--any more than all of any of the Empires that inspired them consist of only people like that--but you get the reasons that humans are uneasy around them.
Unfortunately I feel the odds of any high-ranking Takarans getting anything like just desserts from anyone but their own kind--ala the "ritual suicide" hinted at--to be highly unlikely.
Even that grace note about the "one human worth knowing" is still... y'know, comically elitist. One of the reasons for having any value is literally their more exalted house, though obviously that's not all or they'd like quite a few more humans (relatively).
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All that said... it's better to know these things now than not.
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You'll meet Richsgraav Maximillien vam Holt's "slut of a son" during Guns of Infinity. I look forward to how you'll react to him.
The Kian would love nothing more to blast the Aldkizern and the rest of the eru'venne into smithereens. As far as the Kian and Takarans are concerned, it's not a matter of if war breaks out but when.
If I'm not mistaken, Ulrike Eckharts refers to one of Cazarosta's adopted ancestors, Caedwyn d'al Cazarosta, who headed Tierra's diplomatic service during the Callindrian succession crisis. Despite being unable to keep the friendly House Kauronne from getting overthrown by the Takaran-backed House Orodini, the Earl of Leoniscourt managed to squeeze some concessions out of the Altrichs vam Takara - no mean feat, considering the pride of the point-ears.
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Quite arrogant but I have the feeling she can match everything she says.
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I kinda doubt it, not because I don't think she's infinitely more dangerous and cunning than we can or probably will ever be, but for the same reason I doubt the pretensions of the whole caste of human Banebloods.
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As much as the fans who frequent the Choice of Games forums hate the Takarans, even they grudgingly respect how Takara is way ahead of the rest of the Infinite Sea in gender equality and war. Much like Frederick the Great's Prussia, the Takarans practically wrote the book on warfare. Even Tierra's army is built along Takaran lines. Of course, it doesn't hurt that the Takarans have much greater access to bane-forged and bane-runed equipment, as every elf is a banecaster, even if not all choose to develop their talents.
From a baneblood's perspective, part of the reason why Cazarosta is so frustrating is that in the eyes of the common soldier lacking banesense, he's functionally indistinguishable from the other aristocrats who get to be in charge of people's lives solely because of their noble birth. He's got a gentleman's education and theI kinda doubt it, not because I don't think she's infinitely more dangerous and cunning than we can or probably will ever be, but for the same reason I doubt the pretensions of the whole caste of human Banebloods.
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...wait. Something I was wondering about.
"Humanity in the Infinite Sea is best seen as a pyramid. At the bottom sit 99.5% of the human race: those lacking the ability to sense the Bane within all living and formerly living things. This inability marks them as "baneless." The remaining 0.5% who do possess banesense are known as "banebloods." Of these, perhaps one in one hundred are able to manipulate the Bane and bend it to their own will. They have the capability of influencing the objects and living things in which the Bane resides with the aid of material components like baneseals. These gifted few are known as banecasters. While banecasters may be born from the union of any two banebloods, the child of a baneblooded parent and a baneless parent will not possess the banesense, nor will any of their descendants. These offspring are referred to as "deathborn."
In the Northern Kingdoms (including Tierra and Antar), one of the most important social distinctions is that of baneblood: only banebloods may inherit noble titles, rule as monarchs, or become knights of any of the religious orders. This means that in the Northern Kingdoms, the term "baneblood" is almost synonymous with "hereditary nobility." While there are banebloods without titles, they are still part of the aristocracy, a social class that no baneless person may enter. In the interests of protecting both their noble blood and their pool of banebloods, every single one of the Northern Kingdoms maintains laws that prevent banebloods from marrying or having intimate relations with anyone else, save other banebloods. Harsh punishments, up to and including summary execution, are used to enforce these laws."
Okay, so that's the explanation.
"The child of a baneblooded parent and a baneless parent will not possess the banesense, nor will any of their descendents."
...then, ultimately the banebloods are doomed to ascend to ever-higher levels of interbreeding, aren't they? It seems almost doomed in a way, because unless there are people who spontaneously gain Banesense, it is a pool that can basically only ever shrink ultimately, and cannot have such a thing as "fresh blood" except in the most trivial sense of minor nobility rising to be major nobility.
Demographically it seems... possibly doomed in the very, very long run, for all that it does not matter for our character's lifetime or probably even many generations more...
"Humanity in the Infinite Sea is best seen as a pyramid. At the bottom sit 99.5% of the human race: those lacking the ability to sense the Bane within all living and formerly living things. This inability marks them as "baneless." The remaining 0.5% who do possess banesense are known as "banebloods." Of these, perhaps one in one hundred are able to manipulate the Bane and bend it to their own will. They have the capability of influencing the objects and living things in which the Bane resides with the aid of material components like baneseals. These gifted few are known as banecasters. While banecasters may be born from the union of any two banebloods, the child of a baneblooded parent and a baneless parent will not possess the banesense, nor will any of their descendants. These offspring are referred to as "deathborn."
In the Northern Kingdoms (including Tierra and Antar), one of the most important social distinctions is that of baneblood: only banebloods may inherit noble titles, rule as monarchs, or become knights of any of the religious orders. This means that in the Northern Kingdoms, the term "baneblood" is almost synonymous with "hereditary nobility." While there are banebloods without titles, they are still part of the aristocracy, a social class that no baneless person may enter. In the interests of protecting both their noble blood and their pool of banebloods, every single one of the Northern Kingdoms maintains laws that prevent banebloods from marrying or having intimate relations with anyone else, save other banebloods. Harsh punishments, up to and including summary execution, are used to enforce these laws."
Okay, so that's the explanation.
"The child of a baneblooded parent and a baneless parent will not possess the banesense, nor will any of their descendents."
...then, ultimately the banebloods are doomed to ascend to ever-higher levels of interbreeding, aren't they? It seems almost doomed in a way, because unless there are people who spontaneously gain Banesense, it is a pool that can basically only ever shrink ultimately, and cannot have such a thing as "fresh blood" except in the most trivial sense of minor nobility rising to be major nobility.
Demographically it seems... possibly doomed in the very, very long run, for all that it does not matter for our character's lifetime or probably even many generations more...
Sabres 10.05
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[X] "No, I shall insist on speaking with him: Cazarosta is my friend, and it would be rude not to."
Elson purses his lips and looks at you with concern. "Just don't speak with him for too long. I'll be here if you need me," he says before retreating to a comfortable distance from Cazarosta's dark corner.
Cazarosta is far less sullen than you have expected. In fact, his expression as he observes the proceedings, a glass of dark red wine in his hand, seems almost serene.
"Hmm? Castleton?" He purses his lips as you approach. "Should you rather not be out there—" he gestures with his wine glass at the mass of officers surrounding Wulfram and his staff "—than in this dark corner with me?"
You shrug as nonchalantly as you can manage. "I'd rather speak with you awhile."
A pale ghost of a smile passes over Cazarosta's lips. "Is that so?" It is an invitation to proceed further. A tacit one, but there nonetheless.
[X] Ask why Cazarosta is not taking part in the proceedings.
Cazarosta's eyebrow raises as you pose the question. "Proceedings? You mean, rather, to ask why I am not playing the same game as the other officers: currying favour with their superiors so that they might call on them in some time of need?"
When you confirm this, the deathborn officer shrugs nonchalantly. You find it likely that he could have responded to an accusation of high treason in the same cold manner.
"Simple, Castleton: it is because, as your brother banebloods do not hesitate to remind me, I am not one of them. I was never one of them. They have their parts to play, as do I. The Saints did not make me to play the parts of those men, nor they, mine. That is how the world works: we are born into our roles, we are given our blessings and our curses, and made to serve a purpose. There is no escape from that."
Cazarosta locks gazes with you, his tone and expression serene. "I am not a Baneblood, but I was born to a great fortune, a good father, and skills few other men possess. I believe the Saints have set me upon my path. Attempting to change its course or take the purpose of some other man would be as unnatural as a fish deciding one day to fly."
The other officer pauses for a moment, taking a sip of wine as he does. "Is that not so?"
[X] Ask why Cazarosta joined the army in the first place.
Cazarosta leans back against the wall, twirling his wine languidly in one hand.
"A straightforward question," he finally says. "One with a straightforward answer."
The deathborn officer tilts his head towards you as if casually discussing the weather.
"I may not have been born with your blood, or your lineage, but the Saints did make me with certain gifts with which to fulfill their purpose. You are well aware that I am rated an excellent swordsman, a marksman of some skill, and a rider of more than average proficiency. I was given the finest of educations and a stigma of birth which does not burden me with the same… restrictions enforced upon gentlemen of the blood."
Cazarosta grins, a cold slash of a smile. "In simplest terms, it was the will of the Saints that the army be my life. Would you not think that so?
Before you can reply, Cazarosta shakes his head.
"You ask why I 'chose' to do this or 'chose' to do that, when in fact, choice does not enter into the matter at all. The Saints create us for a purpose. Each of us is a part of their great machine, and we have no choice but to do what we were made to do. This is what drives us to our actions, our functions within workings that we have no concept of, to a purpose that we shall never know in this life or the next. Our purpose for existence is to fulfill our parts and await whatever is planned as our fate after."
The Deathborn speaks slowly, in an almost poetic measure at a constant stream of words. You find no way to interrupt him.
"We are sabres in the hands of infinity, Castleton, to move and act as we are bid. The fact that we sometimes have second thoughts in obeying gives us the delusion that we have some ability to determine our fates, that we are born with the freedom to choose our actions: to be kind or cruel, good or evil. That is mankind's most glorious and beautiful dream, but it is a delusion nonetheless."
Cazarosta drains the remainder of his wine in a single swallow.
"Now I suggest you take your leave," he says matter-of-factly. "People are beginning to take notice."
Indeed, when you look back over your shoulder, you see more than one of your fellow attendees watching you. One fellow, a rather proper-looking older gentleman in some foreign uniform or other, stares slack-jawed as if you had just set his child on fire.
When you look back to make your goodbyes, your fellow Dragoon is gone, off to seek another glass of wine and, more likely than not, a lonelier corner.
Thankfully, Elson is still waiting for you as you walk away, assuring you that your exchange with Cazarosta was brief enough not to put any enduring stain upon your reputation.
Before you can take another look around, you hear the tapping of a spoon against a glass; faint at first, but as the bubbling sound of a dozen conversations recedes, the ringing sound becomes louder and louder.
Within moments, the entire hall is silent save for the sound of a single spoon clattering against a single glass. Those in the centre of the chamber move aside to reveal the source of the noise: the Earl of Castermaine and beside him, the commander of all Tierran forces in Antar, the Duke of Wulfram.
"Thank you, Castermaine. That will do." His imperious voice brings the table to silence. The old general sweeps his eyes over the room as a hush falls over the assembled delegates and officers.
"Guests, delegates of foreign governments, brother officers," he finally begins. "We have certainly come a long way, have we not? Not six years ago, we were barely an army: a few thousand ragged, unseasoned volunteers in a strange land, without fortification, without shelter, and with only the mad hope of a young king to drive us to victory. Now we are firmly entrenched in a land which once thought it could crush us effortlessly, and our King's hopes, well, they do seem a bit more sensible now, do they not?"
A smattering of laughter, most of it nervous, comes from the crowd. Many did think the King mad when he put into train his Antari adventure. By the look of vindicated pride on the old general's face, you can tell that Wulfram was not one of them.
"'Tis a long, difficult road that we have marched down all these years, but Saints be willing, we have seen the end not so far ahead of us! Soon now, we shall meet the Antari in battle and break their army in the open field. We shall bring them to the negotiating table, and there shall be no more complaints of dishonourable tactics or insubstantial setbacks on their end. We will have them beaten before the eyes of the Saints and all men; we shall, in the eyes of the world, have claimed victory!"
Thankfully, nobody is uncouth enough to cheer at Wulfram's words, though the expected wave of polite applause is, perhaps, a bit louder than usual.
"To bring that victory, we must have each man do his utmost to secure it. Let there be no talk of retreats, withdrawals, stalemates, or cutting our losses. His Majesty has always expected his servants to do their duty. In the past few years, I have been ever prideful of the fact that we have not disappointed him. Let us not falter now: let our duty be victory, and let us see it through! Saints guard the King!"
The whole room seems to reply, every glass raised in salute, including yours. "Saints guard the King!"
Wulfram's words ring in your ears for the entire evening, throughout the banquet and the toasts that follow. They continue to resonate even as you return to your quarters, your mind intoxicated with the spectre of a final victory and a good deal of very fine wine.
You sleep that night, dreaming of the end of the war: a vision with a tint of a nightmare, returning home merely to fight another struggle against some other foreign land.
In the end, it is a knock on your door that shakes you free of your thoughts on the war's impending end. You dress quickly in the dim early morning light and open the door to find Staff Sergeant Lanzerel with a new set of orders: to investigate a forward listening post to the north that had failed to report in.
You ready yourself and call out your men in a sort of fugue state. As soon as your men are in formation and riding up the old imperial highway, your thoughts return to that of an end to the conflict which has shaped so much of your life. It is as if you were only half-awake, drugged, or in love. Whenever your mind is not pressed by some urgent matter of patrol, you think only of the peace which is soon to come.
You are still thinking about it when you feel the ground tremble, and your mind begins pulling and straining upon itself in a way you have never felt since your last visit to Aetoria so long ago.
There is almost no need to confirm your suspicion but you do it anyways. You ride forward, field telescope in hand, and see with your own eyes the advancing vanguard of Prince Khorobirit's Antari army.
Elson purses his lips and looks at you with concern. "Just don't speak with him for too long. I'll be here if you need me," he says before retreating to a comfortable distance from Cazarosta's dark corner.
Cazarosta is far less sullen than you have expected. In fact, his expression as he observes the proceedings, a glass of dark red wine in his hand, seems almost serene.
"Hmm? Castleton?" He purses his lips as you approach. "Should you rather not be out there—" he gestures with his wine glass at the mass of officers surrounding Wulfram and his staff "—than in this dark corner with me?"
You shrug as nonchalantly as you can manage. "I'd rather speak with you awhile."
A pale ghost of a smile passes over Cazarosta's lips. "Is that so?" It is an invitation to proceed further. A tacit one, but there nonetheless.
[X] Ask why Cazarosta is not taking part in the proceedings.
Cazarosta's eyebrow raises as you pose the question. "Proceedings? You mean, rather, to ask why I am not playing the same game as the other officers: currying favour with their superiors so that they might call on them in some time of need?"
When you confirm this, the deathborn officer shrugs nonchalantly. You find it likely that he could have responded to an accusation of high treason in the same cold manner.
"Simple, Castleton: it is because, as your brother banebloods do not hesitate to remind me, I am not one of them. I was never one of them. They have their parts to play, as do I. The Saints did not make me to play the parts of those men, nor they, mine. That is how the world works: we are born into our roles, we are given our blessings and our curses, and made to serve a purpose. There is no escape from that."
Cazarosta locks gazes with you, his tone and expression serene. "I am not a Baneblood, but I was born to a great fortune, a good father, and skills few other men possess. I believe the Saints have set me upon my path. Attempting to change its course or take the purpose of some other man would be as unnatural as a fish deciding one day to fly."
The other officer pauses for a moment, taking a sip of wine as he does. "Is that not so?"
[X] Ask why Cazarosta joined the army in the first place.
Cazarosta leans back against the wall, twirling his wine languidly in one hand.
"A straightforward question," he finally says. "One with a straightforward answer."
The deathborn officer tilts his head towards you as if casually discussing the weather.
"I may not have been born with your blood, or your lineage, but the Saints did make me with certain gifts with which to fulfill their purpose. You are well aware that I am rated an excellent swordsman, a marksman of some skill, and a rider of more than average proficiency. I was given the finest of educations and a stigma of birth which does not burden me with the same… restrictions enforced upon gentlemen of the blood."
Cazarosta grins, a cold slash of a smile. "In simplest terms, it was the will of the Saints that the army be my life. Would you not think that so?
Before you can reply, Cazarosta shakes his head.
"You ask why I 'chose' to do this or 'chose' to do that, when in fact, choice does not enter into the matter at all. The Saints create us for a purpose. Each of us is a part of their great machine, and we have no choice but to do what we were made to do. This is what drives us to our actions, our functions within workings that we have no concept of, to a purpose that we shall never know in this life or the next. Our purpose for existence is to fulfill our parts and await whatever is planned as our fate after."
The Deathborn speaks slowly, in an almost poetic measure at a constant stream of words. You find no way to interrupt him.
"We are sabres in the hands of infinity, Castleton, to move and act as we are bid. The fact that we sometimes have second thoughts in obeying gives us the delusion that we have some ability to determine our fates, that we are born with the freedom to choose our actions: to be kind or cruel, good or evil. That is mankind's most glorious and beautiful dream, but it is a delusion nonetheless."
Cazarosta drains the remainder of his wine in a single swallow.
"Now I suggest you take your leave," he says matter-of-factly. "People are beginning to take notice."
Indeed, when you look back over your shoulder, you see more than one of your fellow attendees watching you. One fellow, a rather proper-looking older gentleman in some foreign uniform or other, stares slack-jawed as if you had just set his child on fire.
When you look back to make your goodbyes, your fellow Dragoon is gone, off to seek another glass of wine and, more likely than not, a lonelier corner.
Thankfully, Elson is still waiting for you as you walk away, assuring you that your exchange with Cazarosta was brief enough not to put any enduring stain upon your reputation.
Before you can take another look around, you hear the tapping of a spoon against a glass; faint at first, but as the bubbling sound of a dozen conversations recedes, the ringing sound becomes louder and louder.
Within moments, the entire hall is silent save for the sound of a single spoon clattering against a single glass. Those in the centre of the chamber move aside to reveal the source of the noise: the Earl of Castermaine and beside him, the commander of all Tierran forces in Antar, the Duke of Wulfram.
"Thank you, Castermaine. That will do." His imperious voice brings the table to silence. The old general sweeps his eyes over the room as a hush falls over the assembled delegates and officers.
"Guests, delegates of foreign governments, brother officers," he finally begins. "We have certainly come a long way, have we not? Not six years ago, we were barely an army: a few thousand ragged, unseasoned volunteers in a strange land, without fortification, without shelter, and with only the mad hope of a young king to drive us to victory. Now we are firmly entrenched in a land which once thought it could crush us effortlessly, and our King's hopes, well, they do seem a bit more sensible now, do they not?"
A smattering of laughter, most of it nervous, comes from the crowd. Many did think the King mad when he put into train his Antari adventure. By the look of vindicated pride on the old general's face, you can tell that Wulfram was not one of them.
"'Tis a long, difficult road that we have marched down all these years, but Saints be willing, we have seen the end not so far ahead of us! Soon now, we shall meet the Antari in battle and break their army in the open field. We shall bring them to the negotiating table, and there shall be no more complaints of dishonourable tactics or insubstantial setbacks on their end. We will have them beaten before the eyes of the Saints and all men; we shall, in the eyes of the world, have claimed victory!"
Thankfully, nobody is uncouth enough to cheer at Wulfram's words, though the expected wave of polite applause is, perhaps, a bit louder than usual.
"To bring that victory, we must have each man do his utmost to secure it. Let there be no talk of retreats, withdrawals, stalemates, or cutting our losses. His Majesty has always expected his servants to do their duty. In the past few years, I have been ever prideful of the fact that we have not disappointed him. Let us not falter now: let our duty be victory, and let us see it through! Saints guard the King!"
The whole room seems to reply, every glass raised in salute, including yours. "Saints guard the King!"
-
Wulfram's words ring in your ears for the entire evening, throughout the banquet and the toasts that follow. They continue to resonate even as you return to your quarters, your mind intoxicated with the spectre of a final victory and a good deal of very fine wine.
You sleep that night, dreaming of the end of the war: a vision with a tint of a nightmare, returning home merely to fight another struggle against some other foreign land.
In the end, it is a knock on your door that shakes you free of your thoughts on the war's impending end. You dress quickly in the dim early morning light and open the door to find Staff Sergeant Lanzerel with a new set of orders: to investigate a forward listening post to the north that had failed to report in.
You ready yourself and call out your men in a sort of fugue state. As soon as your men are in formation and riding up the old imperial highway, your thoughts return to that of an end to the conflict which has shaped so much of your life. It is as if you were only half-awake, drugged, or in love. Whenever your mind is not pressed by some urgent matter of patrol, you think only of the peace which is soon to come.
You are still thinking about it when you feel the ground tremble, and your mind begins pulling and straining upon itself in a way you have never felt since your last visit to Aetoria so long ago.
There is almost no need to confirm your suspicion but you do it anyways. You ride forward, field telescope in hand, and see with your own eyes the advancing vanguard of Prince Khorobirit's Antari army.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
"We are sabres in the hands of infinity, Castleton, to move and act as we are bid. The fact that we sometimes have second thoughts in obeying gives us the delusion that we have some ability to determine our fates, that we are born with the freedom to choose our actions: to be kind or cruel, good or evil. That is mankind's most glorious and beautiful dream, but it is a delusion nonetheless."
...I definitely would have regretted missing this just to kiss ass with a bunch of shitheads.
...I definitely would have regretted missing this just to kiss ass with a bunch of shitheads.
Sabres 11.01
- Pronouns
- He/Him
CHAPTER XI
Wherein the cavalry officer fights a great BATTLE as part of the army of the DUKE OF WULFRAM.
Wherein the cavalry officer fights a great BATTLE as part of the army of the DUKE OF WULFRAM.
When attempting to estimate the approximate strength of an enemy force, the King's regulations recommend that a scout first reason out the average size of a force marching behind a single banner, then count the number of banners in the entire force. From long experience, you already know that Antari battalions usually number three or four hundred men: Lords of the Congress do not usually spare more in their effort to support the war. You also know that it is not uncommon for the Antari to assemble armies of twenty or even thirty banners in their mighty attempts to throw the Tierran army into the sea. Over the last six years, you have even heard news of an army of forty-five banners broken up and defeated only at great cost and effort.
You have almost counted your eightieth when one of your Dragoons taps you on the shoulder.
"Sir? Staff Sergeant Lanzerel's compliments, sir. He's asking what's ahead of us."
It is supremely difficult to put into words: the sight of hundreds, if not thousands of Church Hussars in their massive banded armour atop great white horses, the sheer solid mass of Antari infantry in their tens of thousands, the fierce-faced hellions of the central plains; looking more like the mother of all barbarian hordes. The sight of each by themselves would be enough to drive a poet to tears of frustration. Altogether, coupled with the overpowering miasma of raw steel, gunpowder, manure, and the savage tug of bane-might, you could not even begin to encapsulate the still-distant but gargantuan presence of Khorobirit's army now advancing upon you like an incoming tide of soldiery, horseflesh, and steel.
There are no words to describe it. You can only hand your spyglass over. The common-born Dragoon puts the field telescope to his eye and sees for himself.
"Saint Octavia's bouncing tits," he whispers, slackjawed. "How could there be so many?"
You shake your head. Never have you seen a force of such gargantuan size. Without hesitation, you quickly scribble as much as you can onto a scrap of paper and swing yourself up to your saddle. Within minutes, your troop is riding hard back toward Noringia.
Thankfully, an army of forty thousand moves at the pace of a tortoise. Even with a screen of light cavalry and scouts moving through the forest on foot, Khorobirit's forces never had a chance of catching up to your men as you all but ride your horses into the ground on the hasty journey southwards.
You reach Noringia after two days at the rickety pace of a near-constant trot. Sweaty, ragged, and dusty, you burst into the Duke of Cunaris's office just before sundown.
"Castleton? By the Saints! What is the meaning of this?" Cunaris demands as you stagger up to his desk. Throat parched and raw from dust and the exertions of travel, you can only reply by setting your sweat-stained, soiled, and hastily written report on the table.
Your colonel's face turns ashen as he reads your missive.
"Saints have mercy," you hear him whisper, his voice full of terrible awe. Cunaris shoves the message into the fold of his tunic as he springs up from his seat.
"Come with me, Lieutenant," he commands, heading for the door. You have little choice but to obey.
You do not find it easy to keep up with the Duke of Cunaris's long, hurried strides, with your legs and hindquarters as weary as they are from your mad ride south. Thankfully, you do not have to maintain pace for long. Your colonel's destination is no more than a few hundred paces away from your regimental office: the headquarters of the Duke of Wulfram.
-
If anything, the Duke of Wulfram's reaction to your news is the exact opposite of Cunaris's: it is the first time you have ever seen the old general truly smile.
"What fine news, gentlemen!" Wulfram exclaims as he pours himself a celebratory glass of a Kentauri whisky likely older and worth more than you are. "So young Khorobirit has proven himself the fool after all! I had feared that the Antari would split their forces in an attempt to take advantage of their numbers. Now we might face all of them on ground of our own choosing. Better yet, once we break them, we shall have the entire summer and autumn to advance into Central Antar, and the Congress shall have no armies to stop us!"
Cunaris does not seem particularly convinced. "Sir, the Antari still outnumber us two to one. Does that not worry you in the slightest?"
The Duke of Wulfram shakes his head as he fills two more glasses, offering one to Cunaris and another to you. "Damnation, Cunaris! Do you trust me so little as to think that I've not a plan for this eventuality? We may discuss it later. For now, let us toast this welcome news and the bravery of the young man who has brought it to us!"
The glass shimmers red in the dying sunlight as you raise it. The whisky is smoky and rich as it burns its way down your throat.
"Now then, Lieutenant," Wulfram says as he places his empty glass on the table. "What are your opinions on this? Surely, you can see the great opportunity for victory we have before us?"
You swallow nervously: it is not every day that a mere lieutenant is asked a question by his army's commander. You think carefully and reply:
[] "Absolutely, sir. I am confident in our chances of victory."
-[] I actually am confident in our victory.
-[] I'm not as confident as I sound, but it's not all dissembling.
-[] I'm lying, of course.
[] "I've my doubts, but I believe that if anyone could deliver us victory, it is you, sir."
[] "I cannot say I have confidence that we shall come out of this victorious."
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] "Absolutely, sir. I am confident in our chances of victory."
-[X] I'm not as confident as I sound, but it's not all dissembling.
I think in a way that it'd make sense for the bloodless, rather brilliant victory the Lieutenant recently won to make him think that perhaps they can pull it off...
-[X] I'm not as confident as I sound, but it's not all dissembling.
I think in a way that it'd make sense for the bloodless, rather brilliant victory the Lieutenant recently won to make him think that perhaps they can pull it off...
When I say that Cazarosta's an idealist, this is the ideal I mean.
IamtooSleepy
I came here to be an ant
So, fun fact about Eckharts.
Hmmmmmm, I wonder who might that be.
Less so with the fact that our reputation getting lowered when talking to Caz
[X] "Absolutely, sir. I am confident in our chances of victory."
-[X] I'm not as confident as I sound, but it's not all dissembling.
It's not exactly impossible to pull out a win...But it's not going to be be easy or even certain.
If you are wonder why someone who become an envoy did not even attempt to hide her own dismissive attitude...It's actually because Eckharts is not actually a diplomat. She is an intelligence officer. As revealed in the supplementary world building materiel on Paul's website.
Wait wait wait. We have the mention of Holt (the ambassador one in the next game) since here? I have never notice that before. Also, come on, he is not that bad. Just a little bit racist. And generally want to partying than doing any work. Or take anaything serious in general. But at least he is well-meaning, which put him in a better half of any Takaran character we met.
Hmmmmmm, I wonder who might that be.
I mean, it's much better to be more proficient at something and maintain better institutional knowledge when you life much longer than everyone else.
I love title drop
Ha ha ha...Yeah, about that...
[X] "Absolutely, sir. I am confident in our chances of victory."
-[X] I'm not as confident as I sound, but it's not all dissembling.
It's not exactly impossible to pull out a win...But it's not going to be be easy or even certain.
Sabres 11.02
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "Absolutely, sir. I am confident in our chances of victory."
-[X] I'm not as confident as I sound, but it's not all dissembling.
Wulfram smiles triumphantly. "There! You see, Cunaris? Your lad is in my corner!"
Cunaris does not respond: even he sees the lack of wisdom in pressing against Wulfram's optimistic prediction. "What is your plan for this victory then, sir?" He asks, deftly changing the subject.
The old general smiles as he pours himself another glass.
"Call a meeting, Cunaris: brigade commanders, their staff, regimental commanders, and their lieutenant colonels, if you would so please. I will outline our course of action tonight so that we might begin the march northwards tomorrow."
Your colonel nods. "Anything else, sir?"
"Yes. This young officer and his troop should be rewarded: set them at liberty for the remainder of the evening." Cunaris nods. Wulfram turns to you. "Do not think me ungrateful, lad. I will have you made captain next time I speak with His Majesty, in a better regiment of your choosing. You have my word."
If Cunaris takes any umbrage at Wulfram's implication of the low character of your regiment, he does not show it. Even a man as powerful as he must tread carefully around the Duke of Wulfram. The old general sits back, glass in hand. "Enjoy your evening, Lieutenant. Dismissed."
Your first priorities for the evening are a bath and a proper meal, in that order. By the time you have eaten and made yourself presentable, the darkness of night has fallen upon Noringia in full force. As you look up at the bright stars, a thought occurs to you that this may be the last night you will ever spend in town. After all, you are to depart for what is likely to be the greatest battle in Tierran history come the morning, and even triumphant armies do not win battles without losses.
You resolve that you must make what could be your last night in Noringia count for something. A number of possibilities come to mind: you have not spent the past six years without making acquaintances, after all. You decide to find Cazarosta.
Caius d'al Cazarosta does not prove to be a hard man to find. You know enough of his piety to seek him out at Noringia's shrine first, a hunch that proves correct.
The deathborn Dragoon is not the only Tierran soldier in the cold stone edifice. There are dozens of soldiers, banebloods and common-born alike, kneeling in prayer before their patron or preferred Saints. Cazarosta is among them, lips flickering in silent prayer as he kneels before an icon of Saint Talbot. You wait for him to finish: there are hours enough left in the evening, and you know Cazarosta too well to begrudge him his faith.
"Castleton," he finally says as he looks up to face you, his prayer finished. "I saw you following Cunaris into Wulfram's office earlier today. Might I assume that you have found Khorobirit's army and that we are to march to meet the Antari tomorrow?"
You nod, wondering how Cazarosta could have determined such a thing.
"Good," he says quietly, in the cold voice you have grown used to hearing from him. "Then my purpose may be soon at an end."
To be honest, Cazarosta's fatalism puzzles you: out of all of your acquaintances, he seems most able to handle himself on the field of battle. "Why? Do you think you might die in the battle?"
The other Dragoon shakes his head. "I rise every day knowing that I might die. However, if the Saints wish me to give my life for their plan, this would seem a perfect time: No captain would sell their commission to a Deathborn so I may advance no further in rank. Our war, and my last chance to make a reputation for myself, seems almost at an end. If the Saints had some grand purpose, this would be the best time, is that not so?"
You nod again. Cazarosta's reasoning does make sense from his rather warped point of view, except for one thing: "If you think you're going to die, why bother praying at all?"
The Deathborn smiles, a cold and empty thing. His eyes slide toward the icon propped up against the stone wall.
"Saint Talbot died at the Battle of Montjoy, leading a hopeless cavalry charge against Edwin the Strong's infantry squares. Some remember his bravery; all I can recall is the pointlessness of his martyrdom. My only wish is for my death to have a purpose: for it to leave something behind other than the admiration of idiots whom I will never meet."
"Why are you telling me this?" you hear yourself say.
Cazarosta meets your gaze, his eyes hard and unyielding. "Because nobody else would listen."
The other Dragoon stands up. "Saints go with you, Castleton."
It is only when he walks away that you realize he is saying goodbye.
You find Elson in the officer's club, a glass of potato wine in his hand. Judging from how he sways upon his seat, you doubt it is his first or even fifth.
"Castleton! Come! Sit with me, dear fellow," he commands, his voice still clear and unslurred for now. As you sit down at your Squadron commander's table, he pours you a glass of your own and pushes it towards you. "Drink, dear fellow! Quickly too, before this place runs dry."
You pick up the short glass and look around. The familiar hall does seem to be more crowded than usual. Upon closer inspection, you realize that, like Elson, most of the officers present are in some stage of inebriation.
"They think that they shall be dead soon," Elson drawls in form of an explanation. "The Takarans are leaving."
The implication is obvious: Should the Tierran army lose its great battle, Khorobirit would no doubt proceed to take Noringia by storm. In such a scenario, even diplomatic immunity would not serve much protection for a foreign envoy of any sort.
Elson upends the contents of his glass into his open mouth and swallows roughly. "They think we are bound to lose, Castleton. I see nothing to dispute their prediction."
"What are we to do then?" You ask, more out of curiosity regarding Elson's thoughts than anything else. Your captain's only response is to shrug and pour himself another drink.
"We shall drink, and we shall forget, I would hope. We shall spend two or three days marching north, too busy to think on it. Wulfram shall give a fine speech. We shall fight a great battle. We shall win, and nobody will ever speak of this night again."
Elson's tone is flat and dead; even his words of optimism seem nothing more than a shabby mask.
"Is that what you really think will happen?" You hear yourself say.
The Captain shakes his head. "No, it is what I hope will happen. The Saints have spent the last six years educating me on the difference."
You find that you have nothing more to say. The two of you spend the next few minutes drinking in silence before the tension grows too intolerable, and you make your goodbyes.
[] Seek out Colonel Hunter and Major Hartigan.
[] I spend the evening with my men.
-[X] I'm not as confident as I sound, but it's not all dissembling.
Wulfram smiles triumphantly. "There! You see, Cunaris? Your lad is in my corner!"
Cunaris does not respond: even he sees the lack of wisdom in pressing against Wulfram's optimistic prediction. "What is your plan for this victory then, sir?" He asks, deftly changing the subject.
The old general smiles as he pours himself another glass.
"Call a meeting, Cunaris: brigade commanders, their staff, regimental commanders, and their lieutenant colonels, if you would so please. I will outline our course of action tonight so that we might begin the march northwards tomorrow."
Your colonel nods. "Anything else, sir?"
"Yes. This young officer and his troop should be rewarded: set them at liberty for the remainder of the evening." Cunaris nods. Wulfram turns to you. "Do not think me ungrateful, lad. I will have you made captain next time I speak with His Majesty, in a better regiment of your choosing. You have my word."
If Cunaris takes any umbrage at Wulfram's implication of the low character of your regiment, he does not show it. Even a man as powerful as he must tread carefully around the Duke of Wulfram. The old general sits back, glass in hand. "Enjoy your evening, Lieutenant. Dismissed."
-
Your first priorities for the evening are a bath and a proper meal, in that order. By the time you have eaten and made yourself presentable, the darkness of night has fallen upon Noringia in full force. As you look up at the bright stars, a thought occurs to you that this may be the last night you will ever spend in town. After all, you are to depart for what is likely to be the greatest battle in Tierran history come the morning, and even triumphant armies do not win battles without losses.
You resolve that you must make what could be your last night in Noringia count for something. A number of possibilities come to mind: you have not spent the past six years without making acquaintances, after all. You decide to find Cazarosta.
Caius d'al Cazarosta does not prove to be a hard man to find. You know enough of his piety to seek him out at Noringia's shrine first, a hunch that proves correct.
The deathborn Dragoon is not the only Tierran soldier in the cold stone edifice. There are dozens of soldiers, banebloods and common-born alike, kneeling in prayer before their patron or preferred Saints. Cazarosta is among them, lips flickering in silent prayer as he kneels before an icon of Saint Talbot. You wait for him to finish: there are hours enough left in the evening, and you know Cazarosta too well to begrudge him his faith.
"Castleton," he finally says as he looks up to face you, his prayer finished. "I saw you following Cunaris into Wulfram's office earlier today. Might I assume that you have found Khorobirit's army and that we are to march to meet the Antari tomorrow?"
You nod, wondering how Cazarosta could have determined such a thing.
"Good," he says quietly, in the cold voice you have grown used to hearing from him. "Then my purpose may be soon at an end."
To be honest, Cazarosta's fatalism puzzles you: out of all of your acquaintances, he seems most able to handle himself on the field of battle. "Why? Do you think you might die in the battle?"
The other Dragoon shakes his head. "I rise every day knowing that I might die. However, if the Saints wish me to give my life for their plan, this would seem a perfect time: No captain would sell their commission to a Deathborn so I may advance no further in rank. Our war, and my last chance to make a reputation for myself, seems almost at an end. If the Saints had some grand purpose, this would be the best time, is that not so?"
You nod again. Cazarosta's reasoning does make sense from his rather warped point of view, except for one thing: "If you think you're going to die, why bother praying at all?"
The Deathborn smiles, a cold and empty thing. His eyes slide toward the icon propped up against the stone wall.
"Saint Talbot died at the Battle of Montjoy, leading a hopeless cavalry charge against Edwin the Strong's infantry squares. Some remember his bravery; all I can recall is the pointlessness of his martyrdom. My only wish is for my death to have a purpose: for it to leave something behind other than the admiration of idiots whom I will never meet."
"Why are you telling me this?" you hear yourself say.
Cazarosta meets your gaze, his eyes hard and unyielding. "Because nobody else would listen."
The other Dragoon stands up. "Saints go with you, Castleton."
It is only when he walks away that you realize he is saying goodbye.
-
You find Elson in the officer's club, a glass of potato wine in his hand. Judging from how he sways upon his seat, you doubt it is his first or even fifth.
"Castleton! Come! Sit with me, dear fellow," he commands, his voice still clear and unslurred for now. As you sit down at your Squadron commander's table, he pours you a glass of your own and pushes it towards you. "Drink, dear fellow! Quickly too, before this place runs dry."
You pick up the short glass and look around. The familiar hall does seem to be more crowded than usual. Upon closer inspection, you realize that, like Elson, most of the officers present are in some stage of inebriation.
"They think that they shall be dead soon," Elson drawls in form of an explanation. "The Takarans are leaving."
The implication is obvious: Should the Tierran army lose its great battle, Khorobirit would no doubt proceed to take Noringia by storm. In such a scenario, even diplomatic immunity would not serve much protection for a foreign envoy of any sort.
Elson upends the contents of his glass into his open mouth and swallows roughly. "They think we are bound to lose, Castleton. I see nothing to dispute their prediction."
"What are we to do then?" You ask, more out of curiosity regarding Elson's thoughts than anything else. Your captain's only response is to shrug and pour himself another drink.
"We shall drink, and we shall forget, I would hope. We shall spend two or three days marching north, too busy to think on it. Wulfram shall give a fine speech. We shall fight a great battle. We shall win, and nobody will ever speak of this night again."
Elson's tone is flat and dead; even his words of optimism seem nothing more than a shabby mask.
"Is that what you really think will happen?" You hear yourself say.
The Captain shakes his head. "No, it is what I hope will happen. The Saints have spent the last six years educating me on the difference."
You find that you have nothing more to say. The two of you spend the next few minutes drinking in silence before the tension grows too intolerable, and you make your goodbyes.
-
[] Seek out Colonel Hunter and Major Hartigan.
[] I spend the evening with my men.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
"Why are you telling me this?" you hear yourself say.
Cazarosta meets your gaze, his eyes hard and unyielding. "Because nobody else would listen."
*
...this is oddly touching. Incredibly touching.
[X] I spend the evening with my men.
I wish I could do both.
Cazarosta meets your gaze, his eyes hard and unyielding. "Because nobody else would listen."
*
...this is oddly touching. Incredibly touching.
[X] I spend the evening with my men.
I wish I could do both.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
There's a reason why Cazarosta is one of my favorite characters. He might be a fatalistic, sociopathic religious fanatic who commits war crimes on the side, but I like to think that your connection ("friendship" may be too strong a word) with him is one of the few positives in his life.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
You know, it's kinda interesting how often we choose Mercy and also Cazarosta. I wonder if by now in his fatalistic brain he's starting to accept that that's who we are, and what we will do, just as he is who he is... it's a lot to think about, in a way. The personal connection (whether one calls it a friendship or otherwise) is in this case with someone who is... well, incredibly different.
That said, it's also worth doing a playthrough where you're better friends with Elson. He's interesting in his own way.