[X] I save my fleeing men and my own life with some quick thinking.
Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga
- Thread starter Rogue Attican
- Start date
Guns 1.03
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] I save my fleeing men and my own life with some quick thinking.
Once again, your knowledge of the Antari language comes in handy. You taunt the oncoming riders as they bear down upon you. You shout horrible, disgusting things about their mothers, sisters, and goats.
Some of the Antari continue chasing your men, but most swerve toward you instead.
You have their attention now, and you plan to exploit it. You run for the side of the road, and hoping that the Antari light cavalry has more temper than brains, you duck into the forest.
The Antari chasing you realise what you're doing, but it is too late. A horse at full charge cannot be stopped easily, especially when it has just been run into the thick and uneven ground of a primordial forest.
There is a mighty crash as one of the pursuing horses trips over a root or log or some other obstacle on the rough ground, sending its rider flying. Another soon follows, smashing head-first against a tree trunk. A third's horse steps into a hidden crevice, and the dry-tinder crack of breaking bone echoes through the trees. The last rider turns around, shouting in frustration, stopping only long enough to rescue the rider of the lamed horse before beating a hasty retreat from the forest. You look around as the haze of battle clears and see the last Antari horsemen retreating back up the road. The men with you have been savaged. Many are wounded, and only a few are still on their feet. Only your quick thinking and valour were able to stop the Antari from killing more.
However, now is no time to rest. The Antari infantry is still on the advance, and their sheer numbers will be more than enough to overwhelm a few wounded, reeling, exhausted dragoons. With the rest of your squadron scattered throughout the woods, you've not the men or the resources to secure a victory today.
Hesitantly, you regroup with the rest of your squadron in the woods. The mood there is clear; after seeing the slaughter which the Antari worked upon the men with you, none of them wish to face the enemy again today. No matter how much you might want to try again, retreat is the only real option, and so retreat you do.
You and your men mount up and withdraw back down the Old Imperial Highway, the cheers of the victorious Antari fading into the distance.
On the long ride back south to the safety of the main army's camp in Noringia, your staff sergeant rides up to your position at the front of the column, his mood no doubt as foul as his expression.
"Damn these stupid bastards!" He scowls. "Damn their insolence, damn their cowardice, damn their ineptitude! Today was ours, dammit! Your plan was good, but these men couldn't be trusted to guard a latrine ditch, let alone win a battle."
[] "I'm sure these men will sort themselves out eventually."
[] "You're right, Staff Sergeant. Changes need to be made."
[] "Perhaps I should make some examples, then; punish a few to encourage the others."
Once again, your knowledge of the Antari language comes in handy. You taunt the oncoming riders as they bear down upon you. You shout horrible, disgusting things about their mothers, sisters, and goats.
Some of the Antari continue chasing your men, but most swerve toward you instead.
You have their attention now, and you plan to exploit it. You run for the side of the road, and hoping that the Antari light cavalry has more temper than brains, you duck into the forest.
The Antari chasing you realise what you're doing, but it is too late. A horse at full charge cannot be stopped easily, especially when it has just been run into the thick and uneven ground of a primordial forest.
There is a mighty crash as one of the pursuing horses trips over a root or log or some other obstacle on the rough ground, sending its rider flying. Another soon follows, smashing head-first against a tree trunk. A third's horse steps into a hidden crevice, and the dry-tinder crack of breaking bone echoes through the trees. The last rider turns around, shouting in frustration, stopping only long enough to rescue the rider of the lamed horse before beating a hasty retreat from the forest. You look around as the haze of battle clears and see the last Antari horsemen retreating back up the road. The men with you have been savaged. Many are wounded, and only a few are still on their feet. Only your quick thinking and valour were able to stop the Antari from killing more.
However, now is no time to rest. The Antari infantry is still on the advance, and their sheer numbers will be more than enough to overwhelm a few wounded, reeling, exhausted dragoons. With the rest of your squadron scattered throughout the woods, you've not the men or the resources to secure a victory today.
Hesitantly, you regroup with the rest of your squadron in the woods. The mood there is clear; after seeing the slaughter which the Antari worked upon the men with you, none of them wish to face the enemy again today. No matter how much you might want to try again, retreat is the only real option, and so retreat you do.
You and your men mount up and withdraw back down the Old Imperial Highway, the cheers of the victorious Antari fading into the distance.
-
On the long ride back south to the safety of the main army's camp in Noringia, your staff sergeant rides up to your position at the front of the column, his mood no doubt as foul as his expression.
"Damn these stupid bastards!" He scowls. "Damn their insolence, damn their cowardice, damn their ineptitude! Today was ours, dammit! Your plan was good, but these men couldn't be trusted to guard a latrine ditch, let alone win a battle."
[] "I'm sure these men will sort themselves out eventually."
[] "You're right, Staff Sergeant. Changes need to be made."
[] "Perhaps I should make some examples, then; punish a few to encourage the others."
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] "You're right, Staff Sergeant. Changes need to be made."
We need to be proactive.
We need to be proactive.
Guns 1.04
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "You're right, Staff Sergeant. Changes need to be made."
Your staff sergeant smiles and nods. Lanzerel tosses a concerned look back at the men behind you.
"Look, sir, those men are in want of a lot of things, but what they need the most are leaders. There's nothing we can do about the lack of commissioned officers in the squadron, but a few of the newcomers would make good corporals, and two or three of the old lot would manage all right as sergeants. Give the word, and I'll give them the stripes."
[] "No, Staff Sergeant, I'm sure the men will sort themselves out in time."
[] "Very good, Staff Sergeant. See that it is done."
[] "No, Staff Sergeant. I command, and I shall make a decision."
Your staff sergeant smiles and nods. Lanzerel tosses a concerned look back at the men behind you.
"Look, sir, those men are in want of a lot of things, but what they need the most are leaders. There's nothing we can do about the lack of commissioned officers in the squadron, but a few of the newcomers would make good corporals, and two or three of the old lot would manage all right as sergeants. Give the word, and I'll give them the stripes."
[] "No, Staff Sergeant, I'm sure the men will sort themselves out in time."
[] "Very good, Staff Sergeant. See that it is done."
[] "No, Staff Sergeant. I command, and I shall make a decision."
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] "Very good, Staff Sergeant. See that it is done."
Again, our job is to look pretty, sit on a horse, and think big thoughts. Let's trust Lanzeral.
Again, our job is to look pretty, sit on a horse, and think big thoughts. Let's trust Lanzeral.
[X] "Very good, Staff Sergeant. See that it is done."
Guns 2.01
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "Very good, Staff Sergeant. See that it is done."
Your senior NCO flashes you a bare-teethed smile. "I'll start as soon as we get back, sir."
He snaps a quick salute at you as he orders his horse to fall back in line behind you.
You lean back in your saddle and squint into the setting sun as you are once again left alone at the front of the column. Despite your losses today, you are glad that you are at least still alive and that the majority of your men live as well.
It is a thought that will have to do the job of cheering you as you and your squadron make the three-day ride back to the army headquarters at Noringia.
"I see. A most unfortunate outcome, Sir Alaric."
His Grace, the Duke of Cunaris, a general-of-brigade in the army of His Tierran Majesty Miguel d'al Rendower, turns toward the light filtering through the open window to his side, arm muscles bulging with exertion as his hands clumsily manoeuvre his wheelchair around the massive oaken desk.
Cunaris had been a colonel and in command of your regiment at Blogia when an Antari lance point severed his spine. Now his body is dead below the waist, and you doubt that even his appointment to brigade command could sweeten that bitter news.
He is in command of all the King's cavalry, as well as being Colonel of the Royal Dragoons, which explains exactly why you are standing before him, giving your account of your ill-fated clash with the Antari not three days ago.
"You were hard pressed. I suppose this sort of thing was to be expected," he remarks as he stares out the window, the sunlight catching on the sparse grey hairs in his unfashionably full beard. "Indeed, I would think that it was your quick thinking that kept your losses as low as they were."
Cunaris favours you with a gentle smile, the sort which you might even consider fatherly. "Surely, you cannot shoulder all the blame."
[] "I was in command. The fault is mine, sir."
[] "We've already identified the root causes, and my staff sergeant is already working on it."
[] "I am already planning to see that my men shall not fail you again, sir." (Not selectable because Lanzerel's on the job.)
[] "My bloody men were to blame, the useless scum."
[] "We'll not fail you next time, sir."
[] "We were sent into battle unprepared! The blame is not mine!"
Your senior NCO flashes you a bare-teethed smile. "I'll start as soon as we get back, sir."
He snaps a quick salute at you as he orders his horse to fall back in line behind you.
You lean back in your saddle and squint into the setting sun as you are once again left alone at the front of the column. Despite your losses today, you are glad that you are at least still alive and that the majority of your men live as well.
It is a thought that will have to do the job of cheering you as you and your squadron make the three-day ride back to the army headquarters at Noringia.
CHAPTER II
Wherein the CAVALRY OFFICER trains his squadron of ROYAL DRAGOONS.
Wherein the CAVALRY OFFICER trains his squadron of ROYAL DRAGOONS.
"I see. A most unfortunate outcome, Sir Alaric."
His Grace, the Duke of Cunaris, a general-of-brigade in the army of His Tierran Majesty Miguel d'al Rendower, turns toward the light filtering through the open window to his side, arm muscles bulging with exertion as his hands clumsily manoeuvre his wheelchair around the massive oaken desk.
Cunaris had been a colonel and in command of your regiment at Blogia when an Antari lance point severed his spine. Now his body is dead below the waist, and you doubt that even his appointment to brigade command could sweeten that bitter news.
He is in command of all the King's cavalry, as well as being Colonel of the Royal Dragoons, which explains exactly why you are standing before him, giving your account of your ill-fated clash with the Antari not three days ago.
"You were hard pressed. I suppose this sort of thing was to be expected," he remarks as he stares out the window, the sunlight catching on the sparse grey hairs in his unfashionably full beard. "Indeed, I would think that it was your quick thinking that kept your losses as low as they were."
Cunaris favours you with a gentle smile, the sort which you might even consider fatherly. "Surely, you cannot shoulder all the blame."
[] "I was in command. The fault is mine, sir."
[] "We've already identified the root causes, and my staff sergeant is already working on it."
[] "My bloody men were to blame, the useless scum."
[] "We'll not fail you next time, sir."
[] "We were sent into battle unprepared! The blame is not mine!"
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] "We've already identified the root causes, and my staff sergeant is already working on it."
Be proactive... the past was yesterday, or in this case three days ago.
Be proactive... the past was yesterday, or in this case three days ago.
Last edited:
Guns 2.02
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "We've already identified the root causes, and my staff sergeant is already working on it."
Cunaris's eyebrow rises. "Have you now? That is certainly good to hear, though I would keep an eye out if I were you. Commoners lack the sense of…finesse that we of more elevated background often take for granted."
Your commanding officer rolls his wheelchair up to you. "I shall enter your swift reaction to the situation in my report. However, I shall expect better performance from your men the next time you are sent into battle."
The Duke looks away for a moment, and when he turns back to you, his expression is set.
"With your report in mind, I shall do my best to give you the time to resolve the lingering issues within your squadron. I can, of course, make no guarantees regarding orders from His Majesty, but it will likely be months before you will be sent into battle again. I'll expect a report of greater success from you when that time comes. To stumble once is regrettable. To do so twice, with time to prepare, is unpardonable. Am I made clear?"
"Absolutely clear, sir," you respond. The implication couldn't be more obvious: you must return with a victory, or else.
Cunaris nods, his expression clearly pained at the harshness of his own ultimatum. "Very good, Captain. You are dismissed."
You step out of your regimental commander's office with a renewed sense of purpose; with the uncertain reprieve you've been given, you must forge your squadron into an effective fighting force.
You do not even make it out of the corridor before you run into a familiar sight: thin, olive-skinned, hawk-nosed, and angular, almost unchanged since the last time you saw him over three months ago. Unchanged, save by the red expanse of scar tissue down the left side of his face where an Antari warhammer had raked him at Blogia.
He greets you as he approaches: Sir Caius d'al Cazarosta, your acquaintance from training, fellow Dragoon officer, and perhaps, after all you've been through together, even your friend, in his own strange, aloof way.
"Good day, Castleton," the other officer replies as you greet him. "You've returned from a sortie to the north, is that not so? Did the Saints see fit to send your new unit into action?"
You tell Cazarosta of the debacle from which you and your squadron have just returned.
"I see," the other Dragoon says as you finish your recounting. "Most regrettable. I too have had…difficulties regarding the men of my new command."
Cazarosta had been made captain and knighted after Blogia, on the same day you had, by the direct order of the King himself. However, unlike you, he is unlikely to rise any higher. He was born as a result of the illicit union between his baneblooded mother and a commoner. The result was an offspring of baneblood heritage but with none of its associate powers: a deathborn-bastard.
Cazarosta's unfortunate mother paid for her indiscretion with her life, and as the result of her crime, Cazarosta himself had suffered its consequences for all of his. It was only due to his exceptional skill with the sabre and pistol and the patronage of his mother's powerful husband, the Earl of Leoniscourt, that he had been able to acquire a commission at all. That he had been able to make captain based on merit alone was even more extraordinary.
Now though, the way up is barred to him; no Dragoon major would be willing to sell his commission to a deathborn, no matter how renowned. You can imagine that the prospect fills the other officer with no small amount of bitterness…
However, now is not the time to be contemplating the nature of a man when he stands right before you. His eyes meet yours, flinty as always, as if expecting a question in reply….
[X] "What difficulties have you had with your command?"
The other officer almost seems caught off-guard by your question. "I beg pardon?"
After Blogia, Cazarosta had been promoted to command what was left of Third Squadron, your old unit. It too had taken immense losses during the battle, both those troops which followed Captain Elson into his suicidal charge and those who stayed behind in the desperate defense of the Tierran left flank.
"You said that you've had difficulties with your command," you explain. "Might I inquire in detail?"
The other officer nods. "Of course. Third Squadron is short a great deal of things, chief among them carbines, saddles, and horses for the men. It appears," he gives you a pointed look, "that your command has received higher priority for such supplies than mine."
You nod, a bit puzzled at Cazarosta's implication. The other officer doesn't pause to explain.
"However," Cazarosta continues, "our chiefest shortage has been in men. While I do have a core of veterans at my disposal, the number of replacements I've available are only enough to raise Third Squadron to half-strength. Worse yet, the new men are taking to both military discipline and their assigned duties poorly."
You nod in sympathy. It seems that despite the dismal level of readiness within your own unit, you're still the lucky one; at least Sixth Squadron is still nearly full-strength, even after the minor losses you took.
[X] "What are you here for?"
Cazarosta looks to the side as you ask. "You mean at regimental headquarters?"
You nod.
"I am here to request that His Grace enter my squadron into consideration for any further active duties which may come up," Cazarosta replies.
Your eyes widen a little at that. 'Active duties' is a rather silly euphemism attached to combat patrols, raiding duties, and deep reconnaissance; in short, anything liable to get men killed, especially untrained, unprepared men.
"Are your men quite prepared for that?" you find yourself asking, almost involuntarily.
Cazarosta shakes his head. "Absolutely not. My men are entirely unready and unsuited for any sort of action. However, some hard fighting will sort that out shortly; those who the Saints would will to be proper soldiers shall live. Those that they would not shall die."
You nod, if only to hide the chill rolling down your spine. Cazarosta's plan is terrifying, with an absolute disregard for the lives of his men. There are times when you find that you can avoid thinking about the horrible conclusions that Cazarosta's zealous faith and utter coldness allow him to draw….
You do not relish being reminded of it.
[X] "Good day to you, Sir Caius."
Cazarosta responds with a curt nod and passes you by.
It is not a long walk to your lodgings, but in the late afternoon, the streets of Noringia are packed with the men of the King's Army. Before the war, the small port on the southern coast of Antar had been home to twelve thousand people. Now, even with most of the original inhabitants gone and after the losses taken at Blogia, the place houses three times that number of soldiers, clerks, supernumeraries, and the mob of camp followers, peddlers, and shady businessmen that invariably follow an army at war.
You require the better part of half an hour to jostle, shove, and squeeze your way through the mobs of Line Infantry orange, Dragoon grey-green, and Navy blue. When you finally arrive at the small but comfortably appointed room assigned to you as your personal lodgings, you find a folded sheet of paper, sealed with wax, waiting on your desk.
It is from your father.
The seal in the wax is unmistakable. It bears the ornate coat of arms of a noble house—your noble house—imprinted in the soft red material. The seal was stamped by the signet ring your father wears as the Baron of…
[] [BARONY] Aldershall.
[] [BARONY] Reddingfield.
[] [BARONY] Sanloren.
[] [BARONY] Ezinbrooke.
[] [BARONY] None of those are right. (Write in)
You pick up the letter immediately and unfold it, your mind awash with feelings of…
[] [DAD] Excitement; I want to know what news my father has sent to his most beloved son.
[] [DAD] Trepidation; my father and I have an often strained relationship.
[] [DAD] Confusion; my father barely even spoke to me.
Cunaris's eyebrow rises. "Have you now? That is certainly good to hear, though I would keep an eye out if I were you. Commoners lack the sense of…finesse that we of more elevated background often take for granted."
Your commanding officer rolls his wheelchair up to you. "I shall enter your swift reaction to the situation in my report. However, I shall expect better performance from your men the next time you are sent into battle."
The Duke looks away for a moment, and when he turns back to you, his expression is set.
"With your report in mind, I shall do my best to give you the time to resolve the lingering issues within your squadron. I can, of course, make no guarantees regarding orders from His Majesty, but it will likely be months before you will be sent into battle again. I'll expect a report of greater success from you when that time comes. To stumble once is regrettable. To do so twice, with time to prepare, is unpardonable. Am I made clear?"
"Absolutely clear, sir," you respond. The implication couldn't be more obvious: you must return with a victory, or else.
Cunaris nods, his expression clearly pained at the harshness of his own ultimatum. "Very good, Captain. You are dismissed."
-
You step out of your regimental commander's office with a renewed sense of purpose; with the uncertain reprieve you've been given, you must forge your squadron into an effective fighting force.
You do not even make it out of the corridor before you run into a familiar sight: thin, olive-skinned, hawk-nosed, and angular, almost unchanged since the last time you saw him over three months ago. Unchanged, save by the red expanse of scar tissue down the left side of his face where an Antari warhammer had raked him at Blogia.
He greets you as he approaches: Sir Caius d'al Cazarosta, your acquaintance from training, fellow Dragoon officer, and perhaps, after all you've been through together, even your friend, in his own strange, aloof way.
"Good day, Castleton," the other officer replies as you greet him. "You've returned from a sortie to the north, is that not so? Did the Saints see fit to send your new unit into action?"
You tell Cazarosta of the debacle from which you and your squadron have just returned.
"I see," the other Dragoon says as you finish your recounting. "Most regrettable. I too have had…difficulties regarding the men of my new command."
Cazarosta had been made captain and knighted after Blogia, on the same day you had, by the direct order of the King himself. However, unlike you, he is unlikely to rise any higher. He was born as a result of the illicit union between his baneblooded mother and a commoner. The result was an offspring of baneblood heritage but with none of its associate powers: a deathborn-bastard.
Cazarosta's unfortunate mother paid for her indiscretion with her life, and as the result of her crime, Cazarosta himself had suffered its consequences for all of his. It was only due to his exceptional skill with the sabre and pistol and the patronage of his mother's powerful husband, the Earl of Leoniscourt, that he had been able to acquire a commission at all. That he had been able to make captain based on merit alone was even more extraordinary.
Now though, the way up is barred to him; no Dragoon major would be willing to sell his commission to a deathborn, no matter how renowned. You can imagine that the prospect fills the other officer with no small amount of bitterness…
However, now is not the time to be contemplating the nature of a man when he stands right before you. His eyes meet yours, flinty as always, as if expecting a question in reply….
[X] "What difficulties have you had with your command?"
The other officer almost seems caught off-guard by your question. "I beg pardon?"
After Blogia, Cazarosta had been promoted to command what was left of Third Squadron, your old unit. It too had taken immense losses during the battle, both those troops which followed Captain Elson into his suicidal charge and those who stayed behind in the desperate defense of the Tierran left flank.
"You said that you've had difficulties with your command," you explain. "Might I inquire in detail?"
The other officer nods. "Of course. Third Squadron is short a great deal of things, chief among them carbines, saddles, and horses for the men. It appears," he gives you a pointed look, "that your command has received higher priority for such supplies than mine."
You nod, a bit puzzled at Cazarosta's implication. The other officer doesn't pause to explain.
"However," Cazarosta continues, "our chiefest shortage has been in men. While I do have a core of veterans at my disposal, the number of replacements I've available are only enough to raise Third Squadron to half-strength. Worse yet, the new men are taking to both military discipline and their assigned duties poorly."
You nod in sympathy. It seems that despite the dismal level of readiness within your own unit, you're still the lucky one; at least Sixth Squadron is still nearly full-strength, even after the minor losses you took.
[X] "What are you here for?"
Cazarosta looks to the side as you ask. "You mean at regimental headquarters?"
You nod.
"I am here to request that His Grace enter my squadron into consideration for any further active duties which may come up," Cazarosta replies.
Your eyes widen a little at that. 'Active duties' is a rather silly euphemism attached to combat patrols, raiding duties, and deep reconnaissance; in short, anything liable to get men killed, especially untrained, unprepared men.
"Are your men quite prepared for that?" you find yourself asking, almost involuntarily.
Cazarosta shakes his head. "Absolutely not. My men are entirely unready and unsuited for any sort of action. However, some hard fighting will sort that out shortly; those who the Saints would will to be proper soldiers shall live. Those that they would not shall die."
You nod, if only to hide the chill rolling down your spine. Cazarosta's plan is terrifying, with an absolute disregard for the lives of his men. There are times when you find that you can avoid thinking about the horrible conclusions that Cazarosta's zealous faith and utter coldness allow him to draw….
You do not relish being reminded of it.
[X] "Good day to you, Sir Caius."
Cazarosta responds with a curt nod and passes you by.
It is not a long walk to your lodgings, but in the late afternoon, the streets of Noringia are packed with the men of the King's Army. Before the war, the small port on the southern coast of Antar had been home to twelve thousand people. Now, even with most of the original inhabitants gone and after the losses taken at Blogia, the place houses three times that number of soldiers, clerks, supernumeraries, and the mob of camp followers, peddlers, and shady businessmen that invariably follow an army at war.
You require the better part of half an hour to jostle, shove, and squeeze your way through the mobs of Line Infantry orange, Dragoon grey-green, and Navy blue. When you finally arrive at the small but comfortably appointed room assigned to you as your personal lodgings, you find a folded sheet of paper, sealed with wax, waiting on your desk.
It is from your father.
The seal in the wax is unmistakable. It bears the ornate coat of arms of a noble house—your noble house—imprinted in the soft red material. The seal was stamped by the signet ring your father wears as the Baron of…
[] [BARONY] Aldershall.
[] [BARONY] Reddingfield.
[] [BARONY] Sanloren.
[] [BARONY] Ezinbrooke.
[] [BARONY] None of those are right. (Write in)
-
You pick up the letter immediately and unfold it, your mind awash with feelings of…
[] [DAD] Excitement; I want to know what news my father has sent to his most beloved son.
[] [DAD] Trepidation; my father and I have an often strained relationship.
[] [DAD] Confusion; my father barely even spoke to me.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
In what way do these things have effects, especially the Barony?
...I can imagine a strained relationship, really.
One of these two, but it's too late for me to try to theorycraft about which one was the more interesting bit of background to our "Philosophical Automation."
(Also trying to write a Quest update.)
[] [DAD] Trepidation; my father and I have an often strained relationship.
[] [DAD] Confusion; my father barely even spoke to me.
...I can imagine a strained relationship, really.
One of these two, but it's too late for me to try to theorycraft about which one was the more interesting bit of background to our "Philosophical Automation."
(Also trying to write a Quest update.)
[] [DAD] Trepidation; my father and I have an often strained relationship.
[] [DAD] Confusion; my father barely even spoke to me.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
...actually, I know the one that works, maybe. Is this, "Barely even spoke to me" in the sense of, "They just literally don't have a relationship?" or as a further version of Trepidation. If it's the former, it would kinda fit for the person we have, the person with a really high Intellect but merely "normal-ish" Soldiering and Charisma.
Someone used to having relationships (in the generic, non-romantic sense) that consist a lot of silence and tea leaf reading.
[] [DAD] Confusion; my father barely even spoke to me.
Someone used to having relationships (in the generic, non-romantic sense) that consist a lot of silence and tea leaf reading.
[] [DAD] Confusion; my father barely even spoke to me.
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- Pronouns
- He/Him
Your relationship with dear old Dad primarily affects your family dynamics. For example, any younger siblings you might have may resent you if both parents showered you with all the attention. On the other hand, poor parental relations may lead to you getting along much better with your younger sister (and brother, if you have one).
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] [DAD] Confusion; my father barely even spoke to me.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Don't forget to pick a name for your future fief. If you want to write a name of your own, make sure to consider how it sounds, e.g., "Lord Sufficient Velocity! How fares your family?"
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] [DAD] Confusion; my father barely even spoke to me.
[X] [BARONY] Kalzeran
I dunno, I just like that "zer" sound. It feels like something someone could shout while shaking their fist.
[X] [BARONY] Kalzeran
I dunno, I just like that "zer" sound. It feels like something someone could shout while shaking their fist.
[X] [DAD] Trepidation; my father and I have an often strained relationship.
I like the idea that Dad was always disappointed in us until we started getting our name into the Gazette at which point he gave us grudging approval.
I like the idea that Dad was always disappointed in us until we started getting our name into the Gazette at which point he gave us grudging approval.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Names, people! Do not forget to name your barony!
- Pronouns
- He
[X] [BARONY] Reddingfield.
[X] [DAD] Trepidation; my father and I have an often strained relationship.
[X] [DAD] Trepidation; my father and I have an often strained relationship.
IamtooSleepy
I came here to be an ant
Indeed, Lanzeral has never failed us before
And here we see Cazarosta's style of training.
[X] [BARONY] Reddingfield.
[X] [DAD] Trepidation; my father and I have an often strained relationship.
Guns 2.03
- Pronouns
- He/Him
You have many fond memories of your father. He was not stingy with his approval. However, you also remember many arguments. It was a rare time when the two of you agreed upon any given subject, and it was not unusual for the two of you to quarrel in the morning and then be reconciled by supper.
Despite your occasionally rough relationship, he is still your father, and the harsh words and occasional fists which the two of you have hurled at each other have never been enough to engineer a total break.
Besides, news from your father means news from the rest of your family.
What of the rest of your family, anyhow? What do you remember of them? Your mother, for example?
[] My mother and I are quite close.
[] Mother and I do not speak much.
[] Mother is dead, and she has been for quite a few years now.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
...honestly I did wish I had a chance to make my argument for why Confusion was honestly better. The lack of connections, the loneliness... in some ways it feels more meaningful than having a shitty relationship. Having this void there, this... lack of something that is as frustrating if not more so than some deep and impossible loathing.
But ah well. This works.
[X] Mother and I do not speak much.
But ah well. This works.
[X] Mother and I do not speak much.
[X] Mother and I do not speak much.
- Pronouns
- He
[X] My mother and I are quite close.