- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] I send a detachment to rush ahead and hold the bridge for me.
Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga
- Thread starter Rogue Attican
- Start date
- Pronouns
- He
[X] I send a detachment to rush ahead and hold the bridge for me.
Guns 3.06
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] I send a detachment to rush ahead and hold the bridge for me.
You try to think of another way to approach the problem. After a few moments, you think you may have a solution that lets you secure the bridge without tiring the majority of your men or straining the wagons. "Lieutenant Sandoral, how would you like a taste of independent command?"
Sandoral looks puzzled as he brings his horse up next to yours. "Independent command, sir?"
"There's a bridge up ahead," you explain. "It's about a hundred kilometres down the road. Our lovely friend from Royal Intelligence considers it a likely spot for an ambush."
Sandoral nods. "Yes, sir?"
"I need you to take your men and 2nd Troop on ahead with the greatest possible haste. Secure that bridge, and await my arrival."
Your subordinate snaps you a quick salute. "Yes, sir, right away, sir."
With that, Sandoral peels off to gather up his men. Within a few minutes, they are riding ahead, leaving you and three-fifths of your squadron behind with Lady Katarina, Master Garing, and the heavily laden carts.
For the next few days, you continue on your way at the same leisurely pace, barely faster than walking speed. Some of your men peer into the forests nervously as they ride, their eyes searching for any movement or flicker of a shadow that might reveal the location of a partisan ambush.
They never find one. After another week, you ride out of the forest to find yourself before the waters of the River Kharan.
The bridge proves to be a weathered series of granite arches holding up a road of plank-covered dirt. A ruined tollhouse stands upon your side of the crossing, its stout stone walls crumbling under the burden of long centuries of neglect.
You fought your first battle in Antar upon a bridge like that one in the first autumn of the war. Your small group of Dragoons had been on detached duty under the command of Captain Hunter then, a dashing Wulframite officer of the elite Aetorian Grenadier Guards.
That battle had been an ambush against an Antari supply column. That time it had been Tierran foot in burnt orange that skulked in the woods while you and your dragoons waited in hiding inside the ruins of a tollhouse much like the one before you.
That action had been a glorious victory; you'd won fame, the esteem of your fellow officers, no small amount of prize money from the Antari commander's ransom, and the prized Gryphon of Rendower, Tierra's highest decoration for bravery.
That was a long time ago, though. Most of the men who fought in that action are long dead, including Hunter, who had been promoted to lieutenant colonel only to be killed leading his grenadiers at Blogia. Little remains of that battle but your memories of that bridge, so much like this one.
Still, that had been a different time and a different bridge; over a hundred kilometres further upstream, if you remember your geography right. There are other subtle differences, too: the arches are more shallow, the river swifter, the roadway narrower, and of course, there is the fact that it is guarded by the men you sent on ahead. It is not long before you and the rest of the column are recognised by the sentries at the end of the bridge and given leave to approach.
Almost immediately, you notice the high spirits evident. While the camp may not be the most organised, its occupants go about their duties with evident good cheer, never a bad sign.
While all seems well now, you note that the stonework of the bridge is newly pitted with the sort of craters left by musket balls, and the smouldering remains of what appears to be a pyre, the sort used for cremating the dead, sits like an ashen blemish upon the far bank.
"The Antari came out of the woods yesterday morning. It was barely even a fight, sir," Lieutenant Sandoral reports. "One of the sentries gave the alarm. I ordered the men to form ranks and begin volley fire. They got a few shots off, but after the second volley, they broke and ran."
The young officer glances over his shoulder for a moment at the far bank. "We, uh, we lost one, and another died of his wounds this morning. We burned them along with the enemy dead."
It only takes an hour or two to pull down the camp and continue onwards.
While there remains the lingering danger of a partisan attack, the news of Lieutenant Sandoral's victory the previous day does much to settle nerves. The constant air of tension which characterised so much of your past week seems almost gone, something which is much helped when, at around midday, the forest begins to thin.
By nightfall, the men are sitting easy in their saddles once more.
The next day, your column continues onward. The forest, which had presented itself as a solid mass of stout wood and darkness just the day before, continues to thin until an hour before midday when it gives way entirely to rolling green hills overgrown with shaggy summer grass.
For the first time since you have arrived in Antar, you and your men are surrounded by open ground, truly open ground, not the patchwork clearings of forest hamlets or the cleared hinterlands around Noringia, for unlike those pockets of grassland in the sea of trees which forms the southern forests, this is a different sort of region entirely.
Now, you ride into Antar's central plains and towards Kharangia, that mighty fortress city that guards the approach to central Antari proper, that city which must fall if the King's Army is truly to break into the League's rich grain-producing regions.
It is an almost alien sight to you now, the thought of looking to your left or right and not seeing trees but an immense openness, where there is naught but a horizon between green earth and blue sky. It cannot help but fill you with a feeling of…
[] Vulnerability; open ground means we're open to attack.
[] Freedom; we're finally liberated from the confines of forest roads.
[] Disappointment; mostly at the fact that this land moves me little at all.
You try to think of another way to approach the problem. After a few moments, you think you may have a solution that lets you secure the bridge without tiring the majority of your men or straining the wagons. "Lieutenant Sandoral, how would you like a taste of independent command?"
Sandoral looks puzzled as he brings his horse up next to yours. "Independent command, sir?"
"There's a bridge up ahead," you explain. "It's about a hundred kilometres down the road. Our lovely friend from Royal Intelligence considers it a likely spot for an ambush."
Sandoral nods. "Yes, sir?"
"I need you to take your men and 2nd Troop on ahead with the greatest possible haste. Secure that bridge, and await my arrival."
Your subordinate snaps you a quick salute. "Yes, sir, right away, sir."
With that, Sandoral peels off to gather up his men. Within a few minutes, they are riding ahead, leaving you and three-fifths of your squadron behind with Lady Katarina, Master Garing, and the heavily laden carts.
For the next few days, you continue on your way at the same leisurely pace, barely faster than walking speed. Some of your men peer into the forests nervously as they ride, their eyes searching for any movement or flicker of a shadow that might reveal the location of a partisan ambush.
They never find one. After another week, you ride out of the forest to find yourself before the waters of the River Kharan.
The bridge proves to be a weathered series of granite arches holding up a road of plank-covered dirt. A ruined tollhouse stands upon your side of the crossing, its stout stone walls crumbling under the burden of long centuries of neglect.
You fought your first battle in Antar upon a bridge like that one in the first autumn of the war. Your small group of Dragoons had been on detached duty under the command of Captain Hunter then, a dashing Wulframite officer of the elite Aetorian Grenadier Guards.
That battle had been an ambush against an Antari supply column. That time it had been Tierran foot in burnt orange that skulked in the woods while you and your dragoons waited in hiding inside the ruins of a tollhouse much like the one before you.
That action had been a glorious victory; you'd won fame, the esteem of your fellow officers, no small amount of prize money from the Antari commander's ransom, and the prized Gryphon of Rendower, Tierra's highest decoration for bravery.
That was a long time ago, though. Most of the men who fought in that action are long dead, including Hunter, who had been promoted to lieutenant colonel only to be killed leading his grenadiers at Blogia. Little remains of that battle but your memories of that bridge, so much like this one.
Still, that had been a different time and a different bridge; over a hundred kilometres further upstream, if you remember your geography right. There are other subtle differences, too: the arches are more shallow, the river swifter, the roadway narrower, and of course, there is the fact that it is guarded by the men you sent on ahead. It is not long before you and the rest of the column are recognised by the sentries at the end of the bridge and given leave to approach.
Almost immediately, you notice the high spirits evident. While the camp may not be the most organised, its occupants go about their duties with evident good cheer, never a bad sign.
While all seems well now, you note that the stonework of the bridge is newly pitted with the sort of craters left by musket balls, and the smouldering remains of what appears to be a pyre, the sort used for cremating the dead, sits like an ashen blemish upon the far bank.
"The Antari came out of the woods yesterday morning. It was barely even a fight, sir," Lieutenant Sandoral reports. "One of the sentries gave the alarm. I ordered the men to form ranks and begin volley fire. They got a few shots off, but after the second volley, they broke and ran."
The young officer glances over his shoulder for a moment at the far bank. "We, uh, we lost one, and another died of his wounds this morning. We burned them along with the enemy dead."
It only takes an hour or two to pull down the camp and continue onwards.
While there remains the lingering danger of a partisan attack, the news of Lieutenant Sandoral's victory the previous day does much to settle nerves. The constant air of tension which characterised so much of your past week seems almost gone, something which is much helped when, at around midday, the forest begins to thin.
By nightfall, the men are sitting easy in their saddles once more.
-
The next day, your column continues onward. The forest, which had presented itself as a solid mass of stout wood and darkness just the day before, continues to thin until an hour before midday when it gives way entirely to rolling green hills overgrown with shaggy summer grass.
For the first time since you have arrived in Antar, you and your men are surrounded by open ground, truly open ground, not the patchwork clearings of forest hamlets or the cleared hinterlands around Noringia, for unlike those pockets of grassland in the sea of trees which forms the southern forests, this is a different sort of region entirely.
Now, you ride into Antar's central plains and towards Kharangia, that mighty fortress city that guards the approach to central Antari proper, that city which must fall if the King's Army is truly to break into the League's rich grain-producing regions.
It is an almost alien sight to you now, the thought of looking to your left or right and not seeing trees but an immense openness, where there is naught but a horizon between green earth and blue sky. It cannot help but fill you with a feeling of…
[] Vulnerability; open ground means we're open to attack.
[] Freedom; we're finally liberated from the confines of forest roads.
[] Disappointment; mostly at the fact that this land moves me little at all.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] Freedom; we're finally liberated from the confines of forest roads.
- Pronouns
- He
[X] Freedom; we're finally liberated from the confines of forest roads.
Plains, where the horses belong, even if we're dragoons instead of proper cav.
Plains, where the horses belong, even if we're dragoons instead of proper cav.
Guns 3.07
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Freedom; we're finally liberated from the confines of forest roads.
Your heart swells, and your spirit lifts at the sight of nothing but open ground around you. After the oppressively narrow roads and cramped clearings of the Great Forest, you feel almost like a songbird newly released from a dark cage.
It is a glorious feeling, and at moments when your self-possession begins to wane, it seems as if only your self-control stops you from simply riding out of the column and into the open plain to run at full gallop across its endless face with the sun forever warm in your face.
Your column makes good progress that day, forging forward until it is too dark to do anything except set up camp.
The next morning, you spot a grey haze above the horizon before you, the sort that only comes from smoke rising in vast quantities. By midday, that haze has become a cloud, and you begin to see the low, dark shapes from which the blackest and heaviest smoke rises.
By mid-afternoon, the sky grows dark from the smoke, which begins to blot out the summer sun above you. Finally, you and your men crest the top of one last ridge, and you breathe a most involuntary sigh of relief when you finally have a clear view of what is before you.
Not three or four kilometers ahead of you lies an expanse of canvas tents staked out and arranged neatly in rows around a large pavilion. Beyond that, there is a hellish expanse of trenches, earthworks, and fighting positions, boiling over with men in the burnt-orange coats of Tierran line infantry…
…and not a few hundred paces beyond them, scarred, battered, scorched, but still standing proud and unbreached, are the defiant walls of Kharangia.
Your heart swells, and your spirit lifts at the sight of nothing but open ground around you. After the oppressively narrow roads and cramped clearings of the Great Forest, you feel almost like a songbird newly released from a dark cage.
It is a glorious feeling, and at moments when your self-possession begins to wane, it seems as if only your self-control stops you from simply riding out of the column and into the open plain to run at full gallop across its endless face with the sun forever warm in your face.
Your column makes good progress that day, forging forward until it is too dark to do anything except set up camp.
-
The next morning, you spot a grey haze above the horizon before you, the sort that only comes from smoke rising in vast quantities. By midday, that haze has become a cloud, and you begin to see the low, dark shapes from which the blackest and heaviest smoke rises.
By mid-afternoon, the sky grows dark from the smoke, which begins to blot out the summer sun above you. Finally, you and your men crest the top of one last ridge, and you breathe a most involuntary sigh of relief when you finally have a clear view of what is before you.
Not three or four kilometers ahead of you lies an expanse of canvas tents staked out and arranged neatly in rows around a large pavilion. Beyond that, there is a hellish expanse of trenches, earthworks, and fighting positions, boiling over with men in the burnt-orange coats of Tierran line infantry…
…and not a few hundred paces beyond them, scarred, battered, scorched, but still standing proud and unbreached, are the defiant walls of Kharangia.
If your Soldiering is high enough, you get to respond to Katarina's map by pulling out your own, with the bridge already circled and labeled Most Likely Point of Ambush.
Sadly, we're just not that cool.
Sadly, we're just not that cool.
Guns 4.01
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Chapter IV
In which the CAVALRY OFFICER takes part in the SIEGE of the fortress city of KHARANGIA.
In which the CAVALRY OFFICER takes part in the SIEGE of the fortress city of KHARANGIA.
The young red-haired man opposite you fixes you with a piercing stare. His expression is intent as his fingers dance around the unbroken wall of his defences, the glow of the candles throwing his grim, hard-featured face into an infernal contrast of light and shadow.
In a single fluid motion, he makes his move. His green eyes flashing, he sets two playing cards of lacquered paper on the polished wooden table, alongside the two already there, a confident smirk on his lips.
"Sroc-hjunkuswerd," he declares, his voice soft and thunderous in the same breath. "Would any of you gentlemen care to answer?" he asks, louder this time, loud enough for you to hear the light Kentauri burr in his voice.
The two other men at the table withdraw behind the defensive barriers of their own hands, hiding their expressions behind lacquered paper as they consider their next moves.
One of them, like you, wears a jacket of green-grey and blood red, his thin face matched by a perpetually tired expression: Lieutenant Colonel Roland d'al Keane, commanding officer of First Squadron, and with the Duke of Cunaris no longer fit for action, the de facto field commander of the regiment. He looks down at his hand one last time before folding it and shaking his head.
The other man also wears the rank insignia of a lieutenant colonel, but he wears the burnt orange of the Line Infantry: Winthrop d'al Hartigan, the newly ascended Viscount of Hugh, commander of the First Battalion of the 5th Regiment of Foot. He too backs down.
Hartigan was your old friend Elson's cousin by marriage, and the two of you have been on friendly enough terms. It had been he who extended you an invitation to the evening's game. After all, there could have been no other way for a mere captain to be invited to this particular table, in this particular tent, belonging to the red-haired, green-eyed young man opposite you; for he is Lord Marcus d'al Havenport, the Duke of Havenport's younger brother and Lieutenant Colonel of the Kentauri Highlanders at barely the age of twenty-one.
Lord Marcus looks to you. "Do you seek to face me, Sir Alaric, or will you come to your senses and back down as these gentlemen have? After all, you could still walk away with some bit of coin."
Your winnings for the night sit to your left: a meagre pile of silver and copper. If you back down now, you could almost break even, but if you were to force a showdown, you would need to risk even that bare consolation. However, if you were to prevail, the pot would be yours, and you'd make a tidy profit instead of a slim loss.
You eye the cards before the Kentauri warily. There are few combinations better than Sroc-hjunku in Tassenswerd, and your own hand certainly could not match it. However, all you have to go on is the young nobleman's word, and while Lord Marcus seems confident, it seems far more likely to you that he is merely bluffing.
How will you act?
[] Call his bluff.
[] Back down.
[] I try to turn the tables with a bluff of my own.
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- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] I try to turn the tables with a bluff of my own.
The Science of War and the Art of Card Sharping is not necessarily the same, but I feel like this is the most "trying to be clever" answer, even if I doubt we have the social prowess to actually succeed. But we're also made of money, so oh well!
The Science of War and the Art of Card Sharping is not necessarily the same, but I feel like this is the most "trying to be clever" answer, even if I doubt we have the social prowess to actually succeed. But we're also made of money, so oh well!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Look, if Alaric can't blow his Wulframite bucks at the card table, then what else is he supposed to spend money on? Improving the lives of his social inferiors?
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Like, we literally have fifteen hundred crowns burning a hole in our pockets. If it's actually betting hundreds tell me and I'll freak out and break even, but if it's 50, 60 Crowns or whatever else... then fuck it. And if it's even less, double-fuck-it.
[X] I try to turn the tables with a bluff of my own.
If we were really smart, we'd get him to play Quie instead. But this will have to do for now.
If we were really smart, we'd get him to play Quie instead. But this will have to do for now.
[X] I try to turn the tables with a bluff of my own.
Guns 4.02
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] I try to turn the tables with a bluff of my own.
Instead of replying with words, you set down a card of your own: a three to add to the four and nine already lying face down before you. They can hardly match Hroc-hjunkuswerd, but Lord Marcus doesn't know that.
You push your pile of winnings into the pot. "Hak-hjunkuswerd," you declare with as much confidence you can muster. While not a perfect Tassenswerd, Hak-hjunku at least beats Hroc-hjunku.
Lord Marcus shakes his head. "I'll not believe it. I think you are bluffing, sir."
You try to sit back in your chair and make a show of being at ease, but you cannot manage it. The Kentauri leans forward as you draw back, like a squadron of cavalry racing after a routing army; you feel the wooden bars of your high-backed chair dig into your spine.
"Oh yes," he pronounces after what seems like an eternity. "You are bluffing, sir. I would see this Hak-hjunkuswerd of yours," he says as he reveals his own face-down cards: a six, a five, a two, and a ten, a genuine Hroc-hjunkuswerd.
Saints be damned.
You can do nothing in reply save reveal that you had indeed been bluffing.
You watch with a sombre expression as the younger man sweeps his spoils over to his side of the table. Thankfully, the Kentauri does not gloat as some more uncouth men do.
"I think that's enough of Tassenswerd for one evening, gentlemen," he declares. "Shall we move on?"
Without any more money to wager, you cannot help but agree.
It only takes a few moments for Lord Marcus's personal attendant to clear away the cards and replace them with glasses of Cunarian red claret, tumblers of Kentauri whisky, and bowls of Kian Baiejioue. The air fills with the aroma of the tabac smoke from Lord Marcus's cigar and Keane's pipe. The tension of your last round of Tassenswerd fades, and the table turns quickly to conversation.
You don't have much of a chance to speak. Whatever parity you possessed with these three men as players in a game of cards has now been subsumed by your customary roles. Once again, regardless of the informality of the circumstances, you have become a mere captain in a room with three lieutenant colonels. In such august company, you try your best to keep your contributions to a tasteful minimum.
Within minutes, the topic inevitably turns to the business of the army and the ongoing siege.
"I shall hope that this damnable waiting does not last much longer," Hartigan remarks at one point. "Called up my men for inspection this morning. Nearly a third had some sort of fever or runs. Almost feels like my battalion's rotting from the inside out, just sitting here, wallowing in our own filth, with nothing to do except drink and let their drill grow dull."
Hartigan has a point. A siege camp does little for the health of its occupants. In the month and a half since you've arrived at the siege camp, your own men have suffered from illness and inaction as well.
"Keeping the men ready would be easier if those Saints-be-damned partisans didn't make off with half of our supplies," Keane grouses. "We'd at least have enough powder and shot to do musket drill then."
"Doesn't your brother have his Experimental Corps working chastising those rascals?" Hartigan asks Lord Marcus as the line infantry officer idly swirls around the last bit of claret in his glass.
"The King's Experimental Corps," the Kentauri corrects. "Arthur insists it was His Majesty's idea. I don't see the point of it myself. The reports say they're making progress, but I certainly haven't seen any improvement."
With that, there is a momentary lull in the conversation as Keane refills his pipe and Hartigan refills his glass. If you have any questions, now would probably be the best time to ask them.
[X] Ask about the Experimental Corps.
"If I might ask," you begin, "what exactly is this Experimental Corps?"
Hartigan makes a dismissive gesture with his pipe. "Never you mind that, Castleton. Some major in the 8th of Foot thought up some silly ideas about deploying some sort of special infantry force armed with rifled muskets. Somehow His Majesty got wind and ordered a unit together to test it out. It's all nonsense, of course."
"I'd hardly say that," Keane replies pensively. "Such a unit could be applied to great effect."
"Great effect doing what?" the Line Infantry officer retorts. "Stealing crops and burning villages? Skulking through forests like poachers?" He turns aside to you. "That is what those men are, you know: poachers, bandits, ruffians. Their officers too, some of them even commissioned from the ranks, if you could believe such a thing."
"Let's just say," Lord Marcus says with a wry grin, "that the Experimental Corps is a contentious subject and leave it at that."
[X] Ask about the progress of the siege.
"How is the siege progressing?" You ask. "Will we be seeing the new guns in action soon?"
Lord Marcus nods. "I spoke to Major Diaz of the Engineers yesterday eve. He says he is confident the new guns will be in action by tomorrow morning and that we shall have a practicable breach in Kharangia's walls within a month."
Keane shakes his head. "You would take the word of an officer of the Engineers at face value?"
The Kentauri nobleman's eyes narrow. "You would call Major Diaz a liar, sir?"
The senior Dragoon officer shrugs. "I would call him an engineer, sir."
[X] Ask Keane what he has against the Royal Engineers.
You turn to Keane. "If I may ask, sir, why do you revile our army's Engineers so?"
Lord Marcus nods. "I too would wonder as to the cause of your dislike, sir."
Keane replies with a bitter smile. "I do not suppose that either of you has had much experience with His Majesty's vaunted regiment of Sappers and Engineers?" He asks, the final words of his question dripping with sarcasm.
The Kentauri shakes his head. Your own sole experience with the Engineers had been a short period after your first winter in Antar when a small group had helped fortify the outpost you had been posted to. You had not even exchanged words with any of them. You shake your head too.
"Then allow me to explain," Keane replies. "The Engineers require their enlisted men to be literate, physically fit, and capable in mathematics. For this, they are paid twice the wage of an infantryman—almost as much as a Dragoon, in fact—and generally go about their duties in some comfort and safety."
You nod; that doesn't sound too bad.
"The problem is," your superior continues, "that for an officer of Engineers, there is little chance of advancement. As their men already know their business, they have little to do but dissipate themselves. They are some of His Majesty's finest men, led by some of his worst officers."
Lord Marcus nods, as do you. That makes sense. With little chance for promotion or glory, only the most dissolute and indolent man would thrive as an officer of Engineers.
[X] Inquire about the partisans and the supply situation.
"Are the raiders on the roads still bedevilling our supply columns?" you ask.
Keane nods, his expression bitter. "They are."
The Kentauri nods. "Aye. My brother has broached the topic of asking your dragoons to assist the Experimental Corps, as your men are already accustomed to the skirmish."
The Dragoon Colonel nods back. "Indeed. I received word to that effect this morning. You may assure His Grace that I have already drafted the necessary orders."
You try to keep your expression neutral. Has Keane ordered your men to hunt the partisans in the forest? For an instant, you consider asking, but you wave that thought away quickly enough. Now is not the time. Besides, you will know soon enough if and when the orders arrive.
[X] Say nothing.
The next few minutes pass in desultory conversation but nothing of real note. There is a scattered discussion of recent Cortes politics, the obligatory complaints regarding the bureaucratic pigheadedness of Grenadier Square, and the final, obligatory toast: "To His Most Tierran Majesty, Miguel of the House of Rendower, long may he reign."
After that, there is nothing left but to bid your fellow officers good health and a good evening.
"You play a fine hand of Tassenswerd, sir," Lord Marcus remarks as you prepare to leave. "Lord Hugh did well to invite you."
"If reports bear true, Castleton fights just as hard as he plays," Hartigan replies.
The Kentauri nobleman barks a laugh. "Then you are my sort of fellow, Castleton!" He extends his hand towards you. "Let us be friends, you and I."
It is a rather forward thing to do, to shake the hand of a man whom you have just met that evening, but then again, there is no reason for you to decline.
To be friends with the Duke of Havenport's younger brother is no small thing.
The night is still warm when you step out of Lord Marcus Havenport's pavilion, even though by your reckoning, it must be no more than an hour before midnight.
Despite the late hour, it seems you are not the only one up and about. Low fires dot the camp around you, and from them radiate the sounds of an army at rest: the low burble of quiet conversation, the rattle of dice, the rough sounds of masculine voices in song, and the quiet but omnipresent bubbling of kettles.
For some time, you walk in silence, a step behind Colonel Keane as the two of you head for the part of the camp where your regiment now makes its home. There is really little to say. You had known him only tenuously before the Battle of Blogia and had little chance to speak with him after he was made lieutenant colonel and effective regimental commanding officer. It might be possible that this evening has been the longest you have spent in his company outside the field of battle.
Besides, you tell yourself, it would hardly be proper for a junior officer to demand conversation with a superior. So, for a few minutes at least, you follow your regiment's second-in-command as he makes his way through the rows of orderly tents, his expression lost in thought.
Finally, your superior officer speaks.
"Castleton," he begins as he stops and turns to face you.
"Yes, sir?"
"Now that you have been with us for the better part of two months, I would request your opinion regarding the enterprise in which this army is currently engaged," he says, his hand gesturing airily to his left.
You do not need to follow Keane's hand to know exactly what he is gesturing at, for to your left, beyond the field fortifications, the sappers' trenches, and the six hundred paces of dead ground stands the solid, defiant bulk of the walls of Kharangia, still unbroken after five months of siege.
"You want my thoughts on the siege, sir?"
Keane shakes his head. "No. I want your opinion of the war, of which this siege is merely one small part."
[] "I trust the King's plan to bring us victory soon, sir."
[] "I believe we shall have victory but at a great cost."
[] "With all due respect, I believe this whole conflict to be pointless."
Instead of replying with words, you set down a card of your own: a three to add to the four and nine already lying face down before you. They can hardly match Hroc-hjunkuswerd, but Lord Marcus doesn't know that.
You push your pile of winnings into the pot. "Hak-hjunkuswerd," you declare with as much confidence you can muster. While not a perfect Tassenswerd, Hak-hjunku at least beats Hroc-hjunku.
Lord Marcus shakes his head. "I'll not believe it. I think you are bluffing, sir."
You try to sit back in your chair and make a show of being at ease, but you cannot manage it. The Kentauri leans forward as you draw back, like a squadron of cavalry racing after a routing army; you feel the wooden bars of your high-backed chair dig into your spine.
"Oh yes," he pronounces after what seems like an eternity. "You are bluffing, sir. I would see this Hak-hjunkuswerd of yours," he says as he reveals his own face-down cards: a six, a five, a two, and a ten, a genuine Hroc-hjunkuswerd.
Saints be damned.
You can do nothing in reply save reveal that you had indeed been bluffing.
You watch with a sombre expression as the younger man sweeps his spoils over to his side of the table. Thankfully, the Kentauri does not gloat as some more uncouth men do.
"I think that's enough of Tassenswerd for one evening, gentlemen," he declares. "Shall we move on?"
Without any more money to wager, you cannot help but agree.
It only takes a few moments for Lord Marcus's personal attendant to clear away the cards and replace them with glasses of Cunarian red claret, tumblers of Kentauri whisky, and bowls of Kian Baiejioue. The air fills with the aroma of the tabac smoke from Lord Marcus's cigar and Keane's pipe. The tension of your last round of Tassenswerd fades, and the table turns quickly to conversation.
You don't have much of a chance to speak. Whatever parity you possessed with these three men as players in a game of cards has now been subsumed by your customary roles. Once again, regardless of the informality of the circumstances, you have become a mere captain in a room with three lieutenant colonels. In such august company, you try your best to keep your contributions to a tasteful minimum.
Within minutes, the topic inevitably turns to the business of the army and the ongoing siege.
"I shall hope that this damnable waiting does not last much longer," Hartigan remarks at one point. "Called up my men for inspection this morning. Nearly a third had some sort of fever or runs. Almost feels like my battalion's rotting from the inside out, just sitting here, wallowing in our own filth, with nothing to do except drink and let their drill grow dull."
Hartigan has a point. A siege camp does little for the health of its occupants. In the month and a half since you've arrived at the siege camp, your own men have suffered from illness and inaction as well.
"Keeping the men ready would be easier if those Saints-be-damned partisans didn't make off with half of our supplies," Keane grouses. "We'd at least have enough powder and shot to do musket drill then."
"Doesn't your brother have his Experimental Corps working chastising those rascals?" Hartigan asks Lord Marcus as the line infantry officer idly swirls around the last bit of claret in his glass.
"The King's Experimental Corps," the Kentauri corrects. "Arthur insists it was His Majesty's idea. I don't see the point of it myself. The reports say they're making progress, but I certainly haven't seen any improvement."
With that, there is a momentary lull in the conversation as Keane refills his pipe and Hartigan refills his glass. If you have any questions, now would probably be the best time to ask them.
[X] Ask about the Experimental Corps.
"If I might ask," you begin, "what exactly is this Experimental Corps?"
Hartigan makes a dismissive gesture with his pipe. "Never you mind that, Castleton. Some major in the 8th of Foot thought up some silly ideas about deploying some sort of special infantry force armed with rifled muskets. Somehow His Majesty got wind and ordered a unit together to test it out. It's all nonsense, of course."
"I'd hardly say that," Keane replies pensively. "Such a unit could be applied to great effect."
"Great effect doing what?" the Line Infantry officer retorts. "Stealing crops and burning villages? Skulking through forests like poachers?" He turns aside to you. "That is what those men are, you know: poachers, bandits, ruffians. Their officers too, some of them even commissioned from the ranks, if you could believe such a thing."
"Let's just say," Lord Marcus says with a wry grin, "that the Experimental Corps is a contentious subject and leave it at that."
[X] Ask about the progress of the siege.
"How is the siege progressing?" You ask. "Will we be seeing the new guns in action soon?"
Lord Marcus nods. "I spoke to Major Diaz of the Engineers yesterday eve. He says he is confident the new guns will be in action by tomorrow morning and that we shall have a practicable breach in Kharangia's walls within a month."
Keane shakes his head. "You would take the word of an officer of the Engineers at face value?"
The Kentauri nobleman's eyes narrow. "You would call Major Diaz a liar, sir?"
The senior Dragoon officer shrugs. "I would call him an engineer, sir."
[X] Ask Keane what he has against the Royal Engineers.
You turn to Keane. "If I may ask, sir, why do you revile our army's Engineers so?"
Lord Marcus nods. "I too would wonder as to the cause of your dislike, sir."
Keane replies with a bitter smile. "I do not suppose that either of you has had much experience with His Majesty's vaunted regiment of Sappers and Engineers?" He asks, the final words of his question dripping with sarcasm.
The Kentauri shakes his head. Your own sole experience with the Engineers had been a short period after your first winter in Antar when a small group had helped fortify the outpost you had been posted to. You had not even exchanged words with any of them. You shake your head too.
"Then allow me to explain," Keane replies. "The Engineers require their enlisted men to be literate, physically fit, and capable in mathematics. For this, they are paid twice the wage of an infantryman—almost as much as a Dragoon, in fact—and generally go about their duties in some comfort and safety."
You nod; that doesn't sound too bad.
"The problem is," your superior continues, "that for an officer of Engineers, there is little chance of advancement. As their men already know their business, they have little to do but dissipate themselves. They are some of His Majesty's finest men, led by some of his worst officers."
Lord Marcus nods, as do you. That makes sense. With little chance for promotion or glory, only the most dissolute and indolent man would thrive as an officer of Engineers.
[X] Inquire about the partisans and the supply situation.
"Are the raiders on the roads still bedevilling our supply columns?" you ask.
Keane nods, his expression bitter. "They are."
The Kentauri nods. "Aye. My brother has broached the topic of asking your dragoons to assist the Experimental Corps, as your men are already accustomed to the skirmish."
The Dragoon Colonel nods back. "Indeed. I received word to that effect this morning. You may assure His Grace that I have already drafted the necessary orders."
You try to keep your expression neutral. Has Keane ordered your men to hunt the partisans in the forest? For an instant, you consider asking, but you wave that thought away quickly enough. Now is not the time. Besides, you will know soon enough if and when the orders arrive.
[X] Say nothing.
The next few minutes pass in desultory conversation but nothing of real note. There is a scattered discussion of recent Cortes politics, the obligatory complaints regarding the bureaucratic pigheadedness of Grenadier Square, and the final, obligatory toast: "To His Most Tierran Majesty, Miguel of the House of Rendower, long may he reign."
After that, there is nothing left but to bid your fellow officers good health and a good evening.
"You play a fine hand of Tassenswerd, sir," Lord Marcus remarks as you prepare to leave. "Lord Hugh did well to invite you."
"If reports bear true, Castleton fights just as hard as he plays," Hartigan replies.
The Kentauri nobleman barks a laugh. "Then you are my sort of fellow, Castleton!" He extends his hand towards you. "Let us be friends, you and I."
It is a rather forward thing to do, to shake the hand of a man whom you have just met that evening, but then again, there is no reason for you to decline.
To be friends with the Duke of Havenport's younger brother is no small thing.
-
The night is still warm when you step out of Lord Marcus Havenport's pavilion, even though by your reckoning, it must be no more than an hour before midnight.
Despite the late hour, it seems you are not the only one up and about. Low fires dot the camp around you, and from them radiate the sounds of an army at rest: the low burble of quiet conversation, the rattle of dice, the rough sounds of masculine voices in song, and the quiet but omnipresent bubbling of kettles.
For some time, you walk in silence, a step behind Colonel Keane as the two of you head for the part of the camp where your regiment now makes its home. There is really little to say. You had known him only tenuously before the Battle of Blogia and had little chance to speak with him after he was made lieutenant colonel and effective regimental commanding officer. It might be possible that this evening has been the longest you have spent in his company outside the field of battle.
Besides, you tell yourself, it would hardly be proper for a junior officer to demand conversation with a superior. So, for a few minutes at least, you follow your regiment's second-in-command as he makes his way through the rows of orderly tents, his expression lost in thought.
Finally, your superior officer speaks.
"Castleton," he begins as he stops and turns to face you.
"Yes, sir?"
"Now that you have been with us for the better part of two months, I would request your opinion regarding the enterprise in which this army is currently engaged," he says, his hand gesturing airily to his left.
You do not need to follow Keane's hand to know exactly what he is gesturing at, for to your left, beyond the field fortifications, the sappers' trenches, and the six hundred paces of dead ground stands the solid, defiant bulk of the walls of Kharangia, still unbroken after five months of siege.
"You want my thoughts on the siege, sir?"
Keane shakes his head. "No. I want your opinion of the war, of which this siege is merely one small part."
[] "I trust the King's plan to bring us victory soon, sir."
[] "I believe we shall have victory but at a great cost."
[] "With all due respect, I believe this whole conflict to be pointless."
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] "I believe we shall have victory but at a great cost."
There is always a great cost. Let us never forget this. But I think we have too much confidence to doubt it.
But, like, we're the person who worked deadly, exhausted miracles at Blogia: a victory (within a defeat), but at great cost.
We know that to work wonders always costs blood.
There is always a great cost. Let us never forget this. But I think we have too much confidence to doubt it.
But, like, we're the person who worked deadly, exhausted miracles at Blogia: a victory (within a defeat), but at great cost.
We know that to work wonders always costs blood.
This was one of the places where having high Charisma matters in a way it almost never did in the last book.
[X] "I believe we shall have victory but at a great cost."
Lanzerel's story makes it clear enough.
[X] "I believe we shall have victory but at a great cost."
Lanzerel's story makes it clear enough.
Last edited:
Guns 4.03
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "I believe we shall have victory but at a great cost."
"I…" Keane begins to say, only for his voice to trail off.
"I see," he says, this time more quietly, his voice more hollow. "Then it shall be more men into the inferno, then? More empty seats at tables, more toasts to fallen friends, more familiar faces to be snatched away?"
"I suppose so, sir," you answer, "but we shall have victory at last."
When Keane answers, his voice is dead and toneless, his eyes distant and cold. "I suppose one might call it that."
With that, he turns again and continues onward.
You walk the rest of the way in silence.
Corporal Marion is waiting for you when you step inside your tent, a mug of tea already in hand.
"Letters came for you while you were out, sir," he says as he hands you the heavy pewter mug of piping liquid and begins stripping off your greatcoat and helmet. "They are on your desk."
You nod as you take your first tentative sip of tea. You make a mental note to finish it all before you go to bed. After all, you have had nothing to drink since sunset save claret, whisky, and Kian spirits. You can already feel the beginnings of what is likely to be tomorrow's hangover.
"Will that be all, sir?" Marion asks in an attempt to remind you that he is still there in the most unobtrusive way possible.
"Yes, that will be all," you reply. "Good night, Marion."
The Corporal gives you a light bow as he steps out of your tent to return to his own bedroll. "Good night, sir."
Your tent is hardly as large or well-appointed as that of a more senior officer like Lord Marcus d'al Havenport. Still, as an officer's lodging, however temporary, it is by far superior to the quarters of your enlisted men. Where your regular Dragoons, corporals, and even your sergeants must share a small rectangular construction with two or three others, your own tent boasts twice the space of their cramped residences. While they must sleep upon thin bedrolls, as an officer, you have been provided a narrow cot drawn from stores, a small cast-iron stove, as well as a battered chair and a small, weathered desk.
It is this last set of furnishings that you turn your attention to now, for as your batman had promised, a pile of letters sits atop the scratched and battered surface, barely visible in the faint light given off by the embers of the still-hot stove. You take a few moments to settle in your chair and get the small brass oil lamp on your desk burning bright enough, and then you turn your attention to the letters.
The first comes sea-stained and slightly crumpled. It doesn't take long to spot your family's seal pressed into the red wax holding the letter closed.
The second letter also comes weathered and discoloured by some long voyage. It bears a different seal, one you could swear you have seen before. You stop for a moment to take a closer look at the familiar-looking sigil in the flickering lamplight. Then you come to a realisation: you have, in fact, seen its like before, stamped in silver-and-gold relief on the signet ring of a man now nearly three years dead. The letter is from the Hunters of Wolfswood.
The next letter is lighter, flimsier, though just as travel-stained. It has suffered in its passage across the Calligian Sea, as lighter paper often does. Still, it seems mostly intact, and the somewhat hastily pressed royal seal stamped into the wax makes its provenance instantly recognisable: Grenadier Square.
So, which letter will you read first?
[X] I read the missive from Grenadier Square.
You break open the seal with a combination of anticipation and dread. After all, the seal itself gives no indication as to the letter's contents, and Grenadier Square awards commendations and cashiers officers with communiques written on the same type of paper.
Then you unfold the paper, and within moments, your lingering apprehensions wash away.
Captain Castleton,
It is our pleasure to inform you that officers of His Tierran Majesty's government have concluded their assessment of the ransoms taken by Third Squadron, The Royal Dragoons, on the 21st day of the 4th month of the year 607.
The duty now falls upon us to disburse the monies thence gained. Your share of this sum comes to a total of 801 crown, 6 towers, and 18 pence. This amount has been duly transferred to your accounts in the Royal Bank of Aetoria and may be drawn upon at any time.
Your obedient servant,
Major Eldridge d'al Huertas, Office of Ransoms and Prizes
So there it is, almost three years after you, Elson, and Cazarosta captured Josef of Torranobirit in the forests of Southern Antar. You have your prize money, at last. While the skirmish which won you your ransom was soon forgotten after the catastrophe at Blogia the month after, your belated reward for the cunning plan which led you to victory in that battle is far from minor; 800 crown is a fortune to most, enough to pay for your promotion to major once you gain your requisite three years' seniority as captain.
You set the note down and take a deep breath to clear the dizziness from your head. You shall have to make decisions on how to spend your newfound wealth eventually, but for now, you have other letters to deal with.
[X] I read the letter from my family.
You unseal the folded paper with a flick of your thumb, unsure if the letter within is to be one of praise or censure. Your eyes dart to the first words of the page.
Son,
News has come to us that the King's Army has been involved this year in some substantial action. I trust that you remain well and that your actions on the field reflect well on the honour and name of this house.
The funds you have sent back to us have come a long way, if not in the material restitution of our house's debts, then in the knowledge that you have proven yourself the man of honour and responsibility which I had hoped to see you become.
Your brother and sister send their regards and their affection.
I await your reply, and I remain,
Your Father
You set the letter back down and think about your family's finances. It seems clear from your father's words that the money you are sending back will not go very far in clearing your house's debts, but can you really afford to send more?
[] No. In fact, I cannot afford to send any at all now. (+15 Income)
[] No, I cannot. (0 Income)
[] Yes, I can and I will; I commit my entire income to clearing my family's debts. (-20 Income)
"I…" Keane begins to say, only for his voice to trail off.
"I see," he says, this time more quietly, his voice more hollow. "Then it shall be more men into the inferno, then? More empty seats at tables, more toasts to fallen friends, more familiar faces to be snatched away?"
"I suppose so, sir," you answer, "but we shall have victory at last."
When Keane answers, his voice is dead and toneless, his eyes distant and cold. "I suppose one might call it that."
With that, he turns again and continues onward.
You walk the rest of the way in silence.
-
Corporal Marion is waiting for you when you step inside your tent, a mug of tea already in hand.
"Letters came for you while you were out, sir," he says as he hands you the heavy pewter mug of piping liquid and begins stripping off your greatcoat and helmet. "They are on your desk."
You nod as you take your first tentative sip of tea. You make a mental note to finish it all before you go to bed. After all, you have had nothing to drink since sunset save claret, whisky, and Kian spirits. You can already feel the beginnings of what is likely to be tomorrow's hangover.
"Will that be all, sir?" Marion asks in an attempt to remind you that he is still there in the most unobtrusive way possible.
"Yes, that will be all," you reply. "Good night, Marion."
The Corporal gives you a light bow as he steps out of your tent to return to his own bedroll. "Good night, sir."
Your tent is hardly as large or well-appointed as that of a more senior officer like Lord Marcus d'al Havenport. Still, as an officer's lodging, however temporary, it is by far superior to the quarters of your enlisted men. Where your regular Dragoons, corporals, and even your sergeants must share a small rectangular construction with two or three others, your own tent boasts twice the space of their cramped residences. While they must sleep upon thin bedrolls, as an officer, you have been provided a narrow cot drawn from stores, a small cast-iron stove, as well as a battered chair and a small, weathered desk.
It is this last set of furnishings that you turn your attention to now, for as your batman had promised, a pile of letters sits atop the scratched and battered surface, barely visible in the faint light given off by the embers of the still-hot stove. You take a few moments to settle in your chair and get the small brass oil lamp on your desk burning bright enough, and then you turn your attention to the letters.
The first comes sea-stained and slightly crumpled. It doesn't take long to spot your family's seal pressed into the red wax holding the letter closed.
The second letter also comes weathered and discoloured by some long voyage. It bears a different seal, one you could swear you have seen before. You stop for a moment to take a closer look at the familiar-looking sigil in the flickering lamplight. Then you come to a realisation: you have, in fact, seen its like before, stamped in silver-and-gold relief on the signet ring of a man now nearly three years dead. The letter is from the Hunters of Wolfswood.
The next letter is lighter, flimsier, though just as travel-stained. It has suffered in its passage across the Calligian Sea, as lighter paper often does. Still, it seems mostly intact, and the somewhat hastily pressed royal seal stamped into the wax makes its provenance instantly recognisable: Grenadier Square.
So, which letter will you read first?
[X] I read the missive from Grenadier Square.
You break open the seal with a combination of anticipation and dread. After all, the seal itself gives no indication as to the letter's contents, and Grenadier Square awards commendations and cashiers officers with communiques written on the same type of paper.
Then you unfold the paper, and within moments, your lingering apprehensions wash away.
-
Captain Castleton,
It is our pleasure to inform you that officers of His Tierran Majesty's government have concluded their assessment of the ransoms taken by Third Squadron, The Royal Dragoons, on the 21st day of the 4th month of the year 607.
The duty now falls upon us to disburse the monies thence gained. Your share of this sum comes to a total of 801 crown, 6 towers, and 18 pence. This amount has been duly transferred to your accounts in the Royal Bank of Aetoria and may be drawn upon at any time.
Your obedient servant,
Major Eldridge d'al Huertas, Office of Ransoms and Prizes
-
So there it is, almost three years after you, Elson, and Cazarosta captured Josef of Torranobirit in the forests of Southern Antar. You have your prize money, at last. While the skirmish which won you your ransom was soon forgotten after the catastrophe at Blogia the month after, your belated reward for the cunning plan which led you to victory in that battle is far from minor; 800 crown is a fortune to most, enough to pay for your promotion to major once you gain your requisite three years' seniority as captain.
You set the note down and take a deep breath to clear the dizziness from your head. You shall have to make decisions on how to spend your newfound wealth eventually, but for now, you have other letters to deal with.
[X] I read the letter from my family.
You unseal the folded paper with a flick of your thumb, unsure if the letter within is to be one of praise or censure. Your eyes dart to the first words of the page.
-
Son,
News has come to us that the King's Army has been involved this year in some substantial action. I trust that you remain well and that your actions on the field reflect well on the honour and name of this house.
The funds you have sent back to us have come a long way, if not in the material restitution of our house's debts, then in the knowledge that you have proven yourself the man of honour and responsibility which I had hoped to see you become.
Your brother and sister send their regards and their affection.
I await your reply, and I remain,
Your Father
-
You set the letter back down and think about your family's finances. It seems clear from your father's words that the money you are sending back will not go very far in clearing your house's debts, but can you really afford to send more?
[] No. In fact, I cannot afford to send any at all now. (+15 Income)
[] No, I cannot. (0 Income)
[] Yes, I can and I will; I commit my entire income to clearing my family's debts. (-20 Income)
- Pronouns
- They/Them
I... don't know. I know I'm not going to vote for sending less.
- Pronouns
- He
[X] No, I cannot. (0 Income)
[X] No, I cannot. (0 Income)
If your stats are good enough, you don't need to save much money in Guns. But our stats aren't particularly good.
If your stats are good enough, you don't need to save much money in Guns. But our stats aren't particularly good.
[X] No, I cannot. (0 Income)
Guns 4.04
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] No, I cannot.
You wish you could send home more, but you simply do not have the resources for it. Perhaps if you were to gain a promotion, with the increase in pay that would imply, but even that would most likely come from purchase, something which would likely be impossible if you were to send all of your money home.
No, the current state of affairs shall have to do unless your circumstances were to change.
In any case, what shall you do now?
[X] I read the letter from Wolfswood.
You run your thumb under the folded edge of the rich, thick paper. The stuff is smooth under your fingertips, far better than what you could afford for sure. You work your fingernail under the edge, and with a single flick of your thumb, you pull the wax seal apart, folding the paper open.
The script is fine and spidery, like the sort taught by the high-priced calligraphy tutors that instruct the children of high nobility to write even better than "lesser" banebloods. It is a note that bears reading carefully. So you do, taking care with every word.
Sir Alaric,
I have never had the privilege of meeting you, sir, but nonetheless, I write to you for it is my great hope that you will be of assistance to me in the cause to which I am now devoted.
It is my understanding that you had the privilege of serving under the command of my late son, the 12th Viscount of Wolfswood. I remember him likely as you do, a man full of enthusiasm for all noble pursuits. I am told he fell upon the field of Blogia whilst performing an act of great heroism and thus stands eligible for elevation as a Saint of the Red.
I intend to see this possibility fulfilled at some time in the future. In this enterprise, I would ask for your aid, both as a man who served under my son's command and as a well-regarded officer of the King's Army in your own right.
This war has already taken both my sons from me. Without them, the great noble house which was so ennobled by their presence will die out forever. This enterprise is my best hope of seeing it remembered.
I pray that you respond swiftly,
Lady Frederika d'al Hunter, Dowager Viscountess of Wolfswood
You set the letter down and let out the breath you did not know you were holding. It is a strangely personal message, desperation and resolve jacketed by stilted formality, but it asks your aid in an enormous endeavour: to effectively elevate your old commanding officer to godhood.
Of course, you have little doubt that Lieutenant Colonel Hunter, as you knew him, fits the criteria for a Red Martyrdom. By all accounts, he had fallen on the field of Blogia whilst performing an act of utmost bravery, rallying his battalion of Grenadiers around him so that two full brigades of the Duke of Wulfram's army could make good their retreat, and yet…
To elevate a man, even an undisputed hero, to sainthood is a long and tricky process, even for a powerful noble house. Worse yet, whatever rivals the Hunters might have would no doubt take an interest in opposing such a move. If you were to offer your support for it, Wolfswood's enemies could become yours as well.
Still, he was your commanding officer once and a fine fighting man, besides. Perhaps it is something you owe his memory.
[] I'll do it. I'll pledge the Hunters my support.
[] I cannot make any guarantees, but I can at least say I am in favour.
[] No. I will not allow myself to be drawn into this.
You wish you could send home more, but you simply do not have the resources for it. Perhaps if you were to gain a promotion, with the increase in pay that would imply, but even that would most likely come from purchase, something which would likely be impossible if you were to send all of your money home.
No, the current state of affairs shall have to do unless your circumstances were to change.
In any case, what shall you do now?
[X] I read the letter from Wolfswood.
You run your thumb under the folded edge of the rich, thick paper. The stuff is smooth under your fingertips, far better than what you could afford for sure. You work your fingernail under the edge, and with a single flick of your thumb, you pull the wax seal apart, folding the paper open.
The script is fine and spidery, like the sort taught by the high-priced calligraphy tutors that instruct the children of high nobility to write even better than "lesser" banebloods. It is a note that bears reading carefully. So you do, taking care with every word.
-
Sir Alaric,
I have never had the privilege of meeting you, sir, but nonetheless, I write to you for it is my great hope that you will be of assistance to me in the cause to which I am now devoted.
It is my understanding that you had the privilege of serving under the command of my late son, the 12th Viscount of Wolfswood. I remember him likely as you do, a man full of enthusiasm for all noble pursuits. I am told he fell upon the field of Blogia whilst performing an act of great heroism and thus stands eligible for elevation as a Saint of the Red.
I intend to see this possibility fulfilled at some time in the future. In this enterprise, I would ask for your aid, both as a man who served under my son's command and as a well-regarded officer of the King's Army in your own right.
This war has already taken both my sons from me. Without them, the great noble house which was so ennobled by their presence will die out forever. This enterprise is my best hope of seeing it remembered.
I pray that you respond swiftly,
Lady Frederika d'al Hunter, Dowager Viscountess of Wolfswood
-
You set the letter down and let out the breath you did not know you were holding. It is a strangely personal message, desperation and resolve jacketed by stilted formality, but it asks your aid in an enormous endeavour: to effectively elevate your old commanding officer to godhood.
Of course, you have little doubt that Lieutenant Colonel Hunter, as you knew him, fits the criteria for a Red Martyrdom. By all accounts, he had fallen on the field of Blogia whilst performing an act of utmost bravery, rallying his battalion of Grenadiers around him so that two full brigades of the Duke of Wulfram's army could make good their retreat, and yet…
To elevate a man, even an undisputed hero, to sainthood is a long and tricky process, even for a powerful noble house. Worse yet, whatever rivals the Hunters might have would no doubt take an interest in opposing such a move. If you were to offer your support for it, Wolfswood's enemies could become yours as well.
Still, he was your commanding officer once and a fine fighting man, besides. Perhaps it is something you owe his memory.
[] I'll do it. I'll pledge the Hunters my support.
[] I cannot make any guarantees, but I can at least say I am in favour.
[] No. I will not allow myself to be drawn into this.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] I'll do it. I'll pledge the Hunters my support.
...can we know enough to know what SORT of people are Wolfswood enemies, @Rogue Attican ?
Like, I'm worried that we could box ourselves into a corner, yet at the same time Hunter was just, like, a good dude and deserves it.
...can we know enough to know what SORT of people are Wolfswood enemies, @Rogue Attican ?
Like, I'm worried that we could box ourselves into a corner, yet at the same time Hunter was just, like, a good dude and deserves it.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Canonizing Saint Enrique is one of the subplots in Lords of Infinity should Alaric embark on a political career in Aetoria instead of staying home in Reddingfield. However, you should worry less about the traditional enemies of House Hunter of Wolfswood and more about those who want to use the memory of Sir Enrique d'al Hunter for their own political ends.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Can you try to canonize him without aligning yourself to one particular political end? Like, is it something that can be... not neutral, because there's no such political act, but... multipolitical, I guess? Something that can be turned to different ends?