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I'm afraid not. In the wake of the war with Antar, the Tierran Cortes will become increasingly polarized, and the debate over raising Hunter to godhood will be one of many political battlefields.
Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga
- Thread starter Rogue Attican
- Start date
- Pronouns
- They/Them
So choosing this here commits us to a side in Lords? Or can we walk back this as a political project later?
Sorry for all the questions, it's just awkward because I know Lords exists, unlike the PC, and so I don't want to force us to commit while we (the voters, and the PC as well) have no idea what's going on.
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You can choose to walk back your support for Hunter's canonization if you don't like the political faction that's taken up the cause.
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[X] I'll do it. I'll pledge the Hunters my support.
Then I'll vote for this. I mean, our PC seems the sort that would, barring prevailing information, support this cause. Hunter was a good leader who died as he might well have died at Blogia, doing what needed to be done, making the choice to do so.
IamtooSleepy
I came here to be an ant
Fun fact: We were exactly 1 discipline away from succeeding this check if this choice was chosen.
Unfortunately, we are playing with person who outrank us both military and socially, so he got the to choose the game.
And this is how we can be sure Tierran are fantasy British.
[X] I'll do it. I'll pledge the Hunters my support.
There won't be much impact from supporting his sainthood... Not yet, anyway, when the matter just begun, even if it won't stay this way forever.
Guns 4.05
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[X] I'll do it. I'll pledge the Hunters my support.
You take a piece of paper from your desk drawer and ink your pen. It only takes the space of a few minutes to dash off a letter offering your support in the campaign to elevate your old commanding officer to the ranks of the Saints of the Red.
The reply barely takes up a third of the page, but there is not exactly much to say, writing as you are to a woman you have never met.
You sign your name and titles on the bottom. After waiting a few moments for the ink to dry, you fold and seal the letter with a few drops from a stick of red wax and your signet ring. Then you place the sealed reply in your desk drawer. It is far too late in the night to send anything off, but you make a mental note to order Marion to send it by courier to Noringia tomorrow morning.
You shut your drawer and turn back to your desk. Thus, you deal with the last of your letters. There is nothing else left for you to do tonight save go to bed.
You clear off your desk, finish off the dregs of your now-lukewarm tea, and snuff out your lamp before stripping off your tunic and boots and climbing into the soft embrace of your narrow cot.
You wake in the morning to the sound of cannon fire.
That is not a particularly new occurrence. Every day, the Duke of Havenport's army bombards the city of Kharangia, but the shelling so far has been ineffective. The light guns and mortars of the field artillery are of little use against Kharangia's massive fortifications.
This morning, however, there is a new sound joining the soft thump of mortar fire and the low boom of field cannon: a sharp, echoing, reverberating thing, the sound of two thunderous lions roaring in quick succession. You feel the earth shake, and your tent rattles each time the sound comes.
There is little uncertainty in your mind as to the source of this new sound. Sure enough, when you step outside, you confirm your suspicions with your own eyes. Nestled into the immense earthworks between the siege camp and the city sit a set of monstrous artillery pieces, five of them, each mounting an immense gun barrel of black iron, easily the width of a fully grown horse and likely twice as long. Men in the grey-faced jackets of the Engineers swarm around each piece, dwarfed by the huge guns and the complex structures of metal and stone which serve as their mountings.
As you watch, one of the men standing near the breech of the furthest gun leaps backward, a string in his hands. You see the immense gun heave, the entire construction rolling backward on a set of iron tracks as the muzzle spits a gigantic tongue of flame and smoke.
The sound of the gun's report washes over you as if it were a gust of wind. Before it fades, it is joined by a second, more distant roar. Your eyes follow the new sound to the walls of Kharangia, its stone face newly marred. A cloud of fire and pulverised rock rises from the crater of the shell's impact.
When the dust clears a little, you can see the full effect of the morning's bombardment. Even from a kilometre and a half away, you can see the jagged wounds punched into the walls by the new guns. Before long, those wounds shall become breaches, through which the brave vanguard of Havenport's army must assault.
It should not be long now.
You do not get much time to dwell upon it. Marion is soon at your side with a jug of water, a towel, and a freshly sharpened razor. If the thunderous noise of the monstrous new cannon rattles your batman's nerves at all, he gives no indication of it; the razor remains rock-steady in his hands, even as the siege engines rant and roar their iron battle cries not three hundred paces away.
Breakfast comes after your washing-up: tea, sticks of cornbread fried in the Kian style, and sausage in the Salt Coast fashion, cooked with spicy red pepper. Despite the difficult supply situation, officers like you might still enjoy such meals, not unlike what you might find in a cafe in Crittenden or Leoniscourt. Your enlisted men must make do with their bread and salted pork rations. You have heard that the rankers in the line infantry regiments are lucky to get even that.
Your first meal of the day does not detain you for more than a few minutes. Then, you see to your appointments with Marion. With your subordinates handling the day-to-day business of drilling and ordering your men, you are left with an exceptional amount of free time, more than enough to see to personal affairs; all well and good, as there is little else to do in a siege camp for a cavalry officer, save arrange the occasional patrols and sign off on a few requisition forms.
What do you arrange to do first?
[] I would like to see how Lady Katarina is faring.
[] I shall visit Master Garing and see what he is up to.
[] I want to make sure my men are doing well.
[] I think I shall begin writing my recollections on my military service.
You take a piece of paper from your desk drawer and ink your pen. It only takes the space of a few minutes to dash off a letter offering your support in the campaign to elevate your old commanding officer to the ranks of the Saints of the Red.
The reply barely takes up a third of the page, but there is not exactly much to say, writing as you are to a woman you have never met.
You sign your name and titles on the bottom. After waiting a few moments for the ink to dry, you fold and seal the letter with a few drops from a stick of red wax and your signet ring. Then you place the sealed reply in your desk drawer. It is far too late in the night to send anything off, but you make a mental note to order Marion to send it by courier to Noringia tomorrow morning.
You shut your drawer and turn back to your desk. Thus, you deal with the last of your letters. There is nothing else left for you to do tonight save go to bed.
You clear off your desk, finish off the dregs of your now-lukewarm tea, and snuff out your lamp before stripping off your tunic and boots and climbing into the soft embrace of your narrow cot.
-
You wake in the morning to the sound of cannon fire.
That is not a particularly new occurrence. Every day, the Duke of Havenport's army bombards the city of Kharangia, but the shelling so far has been ineffective. The light guns and mortars of the field artillery are of little use against Kharangia's massive fortifications.
This morning, however, there is a new sound joining the soft thump of mortar fire and the low boom of field cannon: a sharp, echoing, reverberating thing, the sound of two thunderous lions roaring in quick succession. You feel the earth shake, and your tent rattles each time the sound comes.
There is little uncertainty in your mind as to the source of this new sound. Sure enough, when you step outside, you confirm your suspicions with your own eyes. Nestled into the immense earthworks between the siege camp and the city sit a set of monstrous artillery pieces, five of them, each mounting an immense gun barrel of black iron, easily the width of a fully grown horse and likely twice as long. Men in the grey-faced jackets of the Engineers swarm around each piece, dwarfed by the huge guns and the complex structures of metal and stone which serve as their mountings.
As you watch, one of the men standing near the breech of the furthest gun leaps backward, a string in his hands. You see the immense gun heave, the entire construction rolling backward on a set of iron tracks as the muzzle spits a gigantic tongue of flame and smoke.
The sound of the gun's report washes over you as if it were a gust of wind. Before it fades, it is joined by a second, more distant roar. Your eyes follow the new sound to the walls of Kharangia, its stone face newly marred. A cloud of fire and pulverised rock rises from the crater of the shell's impact.
When the dust clears a little, you can see the full effect of the morning's bombardment. Even from a kilometre and a half away, you can see the jagged wounds punched into the walls by the new guns. Before long, those wounds shall become breaches, through which the brave vanguard of Havenport's army must assault.
It should not be long now.
You do not get much time to dwell upon it. Marion is soon at your side with a jug of water, a towel, and a freshly sharpened razor. If the thunderous noise of the monstrous new cannon rattles your batman's nerves at all, he gives no indication of it; the razor remains rock-steady in his hands, even as the siege engines rant and roar their iron battle cries not three hundred paces away.
Breakfast comes after your washing-up: tea, sticks of cornbread fried in the Kian style, and sausage in the Salt Coast fashion, cooked with spicy red pepper. Despite the difficult supply situation, officers like you might still enjoy such meals, not unlike what you might find in a cafe in Crittenden or Leoniscourt. Your enlisted men must make do with their bread and salted pork rations. You have heard that the rankers in the line infantry regiments are lucky to get even that.
Your first meal of the day does not detain you for more than a few minutes. Then, you see to your appointments with Marion. With your subordinates handling the day-to-day business of drilling and ordering your men, you are left with an exceptional amount of free time, more than enough to see to personal affairs; all well and good, as there is little else to do in a siege camp for a cavalry officer, save arrange the occasional patrols and sign off on a few requisition forms.
What do you arrange to do first?
[] I would like to see how Lady Katarina is faring.
[] I shall visit Master Garing and see what he is up to.
[] I want to make sure my men are doing well.
[] I think I shall begin writing my recollections on my military service.
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- He
[X] I shall visit Master Garing and see what he is up to.
[X] I want to make sure my men are doing well.
[X] I think I shall begin writing my recollections on my military service.
[X] I want to make sure my men are doing well.
[X] I think I shall begin writing my recollections on my military service.
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[X] I want to make sure my men are doing well.
Troops first.
Also, can I anti-vote the memoirs? I'd much rather talk to people.
Troops first.
Also, can I anti-vote the memoirs? I'd much rather talk to people.
[X] I want to make sure my men are doing well.
[X] I shall visit Master Garing and see what he is up to.
[X] I would like to see how Lady Katarina is faring.
[X] I shall visit Master Garing and see what he is up to.
[X] I would like to see how Lady Katarina is faring.
[X] I want to make sure my men are doing well.
[X] I shall visit Master Garing and see what he is up to.
[X] I would like to see how Lady Katarina is faring.
[X] I shall visit Master Garing and see what he is up to.
[X] I would like to see how Lady Katarina is faring.
Guns 4.06
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You spend the day on the open ground outside the camp, watching your men drill and practise the manoeuvres with which war is made under the watchful eyes of their officers. What you see is alarming to the extreme.
It is not that your subordinates are anything but diligent in their duties, nor is it any sort of earnest insubordination. Your officers train their men in accordance with both the spirit and the letter of the King's regulations. In fact, that is rather the problem.
The King's regulations require that the commanding officer of each company of infantry and troop of cavalry see to the training of their own unit independently. Ostensibly, the relevant regulations were drafted to allow the officer in question to gain both the confidence of the men under their command as well as self-assurance in their own abilities.
You can certainly vouch for the success of such an approach yourself. After all, those same regulations meant that you had been given a free hand in the training and preparation of your own troop before Blogia - something which may have saved your life and the lives of many others in that great battle.
Unfortunately, in the case of your own squadron, such an approach has led to your men being trained by three lieutenants of vastly different temperaments utilising vastly different approaches. Sandoral drills his men right out of the manual but punishes infractions with no more than stern lectures. Blaylock, on the other hand, resorts to the flat of his sabre to correct even the most minute of imperfections. Lord Renard's approach seems most bizarre of all. His troop spends the whole day in the saddle, supposedly practising horsemanship; in reality, their boyishly enthusiastic commander leads them about the open field at a gallop as he sabres down imaginary foes and regales them with stories of his famed ancestors in his clipped, dandyish accent.
Already, you are beginning to see the fragile unity of your squadron unravel. You can only imagine what might happen when these increasingly disparate troops are thrown together and sent into battle as a unit.
Then again, depriving your subordinates of their ability to train and prepare their own men would almost certainly serve to stifle their fledgling senses of self-confidence as King's Officers. Perhaps it would be better for you to leave your officers alone and hope they learn the needed lessons themselves before it is too late.
Do you choose to step in? If so, how?
[] I order that Lieutenant Sandoral take over all training.
[] I shall take over training and institute my own approach.
[] I let Staff Sergeant Lanzerel take over the training.
[] I'll not tread on my subordinates' feet; I leave things as they are.
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[X] I order that Lieutenant Sandoral take over all training.
Let's trust our fellow brainboy. Either that or...
[X] I let Staff-sergeant Lanzerel take over the training.
Lanzerel for the rescue... it depends on whether we think it'll, like, undermine the lieutenants.
Let's trust our fellow brainboy. Either that or...
[X] I let Staff-sergeant Lanzerel take over the training.
Lanzerel for the rescue... it depends on whether we think it'll, like, undermine the lieutenants.
There's a perfect choice that gets everyone on the same page and improves everything, but it's gated behind higher Charisma.
Guns 4.07
- Pronouns
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Ultimately, you decide to take steps. Instead of allowing the current situation to continue, you arrange for Lieutenant Sandoral to supervise the training of the whole squadron.
The other lieutenants grumble, of course, deprived as they are of what would normally be their own prerogatives. However, none seek to oppose you, and when you make it abundantly clear that Sandoral carries out his new duties with your authority, they quickly quiet down.
It takes Lieutenant Sandoral almost a week for his authority to be known. However, when he does manage to get your entire squadron to listen to his orders, his drilling regimen quickly begins to take an effect.
By the end of the second week, your troops seem less like a haphazard amalgamation of men and more like a proper squadron once more. Not only that, but many of the surlier rankers, those turned towards bitterness by Blaylock's thuggery or Lord Renard's eccentric flightiness, become more responsive under Sandoral's more even hand.
-
The next morning, you note with some pleasure that Garing's new guns have already made significant progress in creating a breach. Even from your distant vantage point, you can see the city's fortress walls begin to give way.
Rumour has it that the breach will be wide enough to be assaulted in less than a month; good news; for summer is beginning to draw to a close.
Until then, you will still have time to see to other affairs. What shall you do?
[X] I shall visit Master Garing and see what he is up to.
It is not in any way difficult to find Edmund Garing. Indeed, you are able to locate him even from the ground before your own tent. The arms merchant sits at a folding table on top of a low platform of pounded earth and wood, not far from the cannon that he had helped design.
When you climb up the stairs to the top of the platform, you find the black-jacketed man in a frenzy of motion, rapidly alternating between scribbling something down on a notepad with a pencil and peering off into the distance down a brass contraption which you quickly recognise as a range finder.
"I would suggest depressing the guns by perhaps half a degree," Garing says, still focused on his device and notebook, perhaps mistaking you for one of the engineers tasked to sighting his guns. His voice is taut and clipped, quite unlike the last time you spoke to him. "Some of the shots are going high now that we've deconstructed much of the top level of the wall." He turns over his shoulder only to stop, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. "Wait a moment. You're not Major Diaz."
Garing purses his lips for a moment. "You are…" He snaps his fingers in a rapid succession born of irritability, once, twice, three times. "You are Castleton of the Dragoons, correct?"
You nod. "Yes, Master Garing, that's correct."
Garing nods, a satisfied little grin on his face. "Good, good. Terrible with names, usually better with faces. Anything you need?"
"I wanted to ask if the new cannon were performing well."
"They are performing brilliantly, sir," Garing replies, his voice full of enthusiasm. "Already, I have identified over sixty faults, including several which make each gun wholly inefficient for the military use for which they are currently employed."
You cannot help but be puzzled by that. "How could you say these guns are performing brilliantly if they are so plagued with defects?"
Garing smiles. "You must remember, sir, that these guns are not just weapons but also prototypes. Works in progress, if you would. Every defect that we discover here shall be corrected in the next iteration. In the meantime, the current versions," he gestures towards the battery of iron monsters before you, "will still serve the purpose for which His Grace, the Duke, required them."
You nod. Once the black-coated man puts it that way, it makes a great deal more sense. The arms merchant smiles at your comprehension. "Was there anything else?"
"I wished to know how you have been settling in, sir."
Garing pauses in thought for a moment, then nods. "I suppose things have been going well enough, though I cannot say that I shall miss living in a tent."
He takes a breath, purses his lips, and gives you a faint grin. "Aside from the lack of what I might consider basic amenities, I have not had much difficulty. Most of the rankers among the Engineers know their business well enough, which means I barely have to deal with their officers at all, thank the Saints."
"Are the Engineer officers really so bad?" you ask.
Garing frowns and shakes his head. "Some of them are decent. Major Diaz, for one. The problem is that even the good ones are uniformly useless."
Your eyebrow rises in curiosity. "How do you mean, sir?"
The black-coated man shakes his head and sighs. "They lack professional knowledge, to the point where they do not even understand the basics of the duties which their men must perform. I would imagine that they had no schooling in the finer points of engineering on the day they purchased their commissions and have had little opportunity to pick them up in the meantime. They are, in fact, glorified couriers, passing orders from high command and leaving the burden of interpreting them to their non-commissioned subordinates."
You nod; that would be a problem. You cannot imagine how a unit could properly function whilst commanded by an officer who did not know his business. It would be akin to a company of foot commanded by a man ignorant of musket drill.
"At least the sergeants and corporals know their business," Garing concludes. "Sometimes, it feels as if they are the ones who should be running things."
Before you can reply, you hear booted feet rushing up the wooden steps leading to the observation platform. The source of the sound reveals itself quickly enough: a young lieutenant, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, in a burnt-orange line infantry jacket faced with the iron grey of the Engineers.
"Master Garing, Sergeant Worthing wants you down by the guns," the boy says, a complete lack of self-assurance in his voice. "He says that he's found some sort of problem in the, ah, elevation screw?" he reports, the pitch of his voice climbing into a question with the last two words as if they had been wholly unfamiliar to him.
"Very well," Garing replies, his voice laden with an admirable amount of patience. "I shall see to it presently."
The black-coated man stands from his chair but stops and turns to you before taking more than a step away. "Ah, yes! Before I forget, Captain: there is something I would like to show you. Come to my tent at this time next week."
He scrawls a quick sentence in his notebook before tearing out the page, folding it in two, and handing it to you. "I am quartered with the Engineers. Give this to the men at the door. They will let you in. Now, if you will excuse me, good day."
With that, Garing hurries off, the nervous, clueless engineer in tow. You tuck the folded note away in your pocket, wondering what exactly one of the men behind the Unified Kingdom's greatest gun-making firm would have to show to a captain of Dragoons.
-
The first thing you notice about Edmund Garing's tent is the smell: raw iron, sawdust, glue, and the sharp stink of gunpowder. The reason behind it becomes obvious, for in the place of a desk, Garing has set up a small workbench covered in pliers, awls, knives, and a truly immense assortment of drawings.
The man himself sits over one of these drawings now, adding a new line to the diagram of some intricate-looking mechanism with the aid of a pencil and ruler. "Good morning, Captain Castleton," he says absently as he continues his work.
How could he have known it were you? After all, you did not introduce yourself. "How did…" you begin to ask.
"It is the morning of the eighteenth, and the guards let you through. If you had been anyone else, I would have heard gunfire," Garing replies as he puts aside his ruler and pencil. "I trust they gave you no trouble?"
You shake your head. "I showed them your note. They let me through."
Garing smiles. "Excellent. In that case, let me show you what you came here to see."
Garing reaches into the pocket of his vest to pull out a small cylindrical object, perhaps twice the length and thickness of your thumb. He holds it lengthwise between his thumb and forefinger, bringing it up to the level of your eyes. "Take a look at this," he says.
Upon closer inspection, you realise that it is, in fact, a brown paper cartridge, akin to but not entirely like those used by both the Line Infantry and your own Dragoons. There are major differences, of course: instead of being twisted shut, it is closed with a paper plug on one end and stopped up with a musket ball on the other.
"A self-contained cartridge," Garing explains. "It is something I have been experimenting with on the side for some time. Using the same principles as the percussion fuze, it is possible to create a cartridge which might be loaded into a musket as a single package: ball, powder, primer, all at once."
You nod numbly. Even a fool could recognise the repercussions. Instead of laboriously priming a flintlock's pan with powder, then ramming ball and powder separately down the barrel of a musket or a pistol, the entire thing might be loaded at once, increasing a trained soldier's rate of fire immensely. Not since the invention of the flintlock in the days of Saint Stanislaus six centuries ago could a single soldier's fighting power have been increased so drastically.
"How does it work?"
Garing frowns. "It doesn't," he replies sourly. "A flintlock requires the primer and the powder to be separate unless you want to cause the entire mechanism to burst. As far as the firearms you and your men carry are concerned, this new cartridge is useless."
"So, why do you not make your own?" You ask. "A new sort of lock capable of using your new cartridge?"
Garing nods. "My thoughts exactly. Unfortunately, my partners are rather less enthusiastic. They believe it would be better to make slight modifications to the current system, substituting the priming powder with a cap of quicksilver."
You nod. Even such a relatively minor change would be a great improvement. Theoretically, a quicksilver priming cap would reduce the chances of misfire greatly, if nothing else. Still, it would be nothing compared to the revolution that a self-contained cartridge could bring to the battlefield.
"I have done some preliminary design work on a weapon that might be able to handle a self-contained cartridge," Garing continues. "Unfortunately, Gutierrez and Truscott will not allow me to use company resources to pursue the project; 'too much time, too much money, too much risk,' they say." The black-coated man shakes his head. "Which is why I must turn to you and men like you."
You look back up at the arms merchant. "Men like me? King's Officers? Banebloods? Men with money to spend?"
Garing nods. "All three, if possible. I shall need men with money to invest in such a project and men with influence in military circles to see that it is accepted upon completion."
"Could you tell me how much you would need altogether?"
Garing recoils, eyes narrowing as if someone had asked him what the colour green tasted like. "Of course not, sir."
Why the bloody Martyr not? You are about to demand an explanation when Garing appears to realise his own error. He puts his hands up placatingly. "I assure you, sir, this is due to no subterfuge on my part. It is simply that only a fool would attempt to assess the required costs of a project such as this one."
Garing gestures to the pile of designs piled on his table. "I might be able to create a successful prototype from one of these designs next week, or we may be facing a process of research and experimentation lasting twenty years. In either case, we would still need many thousands of crown to set up the machinery and facilities needed to produce the result, but how many thousands is an answer I cannot yet give you."
You suppose that makes sense, but the fact that Garing seems to know little about the eventual costs of the project cannot fill you with a great deal of confidence. "What would I gain from such an undertaking?"
"Well, you shall receive a share of whatever profit that the end result earns, proportional to the amount you choose to invest, of course," Garing replies. "If the firearm which results from development is adopted for general use by Grenadier Square, then that could be quite a substantial sum, indeed."
'A substantial sum' is really quite the understatement, you realise. If the King's Army were to accept a weapon for general issue, then one would be needed for every line infantryman, with thousands more to serve as replacements besides. Even a small portion of the royalties from such a thing could make you tens of thousands of crown, if not more.
Of course, such an ideal result might prove an elusive one; any prospective weapon relying on new ideas and mechanical principles would be years, if not decades in the making. Even if a mechanically sound gun were to be the result, there would be no guarantee that it would be adopted for widespread issue.
The risk would be great, but given a little luck, the result would not only be an immense amount of money but the knowledge that you had helped pioneer a revolution in warfare. "Surely there are richer, more influential men you could approach?"
Garing nods. "I suppose so. I would likely find interest from a great number of colonels and generals-of-brigade. If I felt the need, I could even go to Lord Havenport himself."
You suppose he could. GG&T is hardly some back-alley gunshop. "So why don't you?"
The black-coated arms merchant smiles back. "Because it may take ten, maybe fifteen years to see this project to fruition. Where would those colonels and generals-of-brigade be then? Dead or retired. Who would be standing in their place?" he asks, even though you both already know the answer. "Men like you."
"Not every captain ends up a colonel or a general," you point out.
Garing nods. "True, but some do, and you are not the only junior officer I plan to approach."
You nod. It would have only been good business sense for Garing to have approached multiple officers with the potential for high command. In any case, his words make plenty of sense to you. "Might I take a look at your plans?"
Garing shakes his head as he extends one arm over his scattered technical drawings protectively. "I don't think that would be a good idea. I would rather keep these diagrams away from as many eyes as possible. I would not want a competitor to find out what I was working on, after all."
"Surely you could not expect me to commit my own funds without taking a look at what exactly I am to invest in," you reply. "I must insist, sir."
Garing sighs but ultimately steps back, allowing you to approach the mass of diagrams. "Very well, though I warn you that there are nothing more than speculations at the moment and rather opaque ones at that."
You try your best to make sense of the technical drawings which Garing presents you. Though it is hard going at first, it does not take you too long to understand the basic principles behind each of the intricate technical drawings you are shown.
It also does not take long for you to recognise how each design is fundamentally flawed; some are too heavy, whilst others are too fragile to stand up to the pressures involved in the combustion of the cartridge. Others seem to risk blowing hot gases into any prospective shooter's face.
"It seems to me," you finally conclude after maybe half an hour's examination, "that the main problem is that any design using this self-contained cartridge must be breech-loading. Is that correct?"
Garing nods. "A muzzle-loading system like the sort currently in use wouldn't work. The man loading the gun would not be able to ram the cartridge home without deforming it. Thus, the cartridge must be loaded from the rear of the gun. The problem is that any breech mechanism must not just be able to open, but it must also shut tightly enough to contain the gasses of combustion."
A thought strikes you right as Garing mentions the word 'shut.' "Why not a deadbolt?" you muse.
The other man looks up. "I beg pardon, sir?"
Your mind runs with the idea, filling in the blanks just two or three steps ahead of your tongue's explanation. "If the firing pin and breech block were to be constructed like a bolt, set into the stock of a gun as opposed to a door, one could throw the bolt back to allow a cartridge to be admitted, then push it forward and lock it in place."
Congratulations, Sufficient Velocity. You've just helped invent the bolt-action rifle.
Garing does not waste time voicing his agreement. He is already reaching for his pencil and a fresh sheet of paper.
"Yes, it is an intriguing concept, sir," the arms merchant notes as he looks over a rough sketch of your idea a few minutes later. "I must admit that I would not have thought of such a thing." Garing turns back to you and nods, his expression resolute. "Yes, I shall take a closer look at the idea. Perhaps it may be worth developing. I shall certainly inform you if it proves so."
The black-coated man's expression softens into a smile. "Might I hope that your technical interest in my little project means you are amenable to making an investment?" he asks.
[] "I am afraid I must decline your invitation."
[] "I would be happy to invest in this project."
-[] 2,000 Wealth
-[] 400 Wealth
-[] 100 Wealth
-[] 20 Wealth
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] "I would be happy to invest in this project."
-[X] 400 Wealth
-[X] 400 Wealth
IamtooSleepy
I came here to be an ant
Which is unfortunate since that choice would bump stat up really high, as in, 30 discipline and moral (subject to fairmath) high, or about twice of what we got from having Lanzerel takeover the training.
[X] "I would be happy to invest in this project."
-[X] 400 Wealth
It won't pay dividend for a while, not even by the next game, but if it does, we would be very rich. Too bad the army might have a "constrained budget" by the time the gun in anywhere near ready for production.
[X] "I would be happy to invest in this project."
-[X] 400 Wealth
-[X] 400 Wealth
- Pronouns
- He
[X] "I would be happy to invest in this project."
-[X] 400 Wealth
-[X] 400 Wealth
And our home region would make it kind of awkward to pursue its full adoption.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Yeah, the two thousand crown basically cover the rest of Garing's R&D expense.
That's the investment my character made because the moment he saw those guns he came to a very simple conclusion: if one side of the war has those guns and the other does not, the first side wins. And he became determined not to be caught on the second side.
It's unfortunate that you cant spend Lords of Infinity constantly checking Garing's progress, because that's definitely what he would have done.
It's unfortunate that you cant spend Lords of Infinity constantly checking Garing's progress, because that's definitely what he would have done.
Guns 4.08
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "I would be happy to invest in this project."
Garing breaks out into a bright grin. "Oh, that is marvellous, sir!"
For a moment, it would seem as if he were about to throw all propriety into the air and embrace you bodily. Instead, he simply snatches up a fresh sheet of paper. "Shall we draw up an agreement now, sir?"
The next few minutes pass quickly. Garing is all but frantic with excitement as he draws up the terms of your investment. Before long, all that remains is the amount you are to commit to the arms merchant's project.
As far as you know, your current available funds stand at 2,388 crown. You've still a healthy income, enough to replenish your reserves steadily. However, it is the recent receipt of the ransom money you won nearly three years ago that gives you a true measure of financial security.
Given the current state of your finances, how many crown will you invest?
[X] 400
Garing's face lights up even brighter when you declare the princely sum you are willing to commit to his new project. "I shall still need other investors, of course," he replies, "but I highly doubt any would be as generous as you."
It only takes a few minutes for Garing to draw up a second copy of the agreement for your own records. Then, with both documents signed, you make your goodbyes and head back for your own tent.
You can only imagine what fruit might be borne from Garing's ambitious project. Perhaps it will revolutionise warfare and make you fabulously wealthy in the process. Then again, perhaps not. For the moment, you've other things to occupy your mind.
As the days wear on, the heavy guns continue their deadly work, pounding away at Kharangia's defences, raining hammer blows of fire and iron upon a thin section of its walls. A gaping wound of rubble and pulverised dust now marks the formerly unbroken line of the city's stone armour. It is only a matter of time before the last of the wall gives way entirely and is made wide enough for troops to assault it.
There are other preparations for the imminent assault, as well; trenches begin reaching out from the camp's forward earthworks, scars etched deep into the cleared earth. Day by day, they advance haphazardly towards the forming breach, twisting and turning in geometric patterns to better protect the sappers advancing each trench from the defensive fire of the walls.
Soon, those trenches shall be full of the fighting men of the King's Army, ready to storm the walls of Kharangia.
Until then, there is still some scant time to see to other business. What shall you do?
[X] I would like to see how Lady Katarina is faring.
It doesn't take you long to find Lady Katarina's tent. Surprisingly, the Royal Intelligence agent has set up not in the section of the camp reserved for camp followers and other hangers-on but near the Duke of Havenport's headquarters.
Even more surprising is that the tent itself stands guarded by a pair of burly, fully armed Grenadiers, muskets with fixed bayonets blocking your path.
"Lady Katarina is indisposed," one of them says as you beg permission for entry. "Perhaps you may call on her again tomorrow."
So you come the next day, only to be turned away as well, and the next, and the next.
For a week and a half, this farce continues. You can only imagine what silly game the Royal Intelligence agent is compelling you to play. You expect to be turned away again the tenth time you go, but this time, the guards let you through.
"Lady Katarina is expecting you," the guard says as he clears his musket from the way in. "Carry on, Captain."
About bloody time.
The interior of Lady Katarina's tent is not so differently furnished from yours. It is the little touches—the hand mirror on the desk, the small dresser by the bed, the pair of maids flanking the door—that mark it out as the makeshift boudoir of a highborn lady as well as a tent in a military encampment.
The lady herself sits at her desk in a strange contraption of a chair. As you enter, she turns to face you, or rather, the chair itself turns, swivelling on some hidden mechanism hidden behind the gauzy mass of Katarina's skirts.
"Good morning, Captain," she says, bringing her hands together before her. "I apologise for my recent absences. I have been indisposed."
You nod. "Er—yes, of course."
"So, Sir Alaric," Lady Katarina continues as she fixes you with her regard. "What business brings you to me? Surely you could not have seen the need to call upon me for no reason save my company."
[] "In fact, I did."
[] "I wanted to see how you were doing."
[] "Actually, I wish to ask you some questions."
Garing breaks out into a bright grin. "Oh, that is marvellous, sir!"
For a moment, it would seem as if he were about to throw all propriety into the air and embrace you bodily. Instead, he simply snatches up a fresh sheet of paper. "Shall we draw up an agreement now, sir?"
The next few minutes pass quickly. Garing is all but frantic with excitement as he draws up the terms of your investment. Before long, all that remains is the amount you are to commit to the arms merchant's project.
As far as you know, your current available funds stand at 2,388 crown. You've still a healthy income, enough to replenish your reserves steadily. However, it is the recent receipt of the ransom money you won nearly three years ago that gives you a true measure of financial security.
Given the current state of your finances, how many crown will you invest?
[X] 400
Garing's face lights up even brighter when you declare the princely sum you are willing to commit to his new project. "I shall still need other investors, of course," he replies, "but I highly doubt any would be as generous as you."
It only takes a few minutes for Garing to draw up a second copy of the agreement for your own records. Then, with both documents signed, you make your goodbyes and head back for your own tent.
You can only imagine what fruit might be borne from Garing's ambitious project. Perhaps it will revolutionise warfare and make you fabulously wealthy in the process. Then again, perhaps not. For the moment, you've other things to occupy your mind.
-
As the days wear on, the heavy guns continue their deadly work, pounding away at Kharangia's defences, raining hammer blows of fire and iron upon a thin section of its walls. A gaping wound of rubble and pulverised dust now marks the formerly unbroken line of the city's stone armour. It is only a matter of time before the last of the wall gives way entirely and is made wide enough for troops to assault it.
There are other preparations for the imminent assault, as well; trenches begin reaching out from the camp's forward earthworks, scars etched deep into the cleared earth. Day by day, they advance haphazardly towards the forming breach, twisting and turning in geometric patterns to better protect the sappers advancing each trench from the defensive fire of the walls.
Soon, those trenches shall be full of the fighting men of the King's Army, ready to storm the walls of Kharangia.
Until then, there is still some scant time to see to other business. What shall you do?
[X] I would like to see how Lady Katarina is faring.
It doesn't take you long to find Lady Katarina's tent. Surprisingly, the Royal Intelligence agent has set up not in the section of the camp reserved for camp followers and other hangers-on but near the Duke of Havenport's headquarters.
Even more surprising is that the tent itself stands guarded by a pair of burly, fully armed Grenadiers, muskets with fixed bayonets blocking your path.
"Lady Katarina is indisposed," one of them says as you beg permission for entry. "Perhaps you may call on her again tomorrow."
So you come the next day, only to be turned away as well, and the next, and the next.
For a week and a half, this farce continues. You can only imagine what silly game the Royal Intelligence agent is compelling you to play. You expect to be turned away again the tenth time you go, but this time, the guards let you through.
"Lady Katarina is expecting you," the guard says as he clears his musket from the way in. "Carry on, Captain."
About bloody time.
The interior of Lady Katarina's tent is not so differently furnished from yours. It is the little touches—the hand mirror on the desk, the small dresser by the bed, the pair of maids flanking the door—that mark it out as the makeshift boudoir of a highborn lady as well as a tent in a military encampment.
The lady herself sits at her desk in a strange contraption of a chair. As you enter, she turns to face you, or rather, the chair itself turns, swivelling on some hidden mechanism hidden behind the gauzy mass of Katarina's skirts.
"Good morning, Captain," she says, bringing her hands together before her. "I apologise for my recent absences. I have been indisposed."
You nod. "Er—yes, of course."
"So, Sir Alaric," Lady Katarina continues as she fixes you with her regard. "What business brings you to me? Surely you could not have seen the need to call upon me for no reason save my company."
[] "In fact, I did."
[] "I wanted to see how you were doing."
[] "Actually, I wish to ask you some questions."
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] "In fact, I did."