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Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga

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The Laurent said:
Sorry. I can tone down the questions on stuff like that.
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It's alright. I just find the extent of your fascination with Sir Caius amusing, like, "dang, this person is thirsty as hell for more Caz."

The Laurent said:
Anyways, his mix of piety, brutality, and unconventionalness is part of it, I'd say.
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I find Cazarosta's brand of fatalism to be the most fascinating aspect of his worldview. From his perspective, everything and everyone is but a cog in the Saints' grand design - he just happens to be more self-aware than most. When you consider the circumstances of how the Earl of Leoniscourt took in the product of his wife's infidelity as his own, despite the vast amounts of social stigma against the deathborn, the origins of Cazarosta's belief that his existence must have some greater purpose becomes understandable.
 
My favorite part of Caz is how in order to strike up a friendship with him, you have to give him a Very Formal Greeting. Speak to him casually, even in a friendly way, and he refuses to talk to you, at least for a while. And the higher the relationship between you two is, the more likely you are to call him "sir."
 
SeptimusMagisto said:
My favorite part of Caz is how in order to strike up a friendship with him, you have to give him a Very Formal Greeting. Speak to him casually, even in a friendly way, and he refuses to talk to you, at least for a while. And the higher the relationship between you two is, the more likely you are to call him "sir."
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I view the formality in Alaric's interactions with Cazarosta as his way of treating the deathborn as an equal - no different than any other gentleman of the blood, save the lack of (bane)blood. Considering that most respectable members of society wouldn't piss on Caz if he were on fire ("The deathborn-bastard has the temerity to be ablaze in my presence?!"), the ungrudging courtesy means a lot.
 
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Guns 4.13
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    • [X] "Could I not convince Havenport to allow us both to take part?"

    Cazarosta's eyebrow rises questioningly at your words. "Could you?" He asks in the suspicious tone of a man trying to humour an inept charlatan.

    You nod back with as much earnestness as you can muster. "I could put you forward as second-in-command, and we have certainly worked well together in the past."

    For a moment, the deathborn officer's eyes flicker, first to you, then to the back of the huge tent where the Duke sits behind his desk. Finally, he nods. "I suppose it must be worth an attempt."

    -​

    "An interesting concept, I suppose, to have two officers of the same rank working as commander and deputy," the Duke of Havenport muses when you present the idea of allowing the Forlorn Hope to be led by joint command. "If one officer is killed, the remainder of the party is not left without experienced and ready leadership."

    You nod. It is not how you would have interpreted the advantages of the arrangement, but a captain would profit little in quibbling over such details with the likes of a general officer.

    "However…" Havenport's eyes affix themselves to Cazarosta's slim form, still waiting at the entrance to the pavilion. "The man you have in mind to join you in command, most would consider him unsuitable for the task."

    The Duke does not state specifically whether 'most' includes him as well, but you doubt it would be safe to assume otherwise. Still, having committed yourself, you must press your point. "I may vouch for Sir Caius's courage and competence, as might many of the officers and men who have the honour to serve as the King's Dragoons. The very strongest terms would not be enough to stress how vital a man of his unique skills may be to the success of this enterprise."

    For a moment, the redheaded General purses his lips, expression contorted, sucking on his thoughts as if they were a wedge of lemon.

    "Very well," he says at long last. "We shall only have one chance to take the city before the rains come, and I shall need every possible advantage. If the deathborn will serve as one, then I will allow it."

    "And the rewards that you have promised if we are to be successful…they will go to both of us in equal measure?" you ask.

    Havenport nods. "Aye. There will be promotions to major awaiting you, should either of you survive." The Kentauri nobleman shakes his head and breathes a deep sigh. "I would not be so satisfied in thinking that you have done your friend a favour, Captain. 'Tis more likely that you have just signed his death warrant alongside your own." Havenport shakes his head again. "I hope you know what the two of you are getting into, lad."

    You suppose you shall see soon enough.

    -​

    The next few days are spent in the long, tense process of preparation. The entire army makes itself ready for the immense task before it. Bayonets and sabres are sharpened, and muskets and pistols are cleaned, oiled, and cleaned again. Throughout it all, the dull thunder of the siege guns continues, blasting open the breach in Kharangia's walls ever wider and serving as a constant reminder that very soon, all the waiting and preparation will be put to the test in a single, cataclysmic crush of steel and flesh and fire within the confines of that all-important breach.

    Your own squadron is no different. Your men are readied for the task before them. Every one of them, from your lieutenants to the lowliest common dragoon, is honed to an edge for the bloody, messy work which must be done to take Kharangia for His Tierran Majesty.

    You, however, are not among them. Instead, you spend those days assembling volunteers from the ablest and trusted of your dragoons, the chosen few whom you will take with you into the Forlorn Hope.

    Finally, the morning of the assault arrives. It begins the same way every other morning has during your three months within the fieldworks of the siege camp. There is Marion with a cup of hot water and your razor. Here comes breakfast: bacon and coffee, and for once, the very pleasant delicacy of a fresh egg fried with black pepper and a little salt.

    Then, you must diverge from the routine which you have almost become accustomed to, for the assault is to begin at ten o'clock, to be led by you and your small party of volunteers.

    So, you finish your breakfast and say your goodbyes to the men who will not be coming with you: to Sandoral, who will lead the squadron in your absence, and to Lanzerel, who remains behind as a veteran hand to help steady the squadron's untested interim commander. Your farewells have the subtle note of finality to them, not because many of your men might die as part of the main force in the upcoming assault, though that is always a likelihood. No, it is because when you return, it shall be as a hero to receive his promotion or a corpse on his way to the pyre; in triumph, or in ashes…

    In glory or in death.
     
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    • Guns 5.01
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    • Chapter V
    In which KHARANGIA FALLS.    ​

    You gathered your volunteers together at eight-thirty. More than a few had come forward in response to your call for volunteers, certainly enough to form a sizeable group of fighting men.

    Cazarosta had appeared five minutes later. With him were his own contingent of Dragoons, men from his own command and almost mirrors of their commander; gaunt of face and hungry of expression, their lean figures coiled tight as steel springs, their eyes burning like hot coals, lit by thoughts of blood and fire: fighting men…

    No: killing men.

    At eight-fifty, you and your small party moved into position at the head of the assault trenches. Parties of sappers and scouting officers stepped aside as your determined little band made their way forward. Most gave you grim looks laden with equal parts approval of your bravery and pity for the ordeal before you. Other men, the more foolish ones, gave cheers of encouragement, thinking only of the glory you are likely to win on this day, not the suffering you must endure to achieve it.

    At nine-fifty, the bombardment finally stopped. For the first time in a month and a half, the army's siege guns lay silent in broad daylight. Slowly, the shroud of pulverised rock and dust began to blow away in the limp early autumn breeze, revealing the gaping wound in Kharangia's walls, the solid stone face shattered, the rubble core which filled up the bulk of the wall spilling out like guts from an open wound, over the lip of the stone and into the ditch dug between the wall itself and the edge of the glacis.

    Your men waited as the echoes of the mighty guns faded away, and the dust clouds unravelled and thinned until they were indistinguishable from the overcast sky. The assault was to begin at ten o'clock, close enough behind the heels of the bombardment to give the enemy scant time to assemble their defences.

    At ten o'clock, a bugle was supposed to sound ordering your men forward as the spearhead of Havenport's grand assault.

    It is now eleven-thirty.

    [] Am I to wait forever for my moment of triumph?
    [] So my moment of glory shall be delayed a few hours, what of it?
    [] If this delay means a few more hours of life, I take it gladly.
    [] A delay? Now? This army's incompetence will be the death of us all!
     
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    • Guns 5.02
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    • [X] So my moment of glory shall be delayed a few hours, what of it?

    You are not overly worried. After all, it is not as if the assault can be called off. Not unless Havenport wishes to throw the King's entire grand strategy into disorder.

    You look down at yourself, checking your sabre and pistols for the hundredth time. You look over your other equipment as well, hoping that…

    [] …my decision to wear my armour and bane-runed sword was the right one.
    [] …my decision not to wear my armour and knightly sword was the right one.
     
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    • Guns 5.03
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    • [X] …my decision to wear my armour and bane-runed sword was the right one.

    Well, of course, you did. You were, after all, going into an extremely dangerous situation where you would be shot at by who knows how many determined defenders. In fact, you cannot see how wearing armour impervious to musket fire from all but the closest ranges could do anything but help your chances of survival.

    So there you stand, at the head of your men, clad from head to toe in shining steel plate, feeling all but invincible.

    Still, the bugle does not sound. It is almost a quarter to noon now. Behind you, the trenches bubble with men in the burnt orange and particoloured cloaks of the Kentauri Highlanders, waiting for the signal to follow your small party into the breach. They have been waiting almost as long as you, and still, the signal does not come.

    At least you have not spent this time idle. You have made yourself busy.

    [] I kept the men in high spirits.
    [] I reordered my men to make the best use of their personal skills.
    [] I found the safest approach to the breach.
    [] What can I do but wait?
     
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    • Actually, Alaric's personal attributes affect what options are available to him, not their chances of success. Since all are above 35, it's just a matter of what you guys think will be of greatest benefit to the Forlorn Hope.
     
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    Guns 5.04
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    • [X] I reordered my men to make the best use of their personal skills.

    In the end, it might not have made much of a difference. What use is a man's skill with his hands if he is cut in half by grapeshot before he can even crest the glacis? Still, you tried your best to ensure that every man could do his utmost. It might not make much of a difference, but the difference it could make may be just enough.

    "Campos!" You called out, spying a familiar face: Lieutenant Blaylock's troop Sergeant, the senior NCO in the party, and one of the few who had served with you since your very first command.

    "Sir?" The Sergeant replied as he stepped forward, his expression expectant. "Need something?"

    "Get their attention," you said. "There are some things I'd like to sort out."

    Campos had the other Dragoons ready in moments. You picked out other familiar faces and called up their records in your mind. Their entries in the books had included each man's previous occupation, and you had put that carefully memorised knowledge to fine use. You picked out two of your men, a sullen young redhead and a stout-chested Callindrian. "Barrell, Leggero; you were poachers, were you not?"

    You pointed at the carbines slung on their backs. "Any good with those?"

    The redheaded boy stammered nervously at the mention of poaching, leaving the other to answer.

    "We was hunters, sir," Leggero replied, his tone insistent, "and I could take the head off a coney from six hundred paces."

    "Excellent, then the two of you shall cover the rest of us as we cross the ditch and assault the breach."

    There were others that had applicable skills too. You assigned ex-quarrymen to climb up the steep side of the ditch first and former thugs and toughs to be the first to engage the enemy up close. After a few minutes, you were sure you would get the most out of your men.

    Now, it rests upon you to make sure that proves enough.

    A distant sound shakes you out of your thoughts: two long, drawn-out peals of brassy music, then those same two notes, repeated in rapid succession, once, twice, three times.

    There it is, the call to battle.

    You draw your sword and wave it over your head, letting the bright steel catch in the cloud-shrouded sun before the runes upon its blade flare to life and the blade bursts into flame. "Forlorn Hope! Forward!"

    With anxious haste, you and your small group of men clamber over the tops of the assault trenches. Within seconds, the distant parapets of Kharangia's walls blossom in a sheet of white smoke. The belated crack of distant musketry fills your ears, joined by the shining of lead bullets flying through the air around you and the hollow smack of those same bullets kicking up craters in the open ground. Not one Antari ball strikes home, and you thank the Saints for the foolishness of your enemies; at three hundred paces, a man firing a smoothbore musket would have almost no chance of hitting another man. At such a range, the Antari would be better off hurling live chickens at your grey-green-clad vanguard.

    The next volley, though…

    The next volley will come when you are much closer, for unless your foe is entirely unschooled in the process of reloading, you will not have the time to reach Kharangia's walls before the Antari are ready to fire again.

    Indeed, the enemy manages to fire again when you are just fifty paces short of the ditch. Their second volley is more ragged than the first, but at a little more than a third of the range, it is far more effective.

    Four of your men fall, but not all of them are dead. One man thrashes as he hits the ground, crumpling slowly, holding himself up with the fleeting strength in his arms. They scream as they fall, and some do not stop screaming even after they hit the ground.

    Some of your men turn to you, their expressions questioning, uncertain, fearful. If you leave your wounded out in the open, they will very likely die, but can you really spare the men to carry them back to safety?

    [] We must leave the wounded and press onwards.
    [] I order some of my men to carry the wounded back.
    [] There must be some other way!
     
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