- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] Needlessly cruel.
Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga
- Thread starter Rogue Attican
- Start date
Now see, this is why we need to rise as high as possible. Our war crime bro needs us!
[X] Drastic but necessary.
The war crimes are probably a big part of *why* Cunaris doesn't want Caz promoted. Cunaris is genuinely one of the commanders trying to keep Tierran hands clean. In his eyes the deathborn is living down to the worst stereotypes regularly.
For example, if you observe his unit back in Chapter 1, he invites you to come do warcrimes with him a couple weeks from now.
For example, if you observe his unit back in Chapter 1, he invites you to come do warcrimes with him a couple weeks from now.
He's improved on Lefebvre's methods, you see. Rather than shooting people at random, he finds the partisans' home village and sets fire to it to draw them out.
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Guns 6.03
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Drastic but necessary.
Yes, the situation did call for rather severe measures. Every moment that the army was lost to discipline was another moment in which it was entirely useless for the purpose for which it had been organised. Likewise, each outrage perpetrated on the city's populace would have only hardened their dispositions towards Tierran occupation.
The situation had demanded that the Duke of Havenport take decisive measures. Though no competent officer much relishes the idea of killing his own men, the Duke did what needed to be done without resorting to excessive punishment, which would have lessened the fighting ability of the army as a whole.
Your General did what was needed - no more, no less.
Kharangia is a city fit to make Noringia look like a mere fishing village. Before the siege, it had boasted a population of more than thirty thousand, six times the pre-war population of the provincial port town that had served as the main base of operations for the King's Army until now.
The city had been even greater once. Two generations ago, it had been twice as populous, the major conduit of commerce between Southern Antar and its overseas trading partners. Its massive docks had been built to service that trade, and long ago, the city's superb natural harbour had been filled with ships from throughout the Northern Kingdoms.
King Alaric's War had changed that.
To Tierrans like you, the last war betwixt the Unified Kingdom and the League of Antar had been triumphant proof that Tierra could stand on its own as a naval power. To most of the League Congress, it had been a humiliating but minor defeat. To the rest of the known world, it had been an inconsequential thing, a six-year sequence of naval skirmishes between the fleets of a disunited and declining Antar and a third-rate power that happened to possess a passable navy and a few bold captains.
For Kharangia, it had been disastrous. For six years, the lean frigates of the Royal Tierran Navy and privateers in the pay of bold, young King Alaric Spitfire had stalked the Callingian Sea, dismantling the Antari merchant fleet. By the end of the war, the maritime trade that had been Kharangia's lifeblood had dried up entirely, and the city fell into a long decline.
Still, even in its current state, decrepit, battered, and broken by siege, Kharangia is a massive city full of grand houses and opulent mansions. As a relatively senior officer in the Duke of Havenport's army, you have been given one for use as your billet, a granite-faced two-story manse in the stately High Garden district, complete with a cobbled courtyard and a small coach-house for Faith.
You may be about to winter in a hostile city full of resentful inhabitants as an officer of an invading army, but at least you shall be comfortable.
Marion is waiting for you as you step through the heavy double doors and into the plush-carpeted antechamber. He strips off your soaked overcoat and helmet with brisk efficiency as you allow the warmth of the well-lit room to seep through your wet clothes.
They are next to go, stripped off in the privacy of your bedroom. Perhaps you will have a glass or two of the strong Antari potato wine that somehow escaped the looting intact to help further warm yourself.
Alas, no sooner do you finish changing into a dry shirt and trousers does Marion knock on the door. "Lord Renard is asking for you downstairs, sir," he announces through the door. "He seems quite distraught."
Your drink, it seems, shall have to wait.
Lord Lieutenant Renard d'al Findlay appears to you more than merely distraught as you descend the stairs. "I ain't mean to trouble ye, sir, but…".
He takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I fear I've found m'self in most dire need of your counsel."
You nod warily. In the past two years, you have never seen Lord Renard in such a state of worry. "Would you like a drink, Lieutenant?" You ask for courtesy's sake.
The young aristocrat shakes his head. "No, sir. This…" He takes another breath. "This best be done with a clear head."
Lord Renard is no drunkard, but you have never known him to turn down a glass of wine. Whatever is on your subordinate's mind must be a weighty matter, indeed. "Very well, Lieutenant. What is it you need?"
"Well…" He pauses and tries again. "It's just that…". No matter how he begins, he cannot seem to avoid choking on his words until finally, he blurts it all out: "Sir, we's on the right side, ain't we?"
Your reaction and your outrage come immediately and automatically. "I beg your pardon, sir?" you ask, flat and cold.
"I was seven years old when this war started," the other officer recounts. "From that time on, I ain't heard nothing save talk of how we were in the right, of the heroism of the King's Army. Ain't any wonder that I'd got meself a commission in my father's regiment as soon as I could, t'come to Antar, kill me some villainous foe, fetch me own glory."
The adolescent lordling sighs. "Two years of this war. I ain't seen glory, and I ain't killed any villains, only men whose crime was t'rise against an invadin' army. Still, I kept me thoughts to meself until…".
Understanding grasps you. "Until we stormed Kharangia."
Lord Renard nods. "If you'd told me that men might commit such cruelty upon other human beings, I'd have thought them liars if I ain't seen it with me own eyes," he whispers, his features taut. "It ain't the Antari to blame, either. Those was men in Tierran colours, our fellows, and we let it happen, encouraged it even. Ain't that make us the villains?"
[] "The sack disgusts me as much as it does you."
[] "It was a cruel necessity."
[] "Do you mean to cling to this childish rubbish about heroes and villains forever?"
Yes, the situation did call for rather severe measures. Every moment that the army was lost to discipline was another moment in which it was entirely useless for the purpose for which it had been organised. Likewise, each outrage perpetrated on the city's populace would have only hardened their dispositions towards Tierran occupation.
The situation had demanded that the Duke of Havenport take decisive measures. Though no competent officer much relishes the idea of killing his own men, the Duke did what needed to be done without resorting to excessive punishment, which would have lessened the fighting ability of the army as a whole.
Your General did what was needed - no more, no less.
-
Kharangia is a city fit to make Noringia look like a mere fishing village. Before the siege, it had boasted a population of more than thirty thousand, six times the pre-war population of the provincial port town that had served as the main base of operations for the King's Army until now.
The city had been even greater once. Two generations ago, it had been twice as populous, the major conduit of commerce between Southern Antar and its overseas trading partners. Its massive docks had been built to service that trade, and long ago, the city's superb natural harbour had been filled with ships from throughout the Northern Kingdoms.
King Alaric's War had changed that.
To Tierrans like you, the last war betwixt the Unified Kingdom and the League of Antar had been triumphant proof that Tierra could stand on its own as a naval power. To most of the League Congress, it had been a humiliating but minor defeat. To the rest of the known world, it had been an inconsequential thing, a six-year sequence of naval skirmishes between the fleets of a disunited and declining Antar and a third-rate power that happened to possess a passable navy and a few bold captains.
For Kharangia, it had been disastrous. For six years, the lean frigates of the Royal Tierran Navy and privateers in the pay of bold, young King Alaric Spitfire had stalked the Callingian Sea, dismantling the Antari merchant fleet. By the end of the war, the maritime trade that had been Kharangia's lifeblood had dried up entirely, and the city fell into a long decline.
Still, even in its current state, decrepit, battered, and broken by siege, Kharangia is a massive city full of grand houses and opulent mansions. As a relatively senior officer in the Duke of Havenport's army, you have been given one for use as your billet, a granite-faced two-story manse in the stately High Garden district, complete with a cobbled courtyard and a small coach-house for Faith.
You may be about to winter in a hostile city full of resentful inhabitants as an officer of an invading army, but at least you shall be comfortable.
Marion is waiting for you as you step through the heavy double doors and into the plush-carpeted antechamber. He strips off your soaked overcoat and helmet with brisk efficiency as you allow the warmth of the well-lit room to seep through your wet clothes.
They are next to go, stripped off in the privacy of your bedroom. Perhaps you will have a glass or two of the strong Antari potato wine that somehow escaped the looting intact to help further warm yourself.
Alas, no sooner do you finish changing into a dry shirt and trousers does Marion knock on the door. "Lord Renard is asking for you downstairs, sir," he announces through the door. "He seems quite distraught."
Your drink, it seems, shall have to wait.
Lord Lieutenant Renard d'al Findlay appears to you more than merely distraught as you descend the stairs. "I ain't mean to trouble ye, sir, but…".
He takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I fear I've found m'self in most dire need of your counsel."
You nod warily. In the past two years, you have never seen Lord Renard in such a state of worry. "Would you like a drink, Lieutenant?" You ask for courtesy's sake.
The young aristocrat shakes his head. "No, sir. This…" He takes another breath. "This best be done with a clear head."
Lord Renard is no drunkard, but you have never known him to turn down a glass of wine. Whatever is on your subordinate's mind must be a weighty matter, indeed. "Very well, Lieutenant. What is it you need?"
"Well…" He pauses and tries again. "It's just that…". No matter how he begins, he cannot seem to avoid choking on his words until finally, he blurts it all out: "Sir, we's on the right side, ain't we?"
Your reaction and your outrage come immediately and automatically. "I beg your pardon, sir?" you ask, flat and cold.
"I was seven years old when this war started," the other officer recounts. "From that time on, I ain't heard nothing save talk of how we were in the right, of the heroism of the King's Army. Ain't any wonder that I'd got meself a commission in my father's regiment as soon as I could, t'come to Antar, kill me some villainous foe, fetch me own glory."
The adolescent lordling sighs. "Two years of this war. I ain't seen glory, and I ain't killed any villains, only men whose crime was t'rise against an invadin' army. Still, I kept me thoughts to meself until…".
Understanding grasps you. "Until we stormed Kharangia."
Lord Renard nods. "If you'd told me that men might commit such cruelty upon other human beings, I'd have thought them liars if I ain't seen it with me own eyes," he whispers, his features taut. "It ain't the Antari to blame, either. Those was men in Tierran colours, our fellows, and we let it happen, encouraged it even. Ain't that make us the villains?"
[] "The sack disgusts me as much as it does you."
[] "It was a cruel necessity."
[] "Do you mean to cling to this childish rubbish about heroes and villains forever?"
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] "The sack disgusts me as much as it does you."
We can't sugar coat what our army did and our character isnt enough of a scumbag to read all the horrrors that are going around him in the city off as some some rounding error, so either we acknowledge it by being an ideliast so that we can retain some of our morals and honour by picking the options below,
[] "The sack disgusts me as much as it does you."
or we become a cynilisical and jaded asshole,
[] "Do you mean to cling to this childish rubbish about heroes and villains forever?"
my vote would go for the first option since it fits our character the most.
[] "The sack disgusts me as much as it does you."
or we become a cynilisical and jaded asshole,
[] "Do you mean to cling to this childish rubbish about heroes and villains forever?"
my vote would go for the first option since it fits our character the most.
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[X] "The sack disgusts me as much as it does you."
Really, on every level. If you're going to loot a city that still has active opposition in it, this isn't how you do it. You need to herd all the civilians into specific areas so they don't throw a brick at your head for taking grandma's wedding ring, break the city up into sections, gather all the loot in a single pile, then split it into shares as per regulations.
Really, on every level. If you're going to loot a city that still has active opposition in it, this isn't how you do it. You need to herd all the civilians into specific areas so they don't throw a brick at your head for taking grandma's wedding ring, break the city up into sections, gather all the loot in a single pile, then split it into shares as per regulations.
Guns 6.04
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "The sack disgusts me as much as it does you."
Lord Renard nods grimly. "I'd thought it would. We all did. That was why we restrained the men, made sure they wasn't going blood-mad. We'd figured you'd have done the same."
You nod approvingly. "I would have."
The young lordling smiles bitterly. "Then ain't it a pity the rest of the army's senior officers cannot be you," he replies, his voice tinged with admiration. "I must admit, I'm pleased to find myself under your command - not theirs." The young aristocrat begins to turn for the door, then hesitates. "If it ain't trouble you too much, might I come to you for advice on such things in the future?"
[] "It would be no trouble at all, Lord Renard."
[] "Perhaps that would not be such a good idea."
Lord Renard nods grimly. "I'd thought it would. We all did. That was why we restrained the men, made sure they wasn't going blood-mad. We'd figured you'd have done the same."
You nod approvingly. "I would have."
The young lordling smiles bitterly. "Then ain't it a pity the rest of the army's senior officers cannot be you," he replies, his voice tinged with admiration. "I must admit, I'm pleased to find myself under your command - not theirs." The young aristocrat begins to turn for the door, then hesitates. "If it ain't trouble you too much, might I come to you for advice on such things in the future?"
[] "It would be no trouble at all, Lord Renard."
[] "Perhaps that would not be such a good idea."
[X] "It would be no trouble at all, Lord Renard."
No real downside.
No real downside.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] "It would be no trouble at all, Lord Renard."
Guns 6.05
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "It would be no trouble at all, Lord Renard."
Lord Renard offers you a firm grin. "Thank you, sir. Good day."
The young officer gives you a light nod before turning towards the door and heading out into the rain.
You are not given much more time to settle in, barely enough to get used to the place and dash off a few letters home. Soon, you find your desk besieged by forms, requests, and complaints, with more coming practically by the hour.
With Lieutenant-colonel Keane gone, the organisational work of keeping three squadrons of cavalry in fighting trim falls to the remaining senior officers of the regiment in Kharangia.
Normally, it would not be so difficult to split the work three ways, but Lieutenant Butler quickly proves himself as hapless in front of a desk as he is at the head of a body of fighting men. Worse yet, orders soon come down from the Duke of Havenport's staff detailing Cazarosta's Third Squadron to patrol Kharangia's hinterlands for more partisan activity.
As a result, you soon find yourself all but trapped at your desk, beset by half a dozen problems at a time. As the days grow shorter and colder, you are required to spend hours dealing with the billeting, provisioning, payment, and discipline of well over four hundred Dragoons. You have little time to rest, for as soon as you reduce your pile of pressing issues to a manageable size, Marion sets down yet another small mountain of damnable vexations before you.
There is no time even to supervise the drill of your men. Thus, it is your subordinates who must take up the entire job of maintaining your men while you deal with the similarly unending problems of a regiment settling into a freshly occupied and still very hostile city.
Sometimes, you cannot help but envy them.
It is not until a day in late autumn that you have time to consider a matter that has been on your mind repeatedly over the weeks.
In the King's Army, it is not uncommon for the Colonel of a regiment to cite soldiers under his command for extraordinary achievement. However, when it is a mere major doing the citing, such actions might be considered presumption or worse, self-promotion.
Still, you cannot seem to shake off the nagging sentiment your men should have at least something to show for maintaining order within their ranks during the fall of Kharangia. While they had simply done what was expected of them and maintained their discipline, they had done so when few other units of the Duke of Havenport's armies had.
Perhaps you should cite some of your men in your next report to Grenadier Square, recommending them for commendations. Of course, even broaching the subject in an official despatch would be overstepping the bounds of your formal authority - something which neither Grenadier Square nor the army as a whole would much approve of.
[] Give men awards for merely following orders? Nonsense!
[] I will single out a few of my best men for awards.
[] I have no intention of being stingy with commendations.
[] I request that my entire squadron be honoured.
Lord Renard offers you a firm grin. "Thank you, sir. Good day."
The young officer gives you a light nod before turning towards the door and heading out into the rain.
-
You are not given much more time to settle in, barely enough to get used to the place and dash off a few letters home. Soon, you find your desk besieged by forms, requests, and complaints, with more coming practically by the hour.
With Lieutenant-colonel Keane gone, the organisational work of keeping three squadrons of cavalry in fighting trim falls to the remaining senior officers of the regiment in Kharangia.
Normally, it would not be so difficult to split the work three ways, but Lieutenant Butler quickly proves himself as hapless in front of a desk as he is at the head of a body of fighting men. Worse yet, orders soon come down from the Duke of Havenport's staff detailing Cazarosta's Third Squadron to patrol Kharangia's hinterlands for more partisan activity.
As a result, you soon find yourself all but trapped at your desk, beset by half a dozen problems at a time. As the days grow shorter and colder, you are required to spend hours dealing with the billeting, provisioning, payment, and discipline of well over four hundred Dragoons. You have little time to rest, for as soon as you reduce your pile of pressing issues to a manageable size, Marion sets down yet another small mountain of damnable vexations before you.
There is no time even to supervise the drill of your men. Thus, it is your subordinates who must take up the entire job of maintaining your men while you deal with the similarly unending problems of a regiment settling into a freshly occupied and still very hostile city.
Sometimes, you cannot help but envy them.
It is not until a day in late autumn that you have time to consider a matter that has been on your mind repeatedly over the weeks.
In the King's Army, it is not uncommon for the Colonel of a regiment to cite soldiers under his command for extraordinary achievement. However, when it is a mere major doing the citing, such actions might be considered presumption or worse, self-promotion.
Still, you cannot seem to shake off the nagging sentiment your men should have at least something to show for maintaining order within their ranks during the fall of Kharangia. While they had simply done what was expected of them and maintained their discipline, they had done so when few other units of the Duke of Havenport's armies had.
Perhaps you should cite some of your men in your next report to Grenadier Square, recommending them for commendations. Of course, even broaching the subject in an official despatch would be overstepping the bounds of your formal authority - something which neither Grenadier Square nor the army as a whole would much approve of.
[] Give men awards for merely following orders? Nonsense!
[] I will single out a few of my best men for awards.
[] I have no intention of being stingy with commendations.
[] I request that my entire squadron be honoured.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] I will single out a few of my best men for awards.
[X] I have no intention of being stingy with commendations.
Generous but not to the extreme.
Generous but not to the extreme.
- Pronouns
- He
Was the entire squadron holding firm during the sack?
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Yes. Since you allowed your lieutenants and staff sergeant to act as leaders in their own right, whether through elevating Dragoons to NCO status or having them act independently of your command, they were able to stop your men from participating.
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[X] I request that my entire squadron be honoured.
Usually not the most optimal decision, but our charisma is too low to motivate them the easy way.
Usually not the most optimal decision, but our charisma is too low to motivate them the easy way.
- Pronouns
- He
[X] I request that my entire squadron be honoured.
Guns 6.06
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] I request that my entire squadron be honoured.
You quickly sketch out a request for a commendation, not for a handful of your men but for your entire squadron. After all, to reward only a few of the nearly two hundred Dragoons under your command for the resolute discipline of all would seem almost an act of supreme unfairness. Thus, you do not hesitate to request some sort of honour that might apply collectively to the entirety of Sixth Squadron, Royal Dragoons.
Not that the boffins at Grenadier Square would see it that way, of course, nor the rest of the army, for that matter. For a man who had never seen combat nor the aftermath of the sack with his own eyes, your recommendation will stink of self-aggrandisement. Still, that is something you are willing to put up with if it means every man in your squadron is given the recognition for their dedication that they deserve.
No sooner do you write out the last sentence does Marion step in with a fresh crop of problems to solve. You hand the request off to Marion so he might include it with your report, and then you turn your attention to other, more pressing matters.
As the weeks grind on, you find the volume of incoming paperwork entering a steady and definitive decline. As the Royal Dragoons settle into their new billets and the regiment's junior officers become increasingly confident in their ability to deal with minor issues themselves, the number of problems which you must personally see to diminishes with every day.
Unfortunately, you have damned little opportunity to spend your free time outside your quarters. The unending rains of autumn have turned into the wet, miserable snow that heralds the slow transition into winter. While the rain had merely washed off the cobbles of Kharangia's roads, the sleet turns them into slippery stretches of ice, slush, and mud. Only with the greatest care can either man or horse use such roads for their intended purpose, and the drilling of troops in the city's squares is made a futile exercise.
Only the activity around the city's docks continues in the face of the worsening weather, and then only out of necessity; the last of the year's convoys from Tierra dock and unload their precious cargoes of weapons, equipment, and food with the utmost urgency, lest they be trapped in Antar when the storms of deep winter make the Calligian Sea entirely unnavigable.
When the last ships leave, Edmund Garing is onboard them. He is on his way back to Aetoria to work on the project you invested your hard-earned funds into. Then the docks too are silent, save for the crash of the rising sea and the howl of the winter wind. One morning, you wake to find the outside world frozen, the roads carpeted with freshly fallen snow. The Antari winter has come to Kharangia.
As your days become more dull and empty of anything resembling productive labour, the weather grows increasingly worse. The snow comes down in a greater volume than you have ever seen, and the howling of the winter wind becomes a constant, even through the thick walls of your requisitioned house.
Time passes in a strange, overcast fugue. The clouds become thick enough to blot out the sun. Even at midday, you must keep a lamp lit to see beyond your own outstretched hand with anything resembling clarity.
In one of your now semi-regular games of Tassenswerd with Lord Marcus Havenport, the young Kentauri nobleman, who spent some of his childhood touring Antar with his father, tells you that Kharangia's winters are mild compared to the northern regions of the continent. You find that thought more than a little discomfiting.
Then, one day, the monotony of your long, cold winter afternoon is broken when an unexpected visitor barges into your office, his white-rimmed greatcoat still wrapped around him, snowmelt leaving a trail of wetness across your carpets as he makes his way to your desk.
"I need a second," announces Lieutenant Blaylock, drawing himself up before you.
For a moment, you stare in confusion, nearly certain you have misunderstood. "I beg pardon, Lieutenant?"
"I need a second," Blaylock repeats, more excited than annoyed, "for a duel."
"You realise," you reply, giving voice to your first and most relevant thought, "that duelling is punishable under the King's Articles of War, do you not?"
It is, in fact, punishable by death, not that such a fact seems to have dissuaded your impetuous subordinate any.
"He insulted the honour of the regiment!" Blaylock answers, indignant. "What was I to do? I challenged, and he answered, and now we are to resolve the issue with pistols."
You nod grudgingly. A man might insult another man and come to blows, but never would such an affray lead to a formal challenge. For an officer to openly insult another's regiment is a far graver offence. In doing so, not only has Blaylock's would-be opponent cast aspersions on the man himself but on you and every other fellow who has ever served in the Royal Dragoons. To back down after such an insult would have been unthinkable.
"I doubt there's much danger of me losing, of course," Blaylock continues. "Only thing is, I don't have a second. Lord Renard refused outright, and Saints be damned if I'll ask Sandoral when the man barely knows which end of a pistol the balls come out of."
It is hardly a trifling thing for a man to face an impending duel without a second. It is the second who must inspect the pistols to ensure that neither has been tampered with, stand in for the duellist in case he should refuse to show, and witness the proceedings. A duel without seconds is basically murder.
"So," Blaylock concludes, "I have only you left, sir. Might I rely upon you to help me uphold the regiment's honour?"
The problem remains, of course, the fact that should you accept, you would effectively be an accomplice to a breach of military law. The punishment would be quite severe.
That is, of course, only if you get caught.
[X] Inquire further as to the circumstances of Blaylock's duel.
With a little prodding, Blaylock gives you the full story.
Apparently, according to your subordinate, he had been drinking at the officers' club when another lieutenant, an officer of the 8th of Foot, who had arrived from Tierra some months ago, made some rather foul aspersions regarding the Dragoons' conduct at the Battle of Blogia. Blaylock, hothead that he was, immediately confronted the other man, demanding that he retract what your subordinate refers to as 'obvious falsehoods.'
Of course, neither man had actually been present at Blogia, and it is likely both Blaylock's vision of your regiment's heroism and his counterpart's image of its cowardice lie somewhat distant from the truth.
Things escalated from there.
[] Agree to act as Blaylock's second.
[] Refuse to act as Blaylock's second.
[] Refuse and forbid Blaylock from following through with this foolishness.
[] Persuade Blaylock out of this silly nonsense. (Needs 55 Charisma)
You quickly sketch out a request for a commendation, not for a handful of your men but for your entire squadron. After all, to reward only a few of the nearly two hundred Dragoons under your command for the resolute discipline of all would seem almost an act of supreme unfairness. Thus, you do not hesitate to request some sort of honour that might apply collectively to the entirety of Sixth Squadron, Royal Dragoons.
Not that the boffins at Grenadier Square would see it that way, of course, nor the rest of the army, for that matter. For a man who had never seen combat nor the aftermath of the sack with his own eyes, your recommendation will stink of self-aggrandisement. Still, that is something you are willing to put up with if it means every man in your squadron is given the recognition for their dedication that they deserve.
No sooner do you write out the last sentence does Marion step in with a fresh crop of problems to solve. You hand the request off to Marion so he might include it with your report, and then you turn your attention to other, more pressing matters.
-
As the weeks grind on, you find the volume of incoming paperwork entering a steady and definitive decline. As the Royal Dragoons settle into their new billets and the regiment's junior officers become increasingly confident in their ability to deal with minor issues themselves, the number of problems which you must personally see to diminishes with every day.
Unfortunately, you have damned little opportunity to spend your free time outside your quarters. The unending rains of autumn have turned into the wet, miserable snow that heralds the slow transition into winter. While the rain had merely washed off the cobbles of Kharangia's roads, the sleet turns them into slippery stretches of ice, slush, and mud. Only with the greatest care can either man or horse use such roads for their intended purpose, and the drilling of troops in the city's squares is made a futile exercise.
Only the activity around the city's docks continues in the face of the worsening weather, and then only out of necessity; the last of the year's convoys from Tierra dock and unload their precious cargoes of weapons, equipment, and food with the utmost urgency, lest they be trapped in Antar when the storms of deep winter make the Calligian Sea entirely unnavigable.
When the last ships leave, Edmund Garing is onboard them. He is on his way back to Aetoria to work on the project you invested your hard-earned funds into. Then the docks too are silent, save for the crash of the rising sea and the howl of the winter wind. One morning, you wake to find the outside world frozen, the roads carpeted with freshly fallen snow. The Antari winter has come to Kharangia.
As your days become more dull and empty of anything resembling productive labour, the weather grows increasingly worse. The snow comes down in a greater volume than you have ever seen, and the howling of the winter wind becomes a constant, even through the thick walls of your requisitioned house.
Time passes in a strange, overcast fugue. The clouds become thick enough to blot out the sun. Even at midday, you must keep a lamp lit to see beyond your own outstretched hand with anything resembling clarity.
In one of your now semi-regular games of Tassenswerd with Lord Marcus Havenport, the young Kentauri nobleman, who spent some of his childhood touring Antar with his father, tells you that Kharangia's winters are mild compared to the northern regions of the continent. You find that thought more than a little discomfiting.
Then, one day, the monotony of your long, cold winter afternoon is broken when an unexpected visitor barges into your office, his white-rimmed greatcoat still wrapped around him, snowmelt leaving a trail of wetness across your carpets as he makes his way to your desk.
"I need a second," announces Lieutenant Blaylock, drawing himself up before you.
For a moment, you stare in confusion, nearly certain you have misunderstood. "I beg pardon, Lieutenant?"
"I need a second," Blaylock repeats, more excited than annoyed, "for a duel."
"You realise," you reply, giving voice to your first and most relevant thought, "that duelling is punishable under the King's Articles of War, do you not?"
It is, in fact, punishable by death, not that such a fact seems to have dissuaded your impetuous subordinate any.
"He insulted the honour of the regiment!" Blaylock answers, indignant. "What was I to do? I challenged, and he answered, and now we are to resolve the issue with pistols."
You nod grudgingly. A man might insult another man and come to blows, but never would such an affray lead to a formal challenge. For an officer to openly insult another's regiment is a far graver offence. In doing so, not only has Blaylock's would-be opponent cast aspersions on the man himself but on you and every other fellow who has ever served in the Royal Dragoons. To back down after such an insult would have been unthinkable.
"I doubt there's much danger of me losing, of course," Blaylock continues. "Only thing is, I don't have a second. Lord Renard refused outright, and Saints be damned if I'll ask Sandoral when the man barely knows which end of a pistol the balls come out of."
It is hardly a trifling thing for a man to face an impending duel without a second. It is the second who must inspect the pistols to ensure that neither has been tampered with, stand in for the duellist in case he should refuse to show, and witness the proceedings. A duel without seconds is basically murder.
"So," Blaylock concludes, "I have only you left, sir. Might I rely upon you to help me uphold the regiment's honour?"
The problem remains, of course, the fact that should you accept, you would effectively be an accomplice to a breach of military law. The punishment would be quite severe.
That is, of course, only if you get caught.
[X] Inquire further as to the circumstances of Blaylock's duel.
With a little prodding, Blaylock gives you the full story.
Apparently, according to your subordinate, he had been drinking at the officers' club when another lieutenant, an officer of the 8th of Foot, who had arrived from Tierra some months ago, made some rather foul aspersions regarding the Dragoons' conduct at the Battle of Blogia. Blaylock, hothead that he was, immediately confronted the other man, demanding that he retract what your subordinate refers to as 'obvious falsehoods.'
Of course, neither man had actually been present at Blogia, and it is likely both Blaylock's vision of your regiment's heroism and his counterpart's image of its cowardice lie somewhat distant from the truth.
Things escalated from there.
[] Agree to act as Blaylock's second.
[] Refuse to act as Blaylock's second.
[] Refuse and forbid Blaylock from following through with this foolishness.
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Guns 6.07
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Agree to act as Blaylock's second.
Blaylock grins wide when you give your reply. "Thank you, sir! The business is to take place at dawn tomorrow, outside the north gate, out of sight of the sentries on the walls. I trust you have no objection, sir?"
You are about to assure your subordinate that you have no objection at all when your mind catches on one possible complication. "Just one, Blaylock. Who else knows about the time and place for this duel?"
Your words give the Lieutenant a moment of pause. "Only Lord Renard, that I know of. A few of the men at the club might have overheard, as well."
You frown. Those few officers are a few too many. "Knowing how rumour spreads in this army, the provosts will catch wind of this soon enough. We shall have to change the location of the duel unless you fancy getting us arrested."
Blaylock's brow furrows in thought for a moment, then nods in agreement. "Best we move the location to somewhere by the western gate. I'll make the arrangements." He pauses for half an instant. "Thank you, sir. I'd not have thought of that," he adds hesitantly.
You smile despite yourself. Admitting that he made an oversight seems to have cost your subordinate considerable effort. "Get some rest then, Lieutenant. Make sure you are fresh for tomorrow. Dismissed."
Blaylock snaps a crisper salute than you have ever seen from him before showing himself out.
The next day's dawn finds you and three other men an hour's ride outside Kharangia's western gate, knee-deep in the snow of a clearing bounded by the skeletal forms of bare-branched trees.
Before you stand the duellists: Blaylock, looking quite composed for a man about to face the killing end of a pistol; and his opponent, a slim young man with the barest wisp of a moustache, the officer who might now be forced to pay for his insults to your regiment with his life.
Your counterpart, a lieutenant of the 8th of Foot, presents you with a box of dark Butean wood. Inside sit a pair of finely made pistols nestled in cushions of red velvet. For a minute, the two of you take out and examine both pistols. It is your responsibility as seconds to ensure that neither weapon has been sabotaged.
This done, you present the instruments to the two duellists. Blaylock looks to the two of you, then to his opponent. "We exchange fire at five paces. Lieutenant Aguilar fires first," he announces with a coolness bordering on nonchalance. "Agreed?"
Blaylock's opponent, Lieutenant Aguilar, accepts readily, as does his second. You can only assume that Blaylock, having, you hope, more experience than you in this business, knows what he is doing.
With the terms agreed upon, the two primary actors take their places. Both you and your counterpart load your pistols. Should either duellist show signs of cheating now, his opponent's second has the right to shoot him dead on the spot.
Then all is in readiness. Aguilar raises his pistol, his hand trembling as Blaylock stands confidently before him, feet planted square, taking not even the slightest effort to make himself a smaller target.
"Go on then. I'm right here!" Blaylock taunts. Aguilar's pistol begins to shake. You cannot understand how, but the infantryman's anxiety actually seems to worsen.
Blaylock's grin grows wider. "Shall I be waiting here all day? I thought you infantry were supposed to be able to manage three shots a minute in any weather, and here you have not yet fired one!"
You are close enough to Aguilar to see his eyes widen in panick. Blaylock's eyes narrow in satisfaction as if he were the man behind the gun rather than in front of it.
"Fire! Saints be damned! Fire!"
Aguilar fires.
The dull crack of the pistol shot echoes through the clearing. For a moment, all is silent. The intended target looks down, then looks back up, expression confident.
He is untouched.
Blaylock's grin turns feral as he raises his own pistol, his hand smooth and steady. "Now, my turn."
Your subordinate brings the muzzle of his weapon up so that it points squarely at his opponent's head. For a marksman of Blaylock's skill, it would be almost impossible for him to miss at such close range. For a second, it seems your Lieutenant is about to blow out his opponent's brains with the most contemptuous ease. Around him, the three of you tense, waiting for the fatal shot.
"I want an apology," Blaylock says, peering at a terrified Aguilar down the barrel of his pistol.
"I apologise, sir," the other man replies, his voice quavering. "I spoke in haste and whilst under the effects of a great deal of wine. I—"
Blaylock lowers the barrel of his pistol until it no longer points to Aguilar's head but to his loins. "Beg," he commands. "Beg hard enough, and maybe I'll leave you with your life and enough gristle to make living worthwhile."
Aguilar sinks to his knees, his spent pistol dropping to the snow. His eyes are stuck wide with fear, and tears run down his cheeks. His voice rises frantically, clouds of breath puffing from his mouth like a boiling kettle until it is nothing more than a sad, uncontrolled blubbering.
The snow beneath him begins to stain yellow.
Blaylock barks out a rough, derisive horse-whinny of a laugh. "Saints be damned. You aren't even worth the bloody powder." With a look that is both one of disgust and triumph, he offhandedly empties his pistol at the far trees, then tosses it into the snow before his humiliated opponent.
"Honour is satisfied," he announces before turning to you. "Best we get out of here."
"I wasn't planning on killing him, of course," Blaylock assures you as you ride back to the gate. "I do not think I should ever want to kill another Tierran on purpose."
"So why bother with the whole business in the first place?" You ask out of sheer curiosity. Now that you have thought about it, your involvement in this illegal duel may actually help you, giving you a reputation as a man who will back his subordinates, and his regiment, to the hilt. It is a thought that improves your mood substantially.
"I only meant to humiliate him," your subordinate replies as you pass under the stone mass of the western gate. The sentries give you strange looks but do not stop you. After all, you are two cavalry officers simply out for a morning ride.
"If I killed him, some might think that there was some truth in the bugger's words and that I had silenced him to keep him quiet," Blaylock continues. "By marking him a coward before witnesses, I have made worthless every single word issued from his mouth. This way, the rumours stop, and we get a reputation as men unfit to be trifled with. I suppose the lads will quite like that."
You nod. If there is anything that a Tierran soldier despises most, it is a coward. Likewise, if there is anything that a Tierran soldier admires the most, it is superiors who stand up for them.
"In any case," Blaylock concludes pridefully, "it is a very conclusive way to win a dispute."
[] "Then I must congratulate you on your victory."
[] "You should refrain from such foolishness in the future."
[] "It was also a very cruel way to win a dispute."
[] "Let us never speak of this again."
Blaylock grins wide when you give your reply. "Thank you, sir! The business is to take place at dawn tomorrow, outside the north gate, out of sight of the sentries on the walls. I trust you have no objection, sir?"
You are about to assure your subordinate that you have no objection at all when your mind catches on one possible complication. "Just one, Blaylock. Who else knows about the time and place for this duel?"
Your words give the Lieutenant a moment of pause. "Only Lord Renard, that I know of. A few of the men at the club might have overheard, as well."
You frown. Those few officers are a few too many. "Knowing how rumour spreads in this army, the provosts will catch wind of this soon enough. We shall have to change the location of the duel unless you fancy getting us arrested."
Blaylock's brow furrows in thought for a moment, then nods in agreement. "Best we move the location to somewhere by the western gate. I'll make the arrangements." He pauses for half an instant. "Thank you, sir. I'd not have thought of that," he adds hesitantly.
You smile despite yourself. Admitting that he made an oversight seems to have cost your subordinate considerable effort. "Get some rest then, Lieutenant. Make sure you are fresh for tomorrow. Dismissed."
Blaylock snaps a crisper salute than you have ever seen from him before showing himself out.
-
The next day's dawn finds you and three other men an hour's ride outside Kharangia's western gate, knee-deep in the snow of a clearing bounded by the skeletal forms of bare-branched trees.
Before you stand the duellists: Blaylock, looking quite composed for a man about to face the killing end of a pistol; and his opponent, a slim young man with the barest wisp of a moustache, the officer who might now be forced to pay for his insults to your regiment with his life.
Your counterpart, a lieutenant of the 8th of Foot, presents you with a box of dark Butean wood. Inside sit a pair of finely made pistols nestled in cushions of red velvet. For a minute, the two of you take out and examine both pistols. It is your responsibility as seconds to ensure that neither weapon has been sabotaged.
This done, you present the instruments to the two duellists. Blaylock looks to the two of you, then to his opponent. "We exchange fire at five paces. Lieutenant Aguilar fires first," he announces with a coolness bordering on nonchalance. "Agreed?"
Blaylock's opponent, Lieutenant Aguilar, accepts readily, as does his second. You can only assume that Blaylock, having, you hope, more experience than you in this business, knows what he is doing.
With the terms agreed upon, the two primary actors take their places. Both you and your counterpart load your pistols. Should either duellist show signs of cheating now, his opponent's second has the right to shoot him dead on the spot.
Then all is in readiness. Aguilar raises his pistol, his hand trembling as Blaylock stands confidently before him, feet planted square, taking not even the slightest effort to make himself a smaller target.
"Go on then. I'm right here!" Blaylock taunts. Aguilar's pistol begins to shake. You cannot understand how, but the infantryman's anxiety actually seems to worsen.
Blaylock's grin grows wider. "Shall I be waiting here all day? I thought you infantry were supposed to be able to manage three shots a minute in any weather, and here you have not yet fired one!"
You are close enough to Aguilar to see his eyes widen in panick. Blaylock's eyes narrow in satisfaction as if he were the man behind the gun rather than in front of it.
"Fire! Saints be damned! Fire!"
Aguilar fires.
The dull crack of the pistol shot echoes through the clearing. For a moment, all is silent. The intended target looks down, then looks back up, expression confident.
He is untouched.
Blaylock's grin turns feral as he raises his own pistol, his hand smooth and steady. "Now, my turn."
Your subordinate brings the muzzle of his weapon up so that it points squarely at his opponent's head. For a marksman of Blaylock's skill, it would be almost impossible for him to miss at such close range. For a second, it seems your Lieutenant is about to blow out his opponent's brains with the most contemptuous ease. Around him, the three of you tense, waiting for the fatal shot.
"I want an apology," Blaylock says, peering at a terrified Aguilar down the barrel of his pistol.
"I apologise, sir," the other man replies, his voice quavering. "I spoke in haste and whilst under the effects of a great deal of wine. I—"
Blaylock lowers the barrel of his pistol until it no longer points to Aguilar's head but to his loins. "Beg," he commands. "Beg hard enough, and maybe I'll leave you with your life and enough gristle to make living worthwhile."
Aguilar sinks to his knees, his spent pistol dropping to the snow. His eyes are stuck wide with fear, and tears run down his cheeks. His voice rises frantically, clouds of breath puffing from his mouth like a boiling kettle until it is nothing more than a sad, uncontrolled blubbering.
The snow beneath him begins to stain yellow.
Blaylock barks out a rough, derisive horse-whinny of a laugh. "Saints be damned. You aren't even worth the bloody powder." With a look that is both one of disgust and triumph, he offhandedly empties his pistol at the far trees, then tosses it into the snow before his humiliated opponent.
"Honour is satisfied," he announces before turning to you. "Best we get out of here."
-
"I wasn't planning on killing him, of course," Blaylock assures you as you ride back to the gate. "I do not think I should ever want to kill another Tierran on purpose."
"So why bother with the whole business in the first place?" You ask out of sheer curiosity. Now that you have thought about it, your involvement in this illegal duel may actually help you, giving you a reputation as a man who will back his subordinates, and his regiment, to the hilt. It is a thought that improves your mood substantially.
"I only meant to humiliate him," your subordinate replies as you pass under the stone mass of the western gate. The sentries give you strange looks but do not stop you. After all, you are two cavalry officers simply out for a morning ride.
"If I killed him, some might think that there was some truth in the bugger's words and that I had silenced him to keep him quiet," Blaylock continues. "By marking him a coward before witnesses, I have made worthless every single word issued from his mouth. This way, the rumours stop, and we get a reputation as men unfit to be trifled with. I suppose the lads will quite like that."
You nod. If there is anything that a Tierran soldier despises most, it is a coward. Likewise, if there is anything that a Tierran soldier admires the most, it is superiors who stand up for them.
"In any case," Blaylock concludes pridefully, "it is a very conclusive way to win a dispute."
[] "Then I must congratulate you on your victory."
[] "You should refrain from such foolishness in the future."
[] "It was also a very cruel way to win a dispute."
[] "Let us never speak of this again."
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] "Then I must congratulate you on your victory."
Guns 6.08
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "Then I must congratulate you on your victory."
Blaylock chuckles and shakes his head. "It's your victory too, sir. I couldn't have done it without a second." He hesitates for a moment, then smiles again. "Besides, if you hadn't suggested changing the site, the provosts would have likely put an end to the matter before it could have been settled."
You nod; perhaps that is so.
Your subordinate hesitates again as if trying to speak a different language. "I best thank you for that, sir. Wouldn't want my commanding officer to think me ungrateful."
[] "You might thank me next time by seeking my counsel before things go too far."
[] "You're welcome."
Blaylock chuckles and shakes his head. "It's your victory too, sir. I couldn't have done it without a second." He hesitates for a moment, then smiles again. "Besides, if you hadn't suggested changing the site, the provosts would have likely put an end to the matter before it could have been settled."
You nod; perhaps that is so.
Your subordinate hesitates again as if trying to speak a different language. "I best thank you for that, sir. Wouldn't want my commanding officer to think me ungrateful."
[] "You might thank me next time by seeking my counsel before things go too far."
[] "You're welcome."