- Pronouns
- They/Them
I... sorta get it, kinda, but why would Charisma decline? Soldiering seems like one where you'd have to desperately go out of your way to keep it from going rusty, but Charisma doesn't make as much sense. Int makes... SOME sense.
Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga
- Thread starter Rogue Attican
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I... sorta get it, kinda, but why would Charisma decline? Soldiering seems like one where you'd have to desperately go out of your way to keep it from going rusty, but Charisma doesn't make as much sense. Int makes... SOME sense.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
From a Doylist perspective, it's probably to make sure the options are equally viable - or equally sucky, given Cataphrak's propensity for putting us through the wringer.
In-universe, I'd say that a decline in Charisma would be justified by the limited social circle you have at your estate. If you stay indoors, your only conversation partners are your siblings and your mom, who are likely more willing to tolerate any faux pas you make compared to a baneblooded stranger. If you go out into the snow, everyone you could speak to is a social inferior who rents from you, which doesn't make for good conversation.
EDIT: In other words, a drop in Charisma is probably because the local socialization game is set on easy mode for you as lord and master of Reddingfield.
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Yeah, where the other books were mostly steady progression unless you did things really wrong, this book takes things from you at every step. Money, stats, reputation...if you're really good, you can manage to recoup your losses and come out ahead, but it's definitely a case of swimming against the current.
Lords 1.10
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] There must be some way to keep myself occupied.
You cannot simply sit still and watch the snowfall. You've spent too much of your life in motion to simply stop and allow your body and mind to waste away. While the weather may bar you from spending too much time out of doors, the resources of your estate remain open to you.
Surely, the lord of a noble house, with all the power and amenities at his disposal, ought to be able to think of some way to keep busy?
[X] I ought to practise speaking and carrying myself, lest I become slovenly in my isolation.
It is a known point of wisdom that the easiest way to improve or maintain a skill or discipline is through constant practise; in short, to 'learn by doing.' Unfortunately, that isn't as simple as it would seem at first when it comes to matters of speech and carriage. It is difficult to polish manners meant to be displayed to a room full of people when you possess only the most meagre supply of potential observers. Yet practise you must if you mean to keep your graces from being undone through disuse.
So, through the winter, your servants and family grow used to a rather ludicrous sight: you standing before a mirror, in court dress, or evening jacket, or the full parade uniform of a Lieutenant-colonel of Dragoons, speaking to yourself.
It is perhaps not the most productive-seeming means of occupying your time, but it does prove somewhat helpful in some ways. The mirror allows you to detect any defects in your posture and carriage, as well as any rents or flaws in your best suits of clothes. You find yourself surprisingly sensible in the tone and enunciation of your speech when it is spoken to an empty room, and you're quickly able to correct any unattractive tics you find making an appearance.
Unfortunately, standing before a mirror all day, watching yourself and hearing yourself talk does little for your mind and body. Over the cold months, you find your muscles going to fat from lack of real exercise and your thoughts increasingly turning towards the superficial as if your preoccupation with presenting yourself has made you somewhat deaf to introspection. In Antar, your duties and the society of your officers provided you with the means to maintain mind, body, and manners, and you took them for granted. It is only now that they're gone that you feel the lack.
At times, it gets bad enough that you feel yourself actually wishing you were back at war.
Spring comes as a long sigh of relief, warm southern winds wearing away the snow to reveal a vast stretch of bare branches, dead grass, and grey slush. Streams swell into raging torrents, fed by snow melt and the interminable spring rain, and the roads thaw into impassable tracks of mud.
Yet, even so, signs of life issues from outside your window. The village of Reddingfield comes alive as the last of the snow melts, the first hardy tenants stepping into the torrential downpour to prepare their plots for spring planting, their tiny forms swaddled in heavy coats to ward off the retreating chill.
So it comes as something of a surprise when your valet interrupts at dinner one rainy day to inform you that a 'foreign gentleman' is in the parlour, awaiting your convenience.
At first glance, the fellow looks like no gentleman at all. With his back turned, you can only see the sodden mass of a sailor's shabby oilskin coat hanging off his burly frame. It is only when you step closer that you pick out the hilt of a sabre and the long, fur-lined jacket of an Antari nobleman underneath.
He turns as you approach, his blond hair and long moustachios hanging in sodden strings under sharp, blue eyes. Why, Saints above, it is—
"Lord Karol!" you exclaim. "Lord Karol of Loch! What an unexpected pleasure it is to see you here!"
"It is just 'Karol' now, I fear," the Antari observes ruefully as he shrugs off the rain-slick mass of his overcoat and hands it off to your valet. "Prince Khorobirit took possession of my estate and titles not long after he returned north. Loch may still be the home of my birth, but I am no longer lord of it."
You nod in sympathy. The Antari nobleman—former nobleman now, you suppose—had warned you that his hard and capricious liege would do as much when you last spoke. Still, it must be a blow for him to have lost the lands his family had ruled over for likely centuries, not to mention his status and position as a Lord of the League Congress. It is strange, perhaps, to feel so greatly for a man who was once your enemy, a man whose fall had much to do with his defeats against the very army you served for more than a decade. Yet even as an enemy, you never knew Karol of Loch to be anything less than a man of honour. Perhaps it is only natural that you should feel sympathy for the disgrace of so noble a fellow.
"I must apologise for my condition," Loch continues, grimacing at the small puddle around his feet. "I am not quite used to your Tierran weather. I expected the roads to be frozen for a month yet when I departed."
"What has brought you all the way out here?" you ask.
"There's nothing left for me in the League," Loch replies with a pained look. "My estates are gone. My armour was sold to pay for my ransom, and I knew it would be best if I left my mother and sisters in peace, better if…". He sighs. "They have their own lives, their own burdens. They do not need my presence to heap more upon them." "So you came here?" you ask.
Loch nods. "I wished to see this country of yours for myself, to understand your people, and to learn from you." He gives you a wan smile. "In our arrogance, we thought ourselves better than you once. If it was the will of the Saints and the Mother to humble us, then it must have been for a reason, yes?"
It is an answer, but not the answer you were looking for. "But why here? Surely you can learn more of Tierra from Aetoria or Fernandescourt than a tour of an estate in the middle of the country?"
The Antari shrugs. "Another might, perhaps. But I spent the winter in Aetoria, and all I got was a reminder that I am not a man well-suited for cities. They are too noisy to think in. I recalled our conversation when we last met and remembered that you possess an estate out in the wilderness. I hoped…" He takes a breath as he regathers his thoughts. "I am no longer welcome in my country, and the ways of yours are still quite strange to me. I would like some time in a quiet place to think about what I am to do next. I was hoping perhaps—"
[X] "You would be most welcome to stay here a while."
[ ] "I fear things aren't settled here, either."
Loch says nothing for a moment, perhaps he had not expected you to say yes? "I thank you and apologise for imposing upon you," he replies. "I came here upon a mule, a wretched creature, but one which has acted faithfully enough and deserves better than to be left in the rain."
You catch his meaning immediately. For all your differences in country and tradition, he is still, some part of him, a cavalryman, one who thinks of his mount more readily than he thinks of himself. "I shall have him put in the stables immediately. If—"
You're interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching from the dining room. "Alaric! Will you not come back to dinner? We have been waiting—"
Your mother is cut off mid-sentence and mid-stride by the sight she beholds: you still in your morning suit and the sodden giant of a man opposite you.
"Alaric?" she asks suspiciously. "Who is this, and why is he dripping all over my parlour?"
"Mother," you begin, "may I introduce Karol of Loch, late of the army of Prince Khorobirit." You turn back. "Loch, this is my lady mother."
She eyes you dubiously. "An Antari? In this house? At such short notice?"
Loch steps forward, closing the distance in three great strides. With a single, fluid motion, he drops into an effortless bow. "I apologize, great lady, for the abruptness of my appearance and for the state of disarray in which I have left your parlour. But I must say that it is an honour to make your acquaintance."
The barest flicker of a smile crosses her features. "Well, at least one of you has some manners," she mutters.
"I am glad you find him agreeable," you reply. "I have allowed Master Loch to stay with us for the next few weeks."
For a moment, your mother makes some attempt to muster an objection, but she cannot. It is your house now. You and you alone have the luxury of inviting whomever you please to live within it. "Very well, then," she finally says. "If that is the case, you may begin by changing into some dry clothes, sir, before you flood the entire ground floor. If you will excuse me…".
With that, your mother stalks off. Loch looks at you with concern. "Perhaps it would have been best—"
You shake your head. "She will soften," you reply. "I am sure of it."
Loch doesn't seem all too convinced, but he doesn't press the matter further.
The following weeks pass rather more pleasantly with Loch's presence. Though the former Hussar spends much of his time in reflection, he proves a not unpleasant conversationalist when coaxed out of his brooding temper. More than once, he regales the dining table with folk tales and heroic recountings passed down to him from his father, and although his imperfect grasp of the Tierran language renders certain translations less than perfect, they are fine stories all the same.
You also notice that he's been spending a great deal of time with your sister, either in idle conversation or during long walks on the grounds on the few days when the weather permits it.
"Lady Louisa has a bright spirit," he says when you bring up the subject one day as he's feeding his mule. "More than that, she is—I do not know the words in your language—one who knows what she wants and is willing to take great measures to get it." His eyes take on a distant, almost wistful look. "She reminds me a great deal of my own sisters in Antar. I did not think I would meet another here, in this distant country."
[X] "Louisa can be rather lively."
"That is one way of putting it," Loch replies with a low rumble which, after a moment, you recognise to be a chuckle. "I think she will one day make some fellow very happy, or very miserable."
"How do you mean?" you ask.
"Your sister has a strong will. She will fight for what she believes in," Loch explains. "Men who marry such women, they respond in one of two ways. Some will try to tame her, as if she were a horse, to turn her into a creature who will take bit and bridle, who will be saddled without complaint. But women are not horses. If a man treats her like an animal, she will fight back like an animal. That way? Only misery, for both man and woman."
"And the other way?"
"The other way is to accept her spirit, for a man to fight for what she believes in so that she will fight for what he believes in. It—" He gropes for the words for a moment. "It takes a certain kind of courage, to accept a woman as equal, but men who do, I think, are the happiest of all."
How does he know this? You know Loch to be unmarried. "Have you seen such a pairing before?"
Loch nods. "Prince Khorobirit was a formidable man. He is a formidable man still. But his wife, he treated as a partner in all things," he says, smiling despite himself. "Together, they could not be resisted."
You heard how that tale had ended, and judging by the expression on his face, Loch did too. Princess Khorobirit died in the Grenadiers' daring capture of Januszkovil fortress. If Prince Khorobirit and his lady wife were truly so happy together, then you cannot help but feel some small sadness for how things turned out.
Another casualty of war, you suppose.
[X] "You know, my sister is still unmarried…".
Loch catches your meaning immediately. "No," he replies flatly, shaking his head. "Even if I were not almost twice her age, I could not even think of such a thing. Given our positions, such a match would be impossible."
"You are a gentleman of the blood," you point out. "You are a man of honour, a seasoned leader of men, and one with no small experience in running an estate."
"I have no incomes, no offices, and no fiefs," he replies despondently. "I own only a mule, a sabre, and a disgrace which will not be washed clean. It is only in stories that such men may win the hand of the fair lady. In real life…". He sighs and shakes his head again. "Your sister is a lovely girl. She deserves someone who can care for her and who will make her happy. I think we can both see that."
Loch offers you a pained smile, but it's clear he wishes to discuss this topic no more.
[X] "And what of my brother? Have you spoken much with him?"
"I have not," Loch replies. "He seems to me more a man who listens than one who speaks."
"He has always been rather quiet," you agree. "He will ask a single question, then listen to those around him discuss it for half an hour before uttering another word."
Loch nods. "Sometimes, I think we are in much need of such men. If the League were possessed of more such fellows, perhaps it would not be in the predicament it is in."
"How do you mean?"
Loch thinks about your question for a moment. "In your Cortes, matters are decided by simple majority. If those who are for outnumber those against, a motion passes, yes?"
"Yes, that's correct," you reply, not quite sure where the Antari is going with this.
"If one man has formed an opinion without understanding the matter, and votes ignorantly, then he cannot sway the whole chamber. Only if twenty or fifty such men are so; do matters threaten to end with disaster."
You nod, though only hesitantly. Loch's vision of the Cortes is perhaps more optimistic than you would have phrased it, but he is not fundamentally wrong.
"In the League Congress, it only takes one vote to end a motion," Loch continues. "All a Lord of the Congress must do is stand and shout 'I object,' and the matter is ended. Did you know this?"
You do. "The so-called 'free veto,'" you reply. "I am aware of it."
"Then you must be aware how a single ignorant man might make effective government impossible," Loch replies sourly. "Had Antar been able to act as one, it would have been able to win the war with ease. Against your fifty thousand soldiers, we could have sent half a million. Instead, the Congress proved full of men who were more content to hear themselves shout than to let themselves think, and that left us divided and weak."
"Are you saying that if you had more men like my brother, Antar would have won the war?" you ask.
Loch shrugs. "Perhaps. Or perhaps we would not have gone to war with you at all."
[X] "What of your own sisters? Where are they now?"
"My sisters found themselves husbands when I was still in Prince Khorobirit's favour," Loch replies. "They have estates and children of their own now."
"And your mother?" you ask. "Is she well?"
Loch nods. "She lives, as far as I know. The letter which informed me that I was to be stripped of my titles and estates promised that she would be treated well, so long as I did not take up arms against the House of Khorobirit."
You suppose you would have expected Prince Khorobirit to have done the like. Even in defeat, Tierra's great enemy is no fool. "You have not written them?" you ask.
The Antari shakes his head. "How could I? They deserve the right not to share their lives with my failures. No, they can pretend that I never existed, it…". He sighs. "It is better this way."
[X] "I ought to go back inside."
"There is one more thing," Loch says before you can step away. "Something which worries me a great deal." He eyes the crumbling ruins of your manor's stone fence warily. "I have seen the condition of your walls. Forgive me for saying so, but they are in a dreadful state, open to attack from every direction. I think it would be unwise to leave them in such a way."
"It is not a wall, exactly," you reply, "but a fence."
Loch frowns. "It is a structure built to keep intruders out. The words may be different, but the meaning is the same." The former Hussar takes another look at the broken stone. "In Antar, even the smallest and poorest estate would be kept inside a wall of logs, one and a half times the height of a man, at least."
"Is that what you suggest?" you ask, with more than a little scepticism. However things are in Antar, here, high walls are more for the sake of privacy than security. Granted, they will keep out the occasional thief or vandal, but to see one's seat as a fortress, as Loch seems to do, cannot but smack of at least a little paranoia.
"A man can have wealth, influence, and high birth, and all of it will mean nothing if he cannot provide safety for himself and his family," Loch replies. "That is a lesson we learn very young in Antar."
[ ] [FENCE] "Need I remind you, sir, that we are not in Antar?"
[ ] [FENCE] "Walls are not always the best guarantee of security."
[ ] [FENCE] "It is something to consider, at least."
You cannot simply sit still and watch the snowfall. You've spent too much of your life in motion to simply stop and allow your body and mind to waste away. While the weather may bar you from spending too much time out of doors, the resources of your estate remain open to you.
Surely, the lord of a noble house, with all the power and amenities at his disposal, ought to be able to think of some way to keep busy?
[X] I ought to practise speaking and carrying myself, lest I become slovenly in my isolation.
It is a known point of wisdom that the easiest way to improve or maintain a skill or discipline is through constant practise; in short, to 'learn by doing.' Unfortunately, that isn't as simple as it would seem at first when it comes to matters of speech and carriage. It is difficult to polish manners meant to be displayed to a room full of people when you possess only the most meagre supply of potential observers. Yet practise you must if you mean to keep your graces from being undone through disuse.
So, through the winter, your servants and family grow used to a rather ludicrous sight: you standing before a mirror, in court dress, or evening jacket, or the full parade uniform of a Lieutenant-colonel of Dragoons, speaking to yourself.
It is perhaps not the most productive-seeming means of occupying your time, but it does prove somewhat helpful in some ways. The mirror allows you to detect any defects in your posture and carriage, as well as any rents or flaws in your best suits of clothes. You find yourself surprisingly sensible in the tone and enunciation of your speech when it is spoken to an empty room, and you're quickly able to correct any unattractive tics you find making an appearance.
Unfortunately, standing before a mirror all day, watching yourself and hearing yourself talk does little for your mind and body. Over the cold months, you find your muscles going to fat from lack of real exercise and your thoughts increasingly turning towards the superficial as if your preoccupation with presenting yourself has made you somewhat deaf to introspection. In Antar, your duties and the society of your officers provided you with the means to maintain mind, body, and manners, and you took them for granted. It is only now that they're gone that you feel the lack.
At times, it gets bad enough that you feel yourself actually wishing you were back at war.
Spring comes as a long sigh of relief, warm southern winds wearing away the snow to reveal a vast stretch of bare branches, dead grass, and grey slush. Streams swell into raging torrents, fed by snow melt and the interminable spring rain, and the roads thaw into impassable tracks of mud.
Yet, even so, signs of life issues from outside your window. The village of Reddingfield comes alive as the last of the snow melts, the first hardy tenants stepping into the torrential downpour to prepare their plots for spring planting, their tiny forms swaddled in heavy coats to ward off the retreating chill.
So it comes as something of a surprise when your valet interrupts at dinner one rainy day to inform you that a 'foreign gentleman' is in the parlour, awaiting your convenience.
At first glance, the fellow looks like no gentleman at all. With his back turned, you can only see the sodden mass of a sailor's shabby oilskin coat hanging off his burly frame. It is only when you step closer that you pick out the hilt of a sabre and the long, fur-lined jacket of an Antari nobleman underneath.
He turns as you approach, his blond hair and long moustachios hanging in sodden strings under sharp, blue eyes. Why, Saints above, it is—
"Lord Karol!" you exclaim. "Lord Karol of Loch! What an unexpected pleasure it is to see you here!"
"It is just 'Karol' now, I fear," the Antari observes ruefully as he shrugs off the rain-slick mass of his overcoat and hands it off to your valet. "Prince Khorobirit took possession of my estate and titles not long after he returned north. Loch may still be the home of my birth, but I am no longer lord of it."
You nod in sympathy. The Antari nobleman—former nobleman now, you suppose—had warned you that his hard and capricious liege would do as much when you last spoke. Still, it must be a blow for him to have lost the lands his family had ruled over for likely centuries, not to mention his status and position as a Lord of the League Congress. It is strange, perhaps, to feel so greatly for a man who was once your enemy, a man whose fall had much to do with his defeats against the very army you served for more than a decade. Yet even as an enemy, you never knew Karol of Loch to be anything less than a man of honour. Perhaps it is only natural that you should feel sympathy for the disgrace of so noble a fellow.
"I must apologise for my condition," Loch continues, grimacing at the small puddle around his feet. "I am not quite used to your Tierran weather. I expected the roads to be frozen for a month yet when I departed."
"What has brought you all the way out here?" you ask.
"There's nothing left for me in the League," Loch replies with a pained look. "My estates are gone. My armour was sold to pay for my ransom, and I knew it would be best if I left my mother and sisters in peace, better if…". He sighs. "They have their own lives, their own burdens. They do not need my presence to heap more upon them." "So you came here?" you ask.
Loch nods. "I wished to see this country of yours for myself, to understand your people, and to learn from you." He gives you a wan smile. "In our arrogance, we thought ourselves better than you once. If it was the will of the Saints and the Mother to humble us, then it must have been for a reason, yes?"
It is an answer, but not the answer you were looking for. "But why here? Surely you can learn more of Tierra from Aetoria or Fernandescourt than a tour of an estate in the middle of the country?"
The Antari shrugs. "Another might, perhaps. But I spent the winter in Aetoria, and all I got was a reminder that I am not a man well-suited for cities. They are too noisy to think in. I recalled our conversation when we last met and remembered that you possess an estate out in the wilderness. I hoped…" He takes a breath as he regathers his thoughts. "I am no longer welcome in my country, and the ways of yours are still quite strange to me. I would like some time in a quiet place to think about what I am to do next. I was hoping perhaps—"
[X] "You would be most welcome to stay here a while."
Loch says nothing for a moment, perhaps he had not expected you to say yes? "I thank you and apologise for imposing upon you," he replies. "I came here upon a mule, a wretched creature, but one which has acted faithfully enough and deserves better than to be left in the rain."
You catch his meaning immediately. For all your differences in country and tradition, he is still, some part of him, a cavalryman, one who thinks of his mount more readily than he thinks of himself. "I shall have him put in the stables immediately. If—"
You're interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching from the dining room. "Alaric! Will you not come back to dinner? We have been waiting—"
Your mother is cut off mid-sentence and mid-stride by the sight she beholds: you still in your morning suit and the sodden giant of a man opposite you.
"Alaric?" she asks suspiciously. "Who is this, and why is he dripping all over my parlour?"
"Mother," you begin, "may I introduce Karol of Loch, late of the army of Prince Khorobirit." You turn back. "Loch, this is my lady mother."
She eyes you dubiously. "An Antari? In this house? At such short notice?"
Loch steps forward, closing the distance in three great strides. With a single, fluid motion, he drops into an effortless bow. "I apologize, great lady, for the abruptness of my appearance and for the state of disarray in which I have left your parlour. But I must say that it is an honour to make your acquaintance."
The barest flicker of a smile crosses her features. "Well, at least one of you has some manners," she mutters.
"I am glad you find him agreeable," you reply. "I have allowed Master Loch to stay with us for the next few weeks."
For a moment, your mother makes some attempt to muster an objection, but she cannot. It is your house now. You and you alone have the luxury of inviting whomever you please to live within it. "Very well, then," she finally says. "If that is the case, you may begin by changing into some dry clothes, sir, before you flood the entire ground floor. If you will excuse me…".
With that, your mother stalks off. Loch looks at you with concern. "Perhaps it would have been best—"
You shake your head. "She will soften," you reply. "I am sure of it."
Loch doesn't seem all too convinced, but he doesn't press the matter further.
-
The following weeks pass rather more pleasantly with Loch's presence. Though the former Hussar spends much of his time in reflection, he proves a not unpleasant conversationalist when coaxed out of his brooding temper. More than once, he regales the dining table with folk tales and heroic recountings passed down to him from his father, and although his imperfect grasp of the Tierran language renders certain translations less than perfect, they are fine stories all the same.
You also notice that he's been spending a great deal of time with your sister, either in idle conversation or during long walks on the grounds on the few days when the weather permits it.
"Lady Louisa has a bright spirit," he says when you bring up the subject one day as he's feeding his mule. "More than that, she is—I do not know the words in your language—one who knows what she wants and is willing to take great measures to get it." His eyes take on a distant, almost wistful look. "She reminds me a great deal of my own sisters in Antar. I did not think I would meet another here, in this distant country."
[X] "Louisa can be rather lively."
"That is one way of putting it," Loch replies with a low rumble which, after a moment, you recognise to be a chuckle. "I think she will one day make some fellow very happy, or very miserable."
"How do you mean?" you ask.
"Your sister has a strong will. She will fight for what she believes in," Loch explains. "Men who marry such women, they respond in one of two ways. Some will try to tame her, as if she were a horse, to turn her into a creature who will take bit and bridle, who will be saddled without complaint. But women are not horses. If a man treats her like an animal, she will fight back like an animal. That way? Only misery, for both man and woman."
"And the other way?"
"The other way is to accept her spirit, for a man to fight for what she believes in so that she will fight for what he believes in. It—" He gropes for the words for a moment. "It takes a certain kind of courage, to accept a woman as equal, but men who do, I think, are the happiest of all."
How does he know this? You know Loch to be unmarried. "Have you seen such a pairing before?"
Loch nods. "Prince Khorobirit was a formidable man. He is a formidable man still. But his wife, he treated as a partner in all things," he says, smiling despite himself. "Together, they could not be resisted."
You heard how that tale had ended, and judging by the expression on his face, Loch did too. Princess Khorobirit died in the Grenadiers' daring capture of Januszkovil fortress. If Prince Khorobirit and his lady wife were truly so happy together, then you cannot help but feel some small sadness for how things turned out.
Another casualty of war, you suppose.
[X] "You know, my sister is still unmarried…".
Loch catches your meaning immediately. "No," he replies flatly, shaking his head. "Even if I were not almost twice her age, I could not even think of such a thing. Given our positions, such a match would be impossible."
"You are a gentleman of the blood," you point out. "You are a man of honour, a seasoned leader of men, and one with no small experience in running an estate."
"I have no incomes, no offices, and no fiefs," he replies despondently. "I own only a mule, a sabre, and a disgrace which will not be washed clean. It is only in stories that such men may win the hand of the fair lady. In real life…". He sighs and shakes his head again. "Your sister is a lovely girl. She deserves someone who can care for her and who will make her happy. I think we can both see that."
Loch offers you a pained smile, but it's clear he wishes to discuss this topic no more.
[X] "And what of my brother? Have you spoken much with him?"
"I have not," Loch replies. "He seems to me more a man who listens than one who speaks."
"He has always been rather quiet," you agree. "He will ask a single question, then listen to those around him discuss it for half an hour before uttering another word."
Loch nods. "Sometimes, I think we are in much need of such men. If the League were possessed of more such fellows, perhaps it would not be in the predicament it is in."
"How do you mean?"
Loch thinks about your question for a moment. "In your Cortes, matters are decided by simple majority. If those who are for outnumber those against, a motion passes, yes?"
"Yes, that's correct," you reply, not quite sure where the Antari is going with this.
"If one man has formed an opinion without understanding the matter, and votes ignorantly, then he cannot sway the whole chamber. Only if twenty or fifty such men are so; do matters threaten to end with disaster."
You nod, though only hesitantly. Loch's vision of the Cortes is perhaps more optimistic than you would have phrased it, but he is not fundamentally wrong.
"In the League Congress, it only takes one vote to end a motion," Loch continues. "All a Lord of the Congress must do is stand and shout 'I object,' and the matter is ended. Did you know this?"
You do. "The so-called 'free veto,'" you reply. "I am aware of it."
"Then you must be aware how a single ignorant man might make effective government impossible," Loch replies sourly. "Had Antar been able to act as one, it would have been able to win the war with ease. Against your fifty thousand soldiers, we could have sent half a million. Instead, the Congress proved full of men who were more content to hear themselves shout than to let themselves think, and that left us divided and weak."
"Are you saying that if you had more men like my brother, Antar would have won the war?" you ask.
Loch shrugs. "Perhaps. Or perhaps we would not have gone to war with you at all."
[X] "What of your own sisters? Where are they now?"
"My sisters found themselves husbands when I was still in Prince Khorobirit's favour," Loch replies. "They have estates and children of their own now."
"And your mother?" you ask. "Is she well?"
Loch nods. "She lives, as far as I know. The letter which informed me that I was to be stripped of my titles and estates promised that she would be treated well, so long as I did not take up arms against the House of Khorobirit."
You suppose you would have expected Prince Khorobirit to have done the like. Even in defeat, Tierra's great enemy is no fool. "You have not written them?" you ask.
The Antari shakes his head. "How could I? They deserve the right not to share their lives with my failures. No, they can pretend that I never existed, it…". He sighs. "It is better this way."
[X] "I ought to go back inside."
"There is one more thing," Loch says before you can step away. "Something which worries me a great deal." He eyes the crumbling ruins of your manor's stone fence warily. "I have seen the condition of your walls. Forgive me for saying so, but they are in a dreadful state, open to attack from every direction. I think it would be unwise to leave them in such a way."
"It is not a wall, exactly," you reply, "but a fence."
Loch frowns. "It is a structure built to keep intruders out. The words may be different, but the meaning is the same." The former Hussar takes another look at the broken stone. "In Antar, even the smallest and poorest estate would be kept inside a wall of logs, one and a half times the height of a man, at least."
"Is that what you suggest?" you ask, with more than a little scepticism. However things are in Antar, here, high walls are more for the sake of privacy than security. Granted, they will keep out the occasional thief or vandal, but to see one's seat as a fortress, as Loch seems to do, cannot but smack of at least a little paranoia.
"A man can have wealth, influence, and high birth, and all of it will mean nothing if he cannot provide safety for himself and his family," Loch replies. "That is a lesson we learn very young in Antar."
[ ] [FENCE] "Need I remind you, sir, that we are not in Antar?"
[ ] [FENCE] "Walls are not always the best guarantee of security."
[ ] [FENCE] "It is something to consider, at least."
The greatest fortress in the world didn't keep Khorobit's family safe. So I wouldn't entrust the safety of our family to a fence.
Lords 1.11
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "Walls are not always the best guarantee of security."
"Perhaps not," Loch admits, "but they are the surest. Promises can be broken, allies can be swayed, and even sacred oaths can be forsworn. Only stone will never betray you."
Perhaps that is true, but walls do not just protect - they also bind. One cannot make peace from behind a wall. In the end, stone cannot defeat an enemy by itself. It can only keep him at bay for a little while.
Yet Loch is not entirely wrong. Even if a wall serves only as an obstacle and not a solution, it can give a potential enemy pause, perhaps long enough for cooler heads to prevail. A wall cannot defeat an enemy, but that doesn't mean that building one is without its uses.
"Perhaps you have a point," you reply. "I will give the matter some thought."
"Then think quickly," Loch replies, a sudden tautness in his voice. "Think quickly, and act."
"It will cost no small sum to repair the fence," you point out. "To reinforce it and raise it to the height you would wish it would cost even more. That money could be better spent on other things."
The Antari gives you a grim look. "Could it?" he asks. "Fortifications can seem like a needless expense until the day that you need them."
"Surely that day is not due anytime soon?" you reply incredulously. Does Loch really think that you'll wake up tomorrow morning to find some marauding armed band charging up the hillside?
He shakes his head. "Perhaps not," he replies darkly, "but the Saints have a way of making a mockery of our expectations."
-
The next day yields no sudden improbable attack by armed intruders, yet Loch's opinion remains unchanged, even as each new days brings with it only more rain and more mud.
Then, even the rains begin to relent, and for the first time in what seems like half an eternity, the uniform grey certainty above gives way to the first rays of the sun.
Week after week, the days grow longer and warmer. The creeks recede behind their banks, and the roads become firm again. The village below slowly shrugs off the last of its winter torpor until one day, a vast profusion of men, women, wagons, and draught animals erupt from the hitherto closed barns and cottages, headed outwards to the fields to welcome the first day of planting.
"I am told you had some difficulty with your serfs as of late," Loch says as the two of you watch your tenants head for the fields. "I am told that they threatened to leave your lands if you did not accept certain demands and that they have stayed only because you have done so." He gives you a worried glance. "Is this true?"
"Firstly, they are tenants, not serfs," you reply gently. "And secondly, it is true: they petitioned me to lower their rents and only agreed to stay when I did so."
Loch's customarily pacific face twists into something remarkably like a scowl. "In Antar, we would not accept such arrogance from our serfs. For one of no birth to impose himself upon a baneblooded master would be insolence of the highest degree. He would be lucky to escape with less than half a dozen strokes of great knout for his offence."
You have seen the device Loch speaks of during your time in Antar; a whip of hardened leather as long as a man is tall—more an instrument of torture or execution than of discipline. You cannot help but feel a shiver of revulsion at the thought of using such a terrible implement - one which makes the scourge used by the navy and the regiments of foot look like a mere string by comparison.
"You must remember, sir, that this is not Antar," you reply. "My tenants are not serfs. They have the right to petition—to 'make demands,' as you put it. If those demands are not met, then they have the right to leave."
The Antari frowns. "So in truth, it is they who give you orders?" He shakes his head. "Forgive me. I find this quite confusing. You provide the land they work and the cottages they live in, but still, it is they who dictate terms. You take on all the risk and gain nothing from it but the rent they pay—and even that is only because they wish to pay it to you. How is it fair that you, the lord, have so little power, and they, the rabble, have so much?"
[ ] [LOCH] "The Tierran aristocracy is meant to serve the people, not hold power over them."
[ ] [LOCH] "It is the price we pay to keep the common people content with the way of things."
[ ] [LOCH] "You are right. The commons are in much want of discipline."
[ ] [LOCH] "I have more power than one might think. It is merely more subtle in nature."
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] [LOCH] "The Tierran aristocracy is meant to serve the people, not hold power over them."
This is obviously so much bullshit, but it's exactly the kind of bullshit we believe.
This is obviously so much bullshit, but it's exactly the kind of bullshit we believe.
IamtooSleepy
I came here to be an ant
[X] [LOCH] "The Tierran aristocracy is meant to serve the people, not hold power over them."
Yeah, possibly the only one fitting our character, which funnily, still have more cynicism than idealism despite our attempt to steer it the other way.
Yeah, possibly the only one fitting our character, which funnily, still have more cynicism than idealism despite our attempt to steer it the other way.
Lords 1.12
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] [LOCH] "The Tierran aristocracy is meant to serve the people, not hold power over them."
Loch's brow furrows. "Now, I am sure I do not understand," he answers worriedly. "You speak of your baneless as if they are capable of thinking for themselves."
"Aren't they?" Even having spent more than a decade in their country, it sometimes surprises you just how differently the Antari think. "The baneless may lack the blood of command, but they are no less suitable for higher thought than the rest of us. They are just as capable of the generation of good ideas or bad ones. Our responsibility is merely to help them distinguish one from the other."
Loch shakes his head, more in confusion than disapproval. "Then things are indeed different here. In Antar, the serf is capable of no higher thought. His mind is only capable of understanding and fulfilling his animal needs and nothing else. To give such creatures power over their own futures is as foolish as giving a dog a loaded pistol."
"We are not in Antar," you reply simply.
"No," Loch says, letting out a resigned sigh. "I suppose we are not."
That afternoon, a courier arrives, wearing the blue coat of the Intendancy, riding hard at the gallop. He stays only long enough to drop off a parcel containing six months' half-pay, your annuity from the King, back issues of the Aetoria Gazette, and a letter from a sender you haven't had a word of in years.
The Dowager Viscountess Wolfswood.
My Lord Reddingfield,
One is obliged to offer the expression of utmost relief to hear that the Saints have preserved you from the perils of the war now most happily concluded, and to receive word that you have safely returned to your own seat. Likewise, one must also send her condolences for the loss of his lordship's father, and offer congratulations as to his own assumption of the seat.
Unfortunately, matters have not progressed greatly over the past few years regarding the matter in which you have so graciously offered his lordship's support. Despite the friendly replies of so many of the Army's officers, there has been little support for such a cause at home.
At least until recently.
It is much to one's satisfaction to relate that a number of very powerful figures have lately expressed interest in the cause of my son's elevation. We are organising now in the capital to secure the necessary support to bring matters to a satisfactory conclusion. If it is at all convenient to his lordship, one would implore him to join us. One hopes one might place her trust in his lordship, as one's son once did.
In hope and friendship,
Frederika d'al Hunter, Dowager Viscountess Wolfswood
So, it seems that the effort to raise your old commanding officer to Sainthood is progressing apace after all. Indeed, it seems to be going quite smoothly. If the Dowager's new allies are as powerful as she seems to imply, it may only be a matter of a few years more before the man you once knew as Colonel Hunter could be raised to that most exalted of memories—that of a Sainted Martyr of a Pantheon of the Red, with all the attendant honours and an order of knighthood sworn to uphold the example of his martyrdom.
Of course, if you intend to play any part in that going forward, then it appears you will have to go to the capital to do it.
And given the sort of news that the Gazette brings from Aetoria, the capital is hardly a tranquil place.
The other letter you receive makes that clear enough. It is a heavy, serious-looking thing, a thick envelope of rich paper, still bearing the scent of vanilla:
My Dearest,
I had hoped that with the war's end, we would be able to see each other more freely, but I fear that while your service has ended, mine has not. Were it of my choosing, you might be confident in harbouring no doubt at all that I would fly immediately to your side. Alas, I fear that I shall not have the liberty of such action for what will seem like far too long.
For the moment, I have been obliged to act as my father's courier, minding his interests in Aetoria while he pursues the Crown's interests in Leoniscourt. Thus, I am to be batted back and forth from one to the other like a shuttle betwixt battledores, at least until matters in the capital settle.
Unfortunately, it seems that such affairs are growing only more unstable. The King has sought to put the lessons of the war in Antar into practise, starting with a reform of the army. He has ordered a Royal Commission to study the possibility, to which I am told that Lady Welles and many officers of your acquaintance have already been invited. Indeed, I suspect the Crown would not be amiss in adding your own name to those of the commissioners.
The Crown could certainly use another Lord of the Cortes in support of the Commission, for the sentiment from the Duke of Wulfram and his supporters is so strongly against any manner of reform that they are likely to fight such a measure along every step of the way. There is even rumour that Wulfram intends to present his own budget when the Cortes opens—an usurpation of the King's privilege, to be sure, but one which has an alarming amount of support, especially since such a proposed budget is rumoured to include an end to the war taxes—to be paid for with the sharp reduction, or perhaps even abolishment of the army.
Needless to say, I see little chance of such a conflict ending quickly, not so long as Wulfram and the King's party are so evenly matched in the chamber. It would take a fresh influx of sensible men to break such an impasse, and unless one knows where such fellows might be found, I fear things will only get worse, and I shall continue to be relegated to my current obligations.
Until a solution may be found, I fear I can only hope that men of such constitution will find their way to the chamber, for the very instant they see the current debacle resolved, my thoughts shall be free to devote themselves wholly to you.
I remain,
Your Katarina
So Lady Katarina still remembers you as something more than a dalliance spent in a time of war, to be carried in a time of need and then forgotten. You're not sure how you feel about that.
[X] I consider the matter more thoroughly, thinking it all through.
There would be definite advantages to establishing yourself in Aetoria. You would not only be at the heart of the Unified Kingdom's political sphere but at the very centre of its high society, as well. Were you to remain on your estate, you would have a great deal of difficulty maintaining the friendship of many of those figures whom you won the acquaintance of over the past few years. If you were to maintain a residence in Aetoria, you have little doubt that it would be much easier to keep in contact.
You know Lady Katarina to have an Aetorian townhouse, and you would far rather she be half an hour's travel away than half a month.
Of course, there would be disadvantages as well. A townhouse befitting your status would cost a great deal of money to lease, and you would need to pay for domestics to staff it. Taken all together, the material burden of maintaining a presence in the capital may be enough to place significant pressure on your already precarious financial situation. You would almost certainly be required to take out additional loans, which may well prove most unsustainable.
Likewise, just as being a resident in the capital might make things easier, it would also make others considerably more difficult. You would certainly not be able to make any major changes to how your estate is run from the capital. Were there any sudden crises at home, you would have little control over matters, either. You would be in no position to secure a match for your sister unless you were to take her with you—something you doubt she'd accept.
There are, no doubt, other reasons as well, other considerations and consequences which you won't realise until long after your decision has been made.
But there is no helping that, you suppose. Right now, you shall have to make a decision either way.
[ ] [NEXT] The realm needs me; I must go to Aetoria and make my voice heard.
[ ] [NEXT] There's opportunity to be had in the capital, and I mean to seize it.
[ ] [NEXT] If I must go to the capital to help Hunter of Wolfswood become a Saint, then go I shall.
[ ] [NEXT] I can do more good at home than in the city.
[ ] [NEXT] Cortes politics seems a dangerous game - one I'd rather not play.
Loch's brow furrows. "Now, I am sure I do not understand," he answers worriedly. "You speak of your baneless as if they are capable of thinking for themselves."
"Aren't they?" Even having spent more than a decade in their country, it sometimes surprises you just how differently the Antari think. "The baneless may lack the blood of command, but they are no less suitable for higher thought than the rest of us. They are just as capable of the generation of good ideas or bad ones. Our responsibility is merely to help them distinguish one from the other."
Loch shakes his head, more in confusion than disapproval. "Then things are indeed different here. In Antar, the serf is capable of no higher thought. His mind is only capable of understanding and fulfilling his animal needs and nothing else. To give such creatures power over their own futures is as foolish as giving a dog a loaded pistol."
"We are not in Antar," you reply simply.
"No," Loch says, letting out a resigned sigh. "I suppose we are not."
That afternoon, a courier arrives, wearing the blue coat of the Intendancy, riding hard at the gallop. He stays only long enough to drop off a parcel containing six months' half-pay, your annuity from the King, back issues of the Aetoria Gazette, and a letter from a sender you haven't had a word of in years.
The Dowager Viscountess Wolfswood.
-
My Lord Reddingfield,
One is obliged to offer the expression of utmost relief to hear that the Saints have preserved you from the perils of the war now most happily concluded, and to receive word that you have safely returned to your own seat. Likewise, one must also send her condolences for the loss of his lordship's father, and offer congratulations as to his own assumption of the seat.
Unfortunately, matters have not progressed greatly over the past few years regarding the matter in which you have so graciously offered his lordship's support. Despite the friendly replies of so many of the Army's officers, there has been little support for such a cause at home.
At least until recently.
It is much to one's satisfaction to relate that a number of very powerful figures have lately expressed interest in the cause of my son's elevation. We are organising now in the capital to secure the necessary support to bring matters to a satisfactory conclusion. If it is at all convenient to his lordship, one would implore him to join us. One hopes one might place her trust in his lordship, as one's son once did.
In hope and friendship,
Frederika d'al Hunter, Dowager Viscountess Wolfswood
-
So, it seems that the effort to raise your old commanding officer to Sainthood is progressing apace after all. Indeed, it seems to be going quite smoothly. If the Dowager's new allies are as powerful as she seems to imply, it may only be a matter of a few years more before the man you once knew as Colonel Hunter could be raised to that most exalted of memories—that of a Sainted Martyr of a Pantheon of the Red, with all the attendant honours and an order of knighthood sworn to uphold the example of his martyrdom.
Of course, if you intend to play any part in that going forward, then it appears you will have to go to the capital to do it.
And given the sort of news that the Gazette brings from Aetoria, the capital is hardly a tranquil place.
The other letter you receive makes that clear enough. It is a heavy, serious-looking thing, a thick envelope of rich paper, still bearing the scent of vanilla:
-
My Dearest,
I had hoped that with the war's end, we would be able to see each other more freely, but I fear that while your service has ended, mine has not. Were it of my choosing, you might be confident in harbouring no doubt at all that I would fly immediately to your side. Alas, I fear that I shall not have the liberty of such action for what will seem like far too long.
For the moment, I have been obliged to act as my father's courier, minding his interests in Aetoria while he pursues the Crown's interests in Leoniscourt. Thus, I am to be batted back and forth from one to the other like a shuttle betwixt battledores, at least until matters in the capital settle.
Unfortunately, it seems that such affairs are growing only more unstable. The King has sought to put the lessons of the war in Antar into practise, starting with a reform of the army. He has ordered a Royal Commission to study the possibility, to which I am told that Lady Welles and many officers of your acquaintance have already been invited. Indeed, I suspect the Crown would not be amiss in adding your own name to those of the commissioners.
The Crown could certainly use another Lord of the Cortes in support of the Commission, for the sentiment from the Duke of Wulfram and his supporters is so strongly against any manner of reform that they are likely to fight such a measure along every step of the way. There is even rumour that Wulfram intends to present his own budget when the Cortes opens—an usurpation of the King's privilege, to be sure, but one which has an alarming amount of support, especially since such a proposed budget is rumoured to include an end to the war taxes—to be paid for with the sharp reduction, or perhaps even abolishment of the army.
Needless to say, I see little chance of such a conflict ending quickly, not so long as Wulfram and the King's party are so evenly matched in the chamber. It would take a fresh influx of sensible men to break such an impasse, and unless one knows where such fellows might be found, I fear things will only get worse, and I shall continue to be relegated to my current obligations.
Until a solution may be found, I fear I can only hope that men of such constitution will find their way to the chamber, for the very instant they see the current debacle resolved, my thoughts shall be free to devote themselves wholly to you.
I remain,
Your Katarina
-
So Lady Katarina still remembers you as something more than a dalliance spent in a time of war, to be carried in a time of need and then forgotten. You're not sure how you feel about that.
[X] I consider the matter more thoroughly, thinking it all through.
There would be definite advantages to establishing yourself in Aetoria. You would not only be at the heart of the Unified Kingdom's political sphere but at the very centre of its high society, as well. Were you to remain on your estate, you would have a great deal of difficulty maintaining the friendship of many of those figures whom you won the acquaintance of over the past few years. If you were to maintain a residence in Aetoria, you have little doubt that it would be much easier to keep in contact.
You know Lady Katarina to have an Aetorian townhouse, and you would far rather she be half an hour's travel away than half a month.
Of course, there would be disadvantages as well. A townhouse befitting your status would cost a great deal of money to lease, and you would need to pay for domestics to staff it. Taken all together, the material burden of maintaining a presence in the capital may be enough to place significant pressure on your already precarious financial situation. You would almost certainly be required to take out additional loans, which may well prove most unsustainable.
Likewise, just as being a resident in the capital might make things easier, it would also make others considerably more difficult. You would certainly not be able to make any major changes to how your estate is run from the capital. Were there any sudden crises at home, you would have little control over matters, either. You would be in no position to secure a match for your sister unless you were to take her with you—something you doubt she'd accept.
There are, no doubt, other reasons as well, other considerations and consequences which you won't realise until long after your decision has been made.
But there is no helping that, you suppose. Right now, you shall have to make a decision either way.
[ ] [NEXT] The realm needs me; I must go to Aetoria and make my voice heard.
[ ] [NEXT] There's opportunity to be had in the capital, and I mean to seize it.
[ ] [NEXT] If I must go to the capital to help Hunter of Wolfswood become a Saint, then go I shall.
[ ] [NEXT] I can do more good at home than in the city.
[ ] [NEXT] Cortes politics seems a dangerous game - one I'd rather not play.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] [NEXT] The realm needs me; I must go to Aetoria and make my voice heard.
- Pronouns
- He
[X] [NEXT] The realm needs me; I must go to Aetoria and make my voice heard.
[X] [NEXT] The realm needs me; I must go to Aetoria and make my voice heard.
Ironically, a really successful countryside playthrough almost benefits more from high Charisma than a city one.
Ironically, a really successful countryside playthrough almost benefits more from high Charisma than a city one.
Lords 1.13
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] [NEXT] The realm needs me; I must go to Aetoria and make my voice heard.
True, your estate may need your steady hand to prosper. True, it bodes ill to leave your business unfinished here. Yet some things are bigger than one man, one estate, one poor barony far from the halls of power. Tierra is in a time of crisis, and in such a time, it is your obligation to do what you can to preserve its institutions, its security, and its liberties. The oath you swore before the King and the Cortes binds you to it. Your honour compels you to it.
You are a Lord of the Cortes. Your duty is to the Unified Kingdom first and to your own interests second. That is not a duty you mean to shirk.
You fold up your copy of the Gazette and call your family and staff. You have an announcement to make:
You are heading back to Aetoria.
True, your estate may need your steady hand to prosper. True, it bodes ill to leave your business unfinished here. Yet some things are bigger than one man, one estate, one poor barony far from the halls of power. Tierra is in a time of crisis, and in such a time, it is your obligation to do what you can to preserve its institutions, its security, and its liberties. The oath you swore before the King and the Cortes binds you to it. Your honour compels you to it.
You are a Lord of the Cortes. Your duty is to the Unified Kingdom first and to your own interests second. That is not a duty you mean to shirk.
You fold up your copy of the Gazette and call your family and staff. You have an announcement to make:
You are heading back to Aetoria.
Lords 2.01
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Chapter II
Wherein the LORD OF THE CORTES returns to the city of AETORIA and establishes himself therein.
Wherein the LORD OF THE CORTES returns to the city of AETORIA and establishes himself therein.
The process of announcing your decision is a simple enough affair. You gather everyone who might need to know in the Great Hall and inform them that in a week's time, you will be heading back to Aetoria. Nobody objects. After all, you are Lord Reddingfield and head of your house. Who is anyone to question how you exercise your prerogatives?
Yet a rather thornier question remains: who is to replace you? Not as Baron Reddingfield, of course, but as the senior administrator of your fief. With you in the capital, the day-to-day responsibility of actually running your estate will have to fall to another, and it will be their temperament and decisions which are likely to decide just how your lands are to develop—if they are to develop at all.
Saundersley is perhaps an obvious choice. He acted in the capacity of estate manager in the years after your father's death. You cannot say that he's done particularly poorly, but that doesn't mean you don't have some reservations. For all of his education and experience in matters of the law, Saundersley is still baneless. While it isn't unusual for a commoner of sufficient learning to manage a noble estate, and while his low birth may not impact his ability to tally sums and keep records, you cannot doubt that without a Baneblood's natural affinity for command, he may prove to be a poor man in the case of a major crisis.
Your brother is the other obvious choice. As both your blood sibling and your current heir, he's almost made for the role. However, there is the distinct worry that your brother will give way overmuch to the more forceful personalities of your mother and sister. In truth, given your brother's rather accommodating tendencies, it might be more accurate to say that it is the women of your family who, for good or ill, would be making the real decisions, with your brother as a cipher so that the more hidebound elements of society are not over-horrified by the idea of a baron's authority being openly wielded by two women.
And there is another option. Karol of Loch may be new to your country, but he's still a gentleman of the blood and a man who once held a fief of his own. Despite his occasional difficulty in coming to terms with Tierra's traditions and laws, you know him to be diligent, conscientious, honest, and most importantly, in desperate want of employment. He would certainly not be the conventional choice, but when it comes to experience in the administration of a landed estate, you will likely find no better.
[ ] [MANAGER] Saundersley will manage my estate.
[ ] [MANAGER] I will leave the management of my estate to my brother, Karl.
[ ] [MANAGER] I appoint Loch as my estate manager.
IamtooSleepy
I came here to be an ant
...I hope our creditor will have mercy on us and our poor wallet since we will be bleeding even more money than we already have.
[x] [MANAGER] I appoint Loch as my estate manager.
Now, I know Loch can be a little bit (a lot) classist and may have a different conception and expectation of, eh, rural administration, but he have the most experience doing this while also somewhat acceptable to the other Tierran baneblooded aristocrats.
[x] [MANAGER] I appoint Loch as my estate manager.
Now, I know Loch can be a little bit (a lot) classist and may have a different conception and expectation of, eh, rural administration, but he have the most experience doing this while also somewhat acceptable to the other Tierran baneblooded aristocrats.
He is also like, the only one who actually accommodate refugee when they came and his obsession on fortification is going to be really helpful when we eventually eat "We are not in Antar."
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] [MANAGER] I appoint Loch as my estate manager.
Lords 2.02
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] [MANAGER] I appoint Loch as my estate manager.
Loch meets your decision with tight-jawed apprehension.
"You are certain?" he asks quietly the moment he's able to speak with you in private.
When you assure him that you mean the appointment in earnest, his shoulders sag in relief. The job is one far below the station of such a fellow and its income of fifty crown a year is likely only a pittance compared to the value of the estate he left behind in Antar, but it is meaningful employment, and it does provide an income, and to Loch, that seems to be all that matters. "I am not in my country," he replies determinedly, "but I will do my best to ensure that it prospers as if it were."
The next week passes in a whirlwind of activity as you pack and prepare for your voyage. You must not only stow away the provisions and amenities which you'll need for the journey, but also all the clothes, documents, and other implements which you might need in the capital. Beyond that, there's also the matter of ensuring your domestics know their business, briefing your new estate manager on the current state of your lands, and otherwise preparing the estate for your extended absence.
Then, at long last, your coach is piled high with boxes and bags as you climb aboard and set off on your long trip to Tannersburg and thence by ship to Aetoria.
Your staff seems genuinely displeased to see you leave, and when you pass the market square of Reddingfield village, a not-insubstantial crowd forms to cheer you on. You swell with no small amount of pride to know that you've won the love of so many of your tenants in so short a time. You can only hope that once news of your exploits in the capital reaches their ears, they will be prouder still.
But there's little you can do about such matters now, short of turning yourself around and returning home. You force yourself to think not of what you're leaving behind but of the long road ahead.
You begin your journey with no small amount of apprehension. If the reports and the Gazette are to be believed, then the country roads are not as safe as they were in your youth, or even as safe as they were last autumn. Rumours abound of Roadsmen—folk driven by poverty and desperation to rob travellers on the roads. With only your coachman for company, you travel with a brace of pistols and your sabre close at hand, along with a broad-bladed hunting knife tucked away in your belt.
You keep a careful eye on your surroundings as you set off into the wilderness, watching with a practised eye for any potential ambush as you keep your weapons at the ready. Once or twice, you see the already decaying remnants of men hanging from the trees, placards around their stretched and rope-bound necks declaring their crimes to all who pass. Yet you know that for every roadsman caught, there could be another dozen still prowling through the trees. You do not slacken in your vigil.
At least, not at first.
It is easy, in the beginning, to keep your pistols cocked and loaded and to watch the road ahead, but as the days pass, it becomes more and more of an effort to keep your attention. The task, at first so similar to the familiar obligation of keeping watch over a cavalry patrol, soon devolves into an increasingly onerous reminder as to why, in particular, sentries are rarely expected to stand watch for longer than eight hours at a time. Day after day, from the minute you set out to the minute you arrive at the next coach house or traveller's inn, you keep watch as best you can, but as the journey continues, you find yourself physically compelled to look away and rest your eyes, if only for a few minutes.
So naturally, it is during one of these moments of respite that you suddenly find your coach jerking to a stop. Your nerves frayed and your mind exhausted, you barely even register the change before the door of your carriage is pulled open to reveal a stout, unshaven man with the ragged remnants of a burnt-orange coat around his shoulders.
And a pistol aimed at your face.
He is not alone. You see the shapes of two other similarly dressed men standing in the brush, one of them with a long infantry musket in his hands pointed at your coachman. Their weapons are steady in their hands. These men are no amateurs, at least when it comes to this sort of work.
"My deepest apologies, milord," their leader says, his rough-accented voice deferential to the point of mockery. "I regret to inform you that there is now a toll for passage along this road."
You reply with a cold stare. If he thinks you are to be intimidated by his little farce, then he's quite mistaken. You've had pistols pointed at your face before.
For a moment, the roadsman only returns a blank, somewhat bemused stare. Evidently, he's used to accosting a rather different sort of traveller along these roads. If only for a moment, he seems not quite sure what to do. It is a small victory, but you don't allow yourself to get lost in self-congratulation. For all of his momentary confusion, your attacker's hand holds steady, and his eyes are sharp and hard. One squeeze of his finger and all the small victories in creation will mean damned little.
"Look, milord. I ain't want to make this difficult," your assailant finally says, made at last to speak plain. "You step outside, we take your coin, and then we send you on your merry way, unharmed. It won't take longer than a few minutes. Trust me—" He nudges his chin at the pistol still pointed squarely betwixt your eyes. "It will be far less unpleasant than the alternative. What do you say, milord?"
[ ] [ROADSMEN] I will not allow myself to be robbed by common thieves. I fight back!
[ ] [ROADSMEN] Perhaps I may talk these men down?
[ ] [ROADSMEN] What choice do I have but to do as he says?
Loch meets your decision with tight-jawed apprehension.
"You are certain?" he asks quietly the moment he's able to speak with you in private.
When you assure him that you mean the appointment in earnest, his shoulders sag in relief. The job is one far below the station of such a fellow and its income of fifty crown a year is likely only a pittance compared to the value of the estate he left behind in Antar, but it is meaningful employment, and it does provide an income, and to Loch, that seems to be all that matters. "I am not in my country," he replies determinedly, "but I will do my best to ensure that it prospers as if it were."
The next week passes in a whirlwind of activity as you pack and prepare for your voyage. You must not only stow away the provisions and amenities which you'll need for the journey, but also all the clothes, documents, and other implements which you might need in the capital. Beyond that, there's also the matter of ensuring your domestics know their business, briefing your new estate manager on the current state of your lands, and otherwise preparing the estate for your extended absence.
Then, at long last, your coach is piled high with boxes and bags as you climb aboard and set off on your long trip to Tannersburg and thence by ship to Aetoria.
Your staff seems genuinely displeased to see you leave, and when you pass the market square of Reddingfield village, a not-insubstantial crowd forms to cheer you on. You swell with no small amount of pride to know that you've won the love of so many of your tenants in so short a time. You can only hope that once news of your exploits in the capital reaches their ears, they will be prouder still.
But there's little you can do about such matters now, short of turning yourself around and returning home. You force yourself to think not of what you're leaving behind but of the long road ahead.
-
You begin your journey with no small amount of apprehension. If the reports and the Gazette are to be believed, then the country roads are not as safe as they were in your youth, or even as safe as they were last autumn. Rumours abound of Roadsmen—folk driven by poverty and desperation to rob travellers on the roads. With only your coachman for company, you travel with a brace of pistols and your sabre close at hand, along with a broad-bladed hunting knife tucked away in your belt.
You keep a careful eye on your surroundings as you set off into the wilderness, watching with a practised eye for any potential ambush as you keep your weapons at the ready. Once or twice, you see the already decaying remnants of men hanging from the trees, placards around their stretched and rope-bound necks declaring their crimes to all who pass. Yet you know that for every roadsman caught, there could be another dozen still prowling through the trees. You do not slacken in your vigil.
At least, not at first.
It is easy, in the beginning, to keep your pistols cocked and loaded and to watch the road ahead, but as the days pass, it becomes more and more of an effort to keep your attention. The task, at first so similar to the familiar obligation of keeping watch over a cavalry patrol, soon devolves into an increasingly onerous reminder as to why, in particular, sentries are rarely expected to stand watch for longer than eight hours at a time. Day after day, from the minute you set out to the minute you arrive at the next coach house or traveller's inn, you keep watch as best you can, but as the journey continues, you find yourself physically compelled to look away and rest your eyes, if only for a few minutes.
So naturally, it is during one of these moments of respite that you suddenly find your coach jerking to a stop. Your nerves frayed and your mind exhausted, you barely even register the change before the door of your carriage is pulled open to reveal a stout, unshaven man with the ragged remnants of a burnt-orange coat around his shoulders.
And a pistol aimed at your face.
He is not alone. You see the shapes of two other similarly dressed men standing in the brush, one of them with a long infantry musket in his hands pointed at your coachman. Their weapons are steady in their hands. These men are no amateurs, at least when it comes to this sort of work.
"My deepest apologies, milord," their leader says, his rough-accented voice deferential to the point of mockery. "I regret to inform you that there is now a toll for passage along this road."
You reply with a cold stare. If he thinks you are to be intimidated by his little farce, then he's quite mistaken. You've had pistols pointed at your face before.
For a moment, the roadsman only returns a blank, somewhat bemused stare. Evidently, he's used to accosting a rather different sort of traveller along these roads. If only for a moment, he seems not quite sure what to do. It is a small victory, but you don't allow yourself to get lost in self-congratulation. For all of his momentary confusion, your attacker's hand holds steady, and his eyes are sharp and hard. One squeeze of his finger and all the small victories in creation will mean damned little.
"Look, milord. I ain't want to make this difficult," your assailant finally says, made at last to speak plain. "You step outside, we take your coin, and then we send you on your merry way, unharmed. It won't take longer than a few minutes. Trust me—" He nudges his chin at the pistol still pointed squarely betwixt your eyes. "It will be far less unpleasant than the alternative. What do you say, milord?"
[ ] [ROADSMEN] I will not allow myself to be robbed by common thieves. I fight back!
[ ] [ROADSMEN] Perhaps I may talk these men down?
[ ] [ROADSMEN] What choice do I have but to do as he says?
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[ ] [ROADSMEN] Perhaps I may talk these men down?
If this fails does it have some special failure state, or do we just give them our coin anyways? Our Soldiering shouldn't actually be that bad--like, the 30s is still "has military training" but not high enough I'd say to trust for this.
...the only chance we have to talk them down is if they're soldiers and we can appeal to the fact of who we are. Reputation? If not we're probably fucked there.
If this fails does it have some special failure state, or do we just give them our coin anyways? Our Soldiering shouldn't actually be that bad--like, the 30s is still "has military training" but not high enough I'd say to trust for this.
...the only chance we have to talk them down is if they're soldiers and we can appeal to the fact of who we are. Reputation? If not we're probably fucked there.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The latter. Honestly, you don't have enough Charisma to talk down someone who has you at gunpoint, nor do you have enough Soldiering (or a big enough gun) to blast your way out of trouble. It's only 20 crown, but I'm presenting you this choice to further characterize Lord Reddingfield.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] [ROADSMEN] Perhaps I may talk these men down?
It's going to fail, but while he is a "philosophical automaton" as I once said, I feel like he's also someone who from his deeds and words believes that there are ties he has to the various lower orders (however he might call him) and indeed to soldiers that might overcome any awkwardness.
That he's completely wrong here doesn't mean that he wouldn't give it a try, I think.
It's going to fail, but while he is a "philosophical automaton" as I once said, I feel like he's also someone who from his deeds and words believes that there are ties he has to the various lower orders (however he might call him) and indeed to soldiers that might overcome any awkwardness.
That he's completely wrong here doesn't mean that he wouldn't give it a try, I think.
[X] [ROADSMEN] Perhaps I may talk these men down?
Yeah, not getting the runegun was the one choice we got objectively wrong.
IamtooSleepy
I came here to be an ant
[X] [ROADSMEN] Perhaps I may talk these men down?
We can't even humble brag them about leading Forlorn Hope, this suck. Also, the dialogue from successful check is really good for showing how horrible the situation are for the returning enlisted/conscripted soldiers.