[X] I should work towards increasing my stature within the Shipowners Club.
[X] I must turn my attention to the Army Reform Commission.
[X] It has been some time since I've spoken to Lord Cassius…
[X] I work towards swaying my fellow club members towards the King's faction.

Maybe?
 
Lords 4.05
[X] I should work towards increasing my stature within the Shipowners Club.

To further one's reputation within a club is both a simple and a complex undertaking.

A record of good behaviour and loyalty is, of course, important. To show up to club dinners and speak up at meetings, and not do anything disastrously scandalous, yes, all that stuff is quite needed, but that alone will only serve to maintain one's good standing, not to improve it. While it is certainly a thing of value to be accorded a "good fellow" by one's fellow club members, that isn't enough to propel one to a position of weight. The clubs of Aetoria are full of "good fellows," after all, and to do more means to go beyond that minimal requirement.

What that means, however, differs from club to club. And for you, that means investing.

In the Shipowners Club, there are only two measures by which the importance of a given member is quantified: the amount of money he has invested at any given time, and the amount of money he has made through successful investments. You have neither one nor the other, which places you at the very bottom of the club's hierarchy.

That is something you very quickly endeavour to change.

You begin with relatively small investments at first, a dozen crown here, a score there, less out of any expectation of profit and more to gain an understanding of how the process of investment works. With Master Blanco serving as your guide, you quickly grasp the basics, the trends by which one might distinguish a likely profitable enterprise from an obviously doomed one. As your confidence grows, you begin to take on more risky investments, sometimes even against the advice of some of your fellow club members.

At last, you decide to make your greatest gamble of all: on one day, you invest a fortune into a combination of half a dozen trading voyages. Almost none of the money is yours, and most of it is borrowed, short-term, at tremendous interest rates. It's a terrible risk, but you know that such recklessness is the swiftest way to win the Shipowners Club's respect—or its ridicule.

Four of the voyages end at a loss. A fifth barely breaks even. But the sixth makes back all your losses, and then some. By the time the loans are repaid and the accounts are settled, you record a profit of nearly five hundred crown.

It is, all in all, quite the coup, not only in the money that you've gained but in the regard which you've won in the eyes of your fellow club members. You staked a fortune, and you have won.

That, if nothing else, makes you one of them.

-​

Slowly, rains of spring begin to give way to the heat of summer. Aetoria swells as thousands flood through the gates and arrive at the port each day. They're here to partake in the social season, or sit in the Cortes, or to serve those who will. Soon, the streets are once again packed with pedestrians, palanquins, and coaches, covering up the last signs of the winter's grisly harvest under half a million footfalls.

In cafes and the common rooms of city clubs, broadsheets are devoured with a voraciousness which the city has rarely seen before. With the Cortes open, all are waiting for the main event: the day when the Duke of Wulfram means to present his budget to the chamber. It has become an interest which extends far beyond the rarefied levels of Aetoria's political class. For those who remember the all-too-recent image of bodies piled high on icy street corners, the repeal of the war taxes has become a matter of life and death.

Yet Wulfram doesn't move. As the days grow hotter and longer, the question spreads to everyone's lips. Why doesn't Wulfram move?

And how will you spend your time until he does?

[X] I must turn my attention to the Army Reform Commission.

Fortunately, the situation of the Army Reform Commission's location has been much improved. The members of the Commission are no longer required to meet in the sweltering interior room that was used in the year previous. Instead, the Commission has been allowed a well-ventilated, airy hall on one of the upper floors, with a fine view of the Southern Keep and the land walls.

Unfortunately, everything else in regards to the Commission seems much the same.

"…while I certainly do not mean to impugn the competence of the many courageous officers who commanded troops and companies in Antar, I do believe that it was those with the wider view of the situation who would naturally possess the best perspective," Baron Hawthorne concludes, well into the third hour of the Commission's first meeting of the year. "Naturally, it is their recollections which must form the foundation of any report this Commission is to draft!"

You must admit, it has been a rather disheartening experience so far. Though you arrived at this meeting with some hope for progress, the whole of the Commission has already gotten bogged down in the first major question on its agenda: whether the Commission's report should be based primarily upon the study of the accounts of the senior officers who held high command during the war in Antar, or—

"Ain't say I approve of that," Lord Palliser replies, his drawl almost cracking under what must be either boredom or frustration. "T'was lieutenants and captains wot did all the killing work. Saw more action in a week leadin' a troop than in two years leadin' a brigade. If we's mean to turn the army into a better fightin' force, it seems quite reasonable to me we rely upon the knowledge of the men who did most of the fightin'."

Lord Hawthorne opens his mouth to reply, but it's the Earl of Castermaine who speaks first. "I beg your pardon, my lord, but I do believe you are mistaken." He stands up from his seat, drawing all eyes to him. "When a company of foot go into battle, it is the officer who leads them, but the fighting is done by the men who follow. If we are to seek wisdom from those who have fought the most and the hardest, then it ought to be they we look to. Not to captains or even lieutenants, but to sergeants, corporals, and the common soldier!"

A moment of confusion greets Castermaine's words. For all of his known qualities, the Earl has never been known to be a particular friend of the rank and file. Yet even this mutual bemusement cannot halt the course of faction forever. Before long, the room is back in its former state of chaos, the same three-way argument which seems to have become the Commission's natural state.

Had any one faction possessed a preponderance in numbers or the prominence of its members, such an unstable equilibrium would have naturally upended itself with time, but as things are, the three sides are almost perfectly balanced. Palliser and his case for looking to the experiences of the junior officers have the support of a great many relatively senior officers, yet Hawthorne has Countess Welles in his corner, and that gives his side and the argument for going on the advice of more senior officers no less weight. In turn, Castermaine's supporters are the smallest group of all, but the Earl himself is perhaps the most distinguished soldier in the room, and certainly one of the most experienced, giving his own argument to seek out the experiences of the common soldiery just enough force to remain in the running.

Finally, one of Palliser's supporters seems to lose his patience. "A vote!" he shouts. "If we cannot settle this through discussion, then let us put it to a vote!"

That proves to be the one thing which everyone seems actually able to agree upon. Quickly, the room falls into a tense silence. With the three sides so evenly balanced, it isn't certain whether any faction will have a winning tally. All depends on what side the few remaining undecided members will choose. The matter may even be decided by a single vote.

Perhaps even yours.

[X] All three make strong arguments, but I wonder as to their motives.

The question of who to prioritise as a source of testimony seems like a strange cause for so heated a debate at first, but the more you think upon the matter, the more you're convinced that Hawthorne, Palliser, and Castermaine all must have their reasons for arguing the way they do.

Lord Hawthorne's motives are obvious enough, you think. You've learned from your own experience that the higher one rises within the army's ranks, the greater the responsibility one receives for matters of organisation and supply, and the more such considerations become one's chiefest concerns. Naturally, if the records of any wartime experiences are to provide the strongest agreement with the priority of Hawthorne and his allies, then it will be those written by the commanders of regiments and brigades, not troops and companies.

Lord Palliser's motives, on the other hand, seem far more murky to you. Surely, it must have something to do with his desire to reform the fighting components of the army, but you're not quite sure how, precisely, the choice of testimony to be examined might affect the wider debate one way or the other.

As for Castermaine, his motives pose the greatest puzzle of all. If anything, you would have thought that he would support Harthorne in his argument, given his well-known penchant for meticulous preparation and taking pains. Yet instead, he has seemingly done the exact opposite, pushing not for the examination of the records of the most senior soldiers in the army, but the most junior.

You're sure it must have something to do with obstructing the Commission's work, though if that were the case, then you don't know why he doesn't simply refuse to allow any testimony at all.

Perhaps you'll find out, if he were to win the vote…

[ ] [REFORM] Hawthorne is right. It is the senior officers who best know the science of war.
[ ] [REFORM] We'll learn the most from the experiences of the junior officers. I vote with Palliser.
[ ] [REFORM] It is time for the common soldier to be heard. I vote with Castermaine.
 
[X] [REFORM] We'll learn the most from the experiences of the junior officers. I vote with Palliser.

I secretly think Hawthorne is probably right, but a reform of the logistics corps doesn't really help us personally because it's unlikely to lead to new guns for everyone.
 
Bright side, being at the battle means we have a little more influence to throw around. Doing the fortress means that the intelligence community is grateful, but the regular army people are less certain of your qualities.
 
Bright side, being at the battle means we have a little more influence to throw around. Doing the fortress means that the intelligence community is grateful, but the regular army people are less certain of your qualities.
Allow me to add some additional insight regarding how the endgame of Guns affects the Army Reform Commission.

At the Second Battle of Kharangia, Sir Alaric commanded the Royal Dragoon Regiment as the most senior cavalry officer in Cunaris's brigade. However, if Sir Alaric had chosen to accept Katarina's second mission, who would command the cavalry?

Certainly not Cazarosta. In response to you leaving, an entire regiment of cavalry would be transferred from Palliser's brigade to prevent a deathborn-bastard from taking overall command of Cunaris's cavalry. The extra reinforcement means that all three of the non-Dragoons who could've died at Second Kharangia - Lord Hugh, Marcus d'al Havenport, Lady Welles - survive without your intervention, but also makes the climactic cavalry charge led by Palliser take longer. This results in the deaths of many of the officers who would've gone on to support Army reform on the commission, giving Castermaine and his bloc the upper hand.
 
Allow me to add some additional insight regarding how the endgame of Guns affects the Army Reform Commission.

At the Second Battle of Kharangia, Sir Alaric commanded the Royal Dragoon Regiment as the most senior cavalry officer in Cunaris's brigade. However, if Sir Alaric had chosen to accept Katarina's second mission, who would command the cavalry?

Certainly not Cazarosta. In response to you leaving, an entire regiment of cavalry would be transferred from Palliser's brigade to prevent a deathborn-bastard from taking overall command of Cunaris's cavalry. The extra reinforcement means that all three of the non-Dragoons who could've died at Second Kharangia - Lord Hugh, Marcus d'al Havenport, Lady Welles - survive without your intervention, but also makes the climactic cavalry charge led by Palliser take longer. This results in the deaths of many of the officers who would've gone on to support Army reform on the commission, giving Castermaine and his bloc the upper hand.

I think Lewes still dies, though.
 
Lords 4.06
[X] [REFORM] We'll learn the most from the experiences of the junior officers. I vote with Palliser.

An army's job, above all else, is to find and destroy the enemy. Its arrangements for organisation, movements, and supply are all incidental to that goal. If the army cannot fight, it is no army at all, and it is the junior officers who are the key to turning a mob of armed men in matching coats into a disciplined and motivated fighting force. Naturally, it should be they—you, no longer numbering yourself among them—who ought to be the key to the army's reform, for only they truly understand the army's main purpose.

So, when the vote is called, you raise your hand with Lord Palliser and his supporters.

It only takes a few seconds to tally the votes. With the Commission so small in number and the vote so open, it is almost literally a matter of counting on one's fingers.

Palliser's faction wins.

By one vote.

The next few weeks pass in regular meetings, as the Commission goes through vast numbers of reports, records, and dispatches to Grenadier Square, as well as the truly voluminous testimonies of those junior officers willing to offer up their own accounts of the war for the cause of army reform. Palliser leads the way, of course. Though he does so with more exuberance than clerical experience, the fact that much of the Commission—yourself included—had served as junior officers during the war does much to speed things along. References which would have been cryptic to an untrained eye are self-evident to the mind of one who has commanded a troop of cavalry, while you find that your mind proves almost supernaturally capable of parsing descriptions which have the few civilian members of the Commission scratching their heads in confusion.

What you find are revelations which are fit to make hardened soldiers sweat, the weaknesses of the army's fighting elements laid bare: faulty reconnaissance, unsuitable replacements, unwieldy regimental establishments, officers who are expected to take command of fighting men without the slightest hint of how to go about it. With distressing frequency, you find yourself exchanging worried glances with the men sitting next to you, as you all realise that the failures of command which you experienced in Antar were not isolated incidents, but part of a vast pattern of faults which had plagued the King's Army for the whole of the war, and may well plague it again in the next.

Before long, there's no question that the fighting elements of the King's Army are in desperate need of reform. Palliser and his supporters are on the ascendant now, their growing control over the Commission fuelled by the certain conviction of those who believe they're in the right. Before long, you suspect that they'll command the whole of the Commission's resources, directing all of its powers to the task of reforming the army's killing end—even if it means neglecting any effort to repair weaknesses elsewhere.

Perhaps it's for the best. If the Commission submits a report to the Cortes that is too broad in its recommendations, the chamber may dismiss it out of hand. A narrow focus might be exactly what is needed.

Or perhaps it's time that someone began setting limits on the influence of Palliser's faction, before it is able to control the Commission entirely. It is well into summer now, and Aetoria is full to bursting with hundreds of thousands of human bodies. Formerly empty townhouses are crammed with servants and their masters, and the market squares are packed full of stalls, shoppers, and suppliers. The streets ring with the roar of voices, the beat of footsteps, and the clatter of carriage wheels.

In six months' time, the city will seem empty again, when its seasonal population returns to homes in the country. But for now, the capital of the Unified Kingdom is a throbbing, vital organism, its thoroughfares the arteries through which tens of thousands course through under the heat of the summer sun.

The Cortes is in full swing now. Even the latest-arriving members have taken their seats. Among the city's politickal class, the tension has reached a fever pitch. For some, it seems as if they wake only to read the papers, to see if Wulfram has at last made his move. "Has he done it yet?" is the question on almost everyone's lips.

But he hasn't.

Which means you must find some way to occupy yourself until he does.

-​
While reviewing the code, I found that we don't have enough Charisma or influence with the Shipowners to convince the club to back the King. Thus, I've decided to take things to a runoff vote. Please select two of the following options.

[ ] I will pay a call on Countess Welles.
[ ] It has been some time since I've spoken to Lord Cassius…
[ ] Perhaps it is time to pay a visit to the Duke of Warburton…

[ ] I should host a few dinners, invite my neighbours, and gain their friendship.
[ ] I work towards swaying my fellow club members towards the King's faction. (You sure about this?)
[ ] I'll try to convince my fellow club members to back the Duke of Wulfram.

[ ] I endeavour to support the King and his faction.
[ ] The Duke of Wulfram and his faction will have my support.
[ ] My vote will be directed not by faction, but by my conscience.
[ ] No matter how difficult, I must try to avoid committing to either faction.
[ ] I mean to be mercenary and sell my vote to the highest bidder.

[ ] I should do what I can to support the cause of raising Hunter of Wolfswood to Sainthood.
 
[X] I endeavor to support the King and his faction.
[X] My vote will be directed not by faction, but by my conscience.


Either one.

[X] It has been some time since I've spoken to Lord Cassius…
 
[X] It has been some time since I've spoken to Lord Cassius…

[X] I should do what I can to support the cause of raising Hunter of Wolfswood to Sainthood.
 
Lords 4.07
[X] It has been some time since I've spoken to Lord Cassius…
[X] I should do what I can to support the cause of raising Hunter of Wolfswood to Sainthood.

It was over sixty years ago that King Edmund II began his grand scheme to rebuild Aetoria. Vast segments of the upper city were demolished. Entire neighbourhoods were swept away. Much of the Aetoria of Edwin the Strong, with its narrow, winding lanes and ramshackle, half-timber buildings, were chopped down and discarded.

In its place rose the upper city of the current day, the Aetoria which you've become accustomed to, the Aetoria of wide and rational streets, of elegant terraces and vast market squares. The effort had been ruinously expensive: thousands of workmen died in the doing of it. Nearly fifty thousand were displaced as their old homes were torn down and new ones erected in their place. Not until the late war against Antar would Tierra come so close to bankruptcy. For all that the capital's fine buildings might be praised and welcomed now, it was, at its time, considered a great folly, and you know that even now, there are parts of the Unified Kingdom where the crowned head behind the entire scheme is still known as Edmund the Fool.

King Edmund II's reasons for embarking upon such a grand and costly project were part of the reason it was looked upon as so foolhardy, for the driving objective of his entire reign had been to secure an alliance with the Takarans. All of the great enterprises of his two decades on the throne were directed towards the achievement of that objective. Aetoria was rebuilt not in the interests of public health, or that of the sovereign's vanity, but in the far-off hope that a grand capital would prove to the Aldkizern of Takara that the Unified Kingdom was a power not only worth acknowledging, but seeing as a worthy friend.

One of the chiefest elements in Edmund II's rebuilding also represented the motives behind it: a grand, almost monumental structure, intended to house a permanent embassy from Varsovia, the symbol of the Takaran alliance which King Edmund had hoped vainly to secure until the very moment he breathed his last. The King paid especial attention to its design, ordering his architect to replicate as best he could the architectural styles then current within Takara's own cities. Stone was imported from quarries on the Rusch and the Irrivian at great expense, simply to give the curving roofs and grand colonnades the right shade of grey.

The story went that the first of the Aldkizern's envoys who saw the building took one look at it and, in typical Takaran bluntness, immediately pronounced it a ridiculous travesty. It sat empty in the centre of the Castle Quarter for three generations, a monument to the failed ambitions of a long-dead King. Only now, half a century later, in the reign of that King's great-grandson, does a Takaran ambassador keep a court in the building which had been intended for him.

And it is he you mean to visit.


There are two guards at the wrought-iron embassy gate, clad in the dark-blue jackets and darkened breastplates of Takaran naval infantry. They stand at perfect attention to each side of the gate, the butts of their dragonlock carbines grounded on the cobblestones, their faces stony and pointed straight forward, even as their eyes seem to follow every movement before them.

One of them, you note somewhat idly, is a woman.

It's clear that they don't believe you when you step out of your coach and inform them that you're here on the ambassador's invitation, not even when you present Lord Cassius' visiting card. Perhaps they don't understand the custom. Perhaps they're similarly suspicious of all visitors.

It isn't until a third soldier arrives—a sergeant, perhaps—that you're finally able to make some headway. After a moment spent explaining yourself, again, the third guard orders the gates opened and brusquely commands you to follow. You do, happy enough just be finally getting somewhere.

You're led through a wide courtyard, through a pair of double doors into a grand entry hall opening into a massive atrium, its centre taken up by a great garden and pond. Your escort takes you up a wide, sweeping flight of stairs, then down a marble-floored corridor which seems to go on for at least a hundred paces before at last, you arrive at a rather substantial door. Without a word, the sergeant turns on his heel and walks off, leaving you before the entrance to the ambassador's office.

But you're not alone.

Leud, Lord Cassius' valet, stands guard outside. He bears himself with the straight-backed precision of a soldier, and an unfamiliar eye would have no doubt taken him for another guard. Only your own familiarity with the fellow and his livery really give him away.

He recognises you, too, as you approach him. With a deft precision, he turns the door handle and looks inside for an instant before turning back, then moving to bar your path with a single, gliding step.

"Apologies, mir hiir," he tells you in accented but perfectly correct Tierran. "His Excellency the Ambassador is currently…indisposed."

You're about to offer some reply when you hear a rough, almost sloppy voice shout something in Takaran from beyond the doorway. It takes a moment for you to realise that it belongs to Lord Cassius.

The manservant turns back and answers his principal's evident question with a note of…forbearance? Exasperation? Annoyance, even.

But when Lord Cassius casts a reply, it carries with it the force of a command. A slapdash, reckless sort of command, perhaps, but a command nonetheless. The manservant's shoulders sag, and his expression belies just how little he agrees with the order he's about to carry out. But he steps aside and begins to open the door nonetheless.

"I would be taking some care, miir hiir," he murmurs as you pass him by. "His Excellency the Ambassador has had a…difficult morning."

You wonder quite what he means by that.

As it turns out, you don't have to wonder for long.

The office of the Takaran Ambassador is a grand chamber in its own right: richly carpeted, high-ceilinged, its walls lined with bookshelves, its spaces populated with elegant furniture and lit by a row of monumental windows rising up from behind a heavily ornamented wooden desk worked over in silver with intricate inlays of nesting falcons, stately mountains, and cherry orchards in bloom. It's clearly an arrangement meant to inspire awe, for the whole design of the room seems to direct the eye to the seat where the Ambassador himself sits, haloed with natural light and surrounded by the symbols of the imperial power he represents.

At the moment, however, the effect is rather ruined by the languid form of the slim, blond figure lounging in that much-exalted Ambassador's chair. He holds a snifter half full of amber liquid in one hand, twirling it idly in the sunlight. The three bottles—two empty and one still half-full—on his desk and the smell of alcohol makes it quite clear that it is not his first.

Lord Cassius vam Holt has always appeared to you meticulous in his dress. Even in Antar, his uniforms and outfits were immaculate after a day's ride. Now, he sits in an almost impossible state of disarray, his waistcoat half-buttoned over an indifferently rumpled shirt, his golden hair barely displaying any vestige of a comb's disciplinary effects. His jacket, you see strewn carelessly over another chair, halfway across the room.

To be entirely frank, you're a little surprised he's still wearing trousers.

"Ah! Castleton! My friend!" he calls out, hauling himself into a position which might be considered upright and reaching for a second, empty glass. "Come! Have a drink with me!"

You look behind you to where a massive clock sits by the door, its face an ornate confection of silver and brass but still plainly readable. "It's barely ten o'clock," you point out. "Is it not a bit early in the day to be drinking?"

The Takaran Ambassador lets out a derisive snort as he flicks the empty glass across the desk's polished surface towards you. "Yes, because I quite clearly have so many things I must do today," he drawls, his answer dripping with sarcasm. "This is all I have left to amuse myself with, and by the Tree, I'm not meaning to do so without company if I have the option."

"Do you truly have no duties as Ambassador? None at all?" you ask. You find it hard to credit. The envoy of one of the greatest powers in creation, charged with representing his government's interests in one of its largest trading partners, and he has no constructive means to spend his time? The thought seems rather faintly ludicrous, to be entirely honest.

Lord Cassius replies with a noise that is half laugh and half sob. "Oh, the Ambassador has a great number of duties, all of which have been taken out of my hands," he explains as he pours you a glass. "Diplomacy is a matter of vital commercial interest, so my trade attaché handles it. I'd keep an eye on our fleet, but my military attaché insists she's far better suited for that job. You'd think I'd at least be allowed to keep an eye on the Kian, who your King has so graciously allowed to set up two blocks down the street, but no, my Imperial Intelligence liaison insists, that is her prerogative." His voice sharpens into a bitter, mocking edge. "Leave something useful for young Hiir vam Holt to do? No! He'll only make a fool of himself, just like they all say! He'll only shit his pants in public, or be caught trying to bend over a rosebush, or—"

A sound like a gunshot echoes through the room as Lord Cassius slams one hand down on the tabletop in anger, even as his other raises his glass to his lips. When he lowers it again, it is empty, and the anger on his face is replaced with an almost-manic gaiety.

"So no! I have nothing to do at all!" he declares, his voice brass-bright. "I'm bored out of my Tree-forsaken mind. So pull up a chair, have a drink, and ask me any kind of embarrassing question you want. If we're fortunate, neither of us will remember the answers tomorrow."

Well, if he insists…

Select three of the following options.

[ ] [HOLT] "What is your opinion of the Kian Ambassador, in any case?"
[ ] [HOLT] "Does your family know about your current…situation?"
[ ] [HOLT] "I've always wondered. What is Takara like?"
[ ] [HOLT] "What are your thoughts on us? In general, I mean."
[ ] [HOLT] "And what are your opinions of me?"
 
[X] [HOLT] "What is your opinion of the Kian Ambassador, in any case?"
[X] [HOLT] "I've always wondered. What is Takara like?"
[X] [HOLT] "What are your thoughts on us? In general, I mean."
 
It's disappointing that our Charisma is too low to push people to join our chosen faction, because Shipowners' Club is the one place where the swing voters of the Cortes congregate in significant numbers.
 
[X] [HOLT] "Does your family know about your current…situation?"
[X] [HOLT] "I've always wondered. What is Takara like?"
[X] [HOLT] "What are your thoughts on us? In general, I mean."
 
Lords 4.08
[X] [HOLT] "I've always wondered. What is Takara like?"
[X] [HOLT] "What are your thoughts on us? In general, I mean."
[X] [HOLT] "And what are your opinions of me?"
[X] [HOLT] "I've always wondered. What is Takara like?"

"It is…" Lord Cassius begins, only to find himself, for once in all of the time you've known him, short for words. "Well, if you'll imagine…" He shakes his head. "I think it would be best if you considered…"

He shakes his head again, more definitively this time. "Bah! It's impossible! How could I describe Takara to someone who's never been there? It's as if—" He throws up one hand, even as he pours himself a fresh glass with the other. "It's as if the very air is different. You wouldn't understand, I don't think, not unless you were seeing it through falkisch eyes."

"What about Tierra, then?" you ask. "Surely, if I cannot judge Takara through my recollections, you might judge Tierra through yours, having resided in both countries."

Lord Cassius nods as he sips from his glass. "Yes, that…that perhaps would be easier." He pauses to think for a moment. "I think the biggest difference is that you Tierrans, you're all so…stationary. You don't move towards any greater things. You all seem so content to live your lives as if it was the only thing you could do, it's—" He leans back, his finger stretched out as if picking out a distant point. "Yes, that's it. You lack ambition."

"Really?" you reply, a little surprised. "If it's anything we in Tierra lack, I do not think it's ambition—"

"Oh, but you do!" Lord Cassius exclaims. "When a man in Tierra is born a farmer, can he choose to become a lord? Can he choose to become a general? To sit in your Cortes? Can he marry a great lady? Change his fortunes? Counsel your King?" The Takaran shakes his head. "No, he can do none of those things. Worse yet, he doesn't even think about doing any of those things! Even in his darkest hour, he doesn't even think of seizing his destiny!"

"But a man's destiny is determined by his station!" you object, somewhat confused. "And it is the Saints who choose a man's station."

The Takaran empties his glass with one swallow, then almost-slams it onto the desktop. "Rubbish!" he exclaims. "A man is born to his station, but he must earn his destiny! In Takara, it doesn't matter if one is born poor or of no status, whether one is born sick, or slow, or man or woman. If one is born in the wrong district, or the wrong house, or even in the wrong body, it doesn't matter! Only strength of will and determination matters, for they are the only things needed to seize one's destiny, to do what they were meant to do in creation!"

He shakes his head once again. "This is all well known in Takara, in Butea too, I think," he continues. "Yet here in Tierra, you do not see this. You're all so trapped in your positions of birth, and despite all of your talents, you'll never surpass it." He levers himself up, almost out of his chair, until the light of the sun from the window shrouds him with a golden nimbus. "You must be taught!" he declares with a grandiosity which would have seemed comical from almost anyone else. "You must learn to seize your destiny, as we have!"

"And who will teach us?" you ask. "You?"

Lord Cassius breaks out into a wide grin. "Of course! A race has a destiny too, and it is ours to instruct, just as it is yours to learn."

[X] [HOLT] "What are your thoughts on us? In general, I mean."

Lord Cassius replies with a pained grin. "It would be…difficult to explain, especially to one of your race. Please, I do not mean offense, only that…you might not understand."

That just makes you more curious. "Try me."

The Takaran lets out a breath. He slowly pours himself another glass, then drains it in a single, long swallow.

"My father's ministry, the one that deals with you people, it's called the Ministry of Barbarian Affairs. You know that, of course. I suppose you're even insulted by it, but that is the fault of your pride, not any inaccuracy on your part." He raises a wavering hand to forestall any argument. "Can you deny it's true? You're all barbarians! Your government is completely controlled by the rich and powerful, who are only rich and powerful because of who their fathers were. You lock up your women in kitchens and bedrooms, and you don't even let them inherit property! Your streets are never washed, your food smells like it's already been eaten and vomited up once, and you'll murder each over the most arbitrary, ridiculous things. You're obsessed with petty, pointless pride, but you cannot even spare a thought to the honour of your country or your race. You're violent, ill-disciplined children, and you always smell like you need to bathe!"

Much of you wants to muster some sort of a reply, but any part of your mind which might do so is left reeling by the sheer force of what you can only describe as a frustrated torrent.

As for Lord Cassius himself, he's just shaking his head. "That is all they see, most Takarans. They take a glance at you, and they…" His hand twists in the air, as if grasping for words. "They write you off as animals, but—" He leans forwards, eyes bright with a fever glow. "I've seen what you're capable of, in your best moments. I've seen you act with a discipline and a sense of self-sacrifice which most of my people would think yours incapable of. In Antar, I saw your people fight with courage worthy of a Takaran. I've seen your potential, like the light of a smooth facet on an uncut gem."

He shakes his head again. "My father always told me that humans were like children. Always, I thought that was meant in contempt. But now that I've lived among you and seen the glimmers of what you're capable of becoming, of the race you might be one day, I think I understand what he really meant."

He leans in even closer, his eyes almost blazing. "Tree! Your people have greatness inside them!" he hisses, with all the excitement and conviction of a true believer. "Underneath all your faults, you're capable of wondrous things! If only you had someone to teach you how!"

[X] [HOLT] "And what are your opinions of me?"

"What is there to say?" Lord Cassius replies as he pours himself another glass. "Out of all of your people I have ever met, I think you're the one I would consider closest to a friend."

"I alone?" you ask. "Have you met no other so worthy?"

"There are others who possess qualities worth emulating, perhaps," the Takaran muses, somewhat erratically. "But they're virtues of birth or good fortune. They inherited their good points from their station or their teachers. They're actors following a script." He fixes you with a steady look. "They haven't seized their destinies, as you have."

"My destiny?" you ask. "What does that mean?"

Lord Cassius takes a deep swallow from his glass, then he holds it up until its remaining contents glitter in the sunlight. "You come from a very inferior breed, you know that?" he asks, with a meaning that's clearly rhetorical. "I've seen how the others of your sort act, puffed up with their own arrogance, using harsh words and empty gestures to shield their pride. That is the mould of your people, those who think themselves too great for honest labour and too small for kindnesses. But you!"

He points a finger at you, not in accusation but in praise. "You've broken free from what you were supposed to be, allowed yourself to think and act beyond what your breeding would tell you to! Even if you don't understand it, you have a destiny! And instead of pretending it doesn't exist, you move to seize it, as a Takaran would!"

He drains the rest of his brandy in a single, sharp motion. Then he reaches over, across the table, to put his hand on your shoulder. "You are what your people could be. And for that reason, you are my friend."

Lord Cassius seems about to say something further when suddenly, he stops himself. He blinks, once, twice, frozen still, jaw slightly slack as if he's come to a completely unexpected realisation.

"Listen, you aren't going to tell anyone else about this, are you?" he asks with a quaver in his voice that must either be apprehension or mockery. "Especially that girl with the dark hair, the one who was with us in Antar? I've been told that she's supposed to be quite pretty, by your standards."

"You may be assured of it," you reply. It's hardly as if you can say anything else. "I'll not speak of word of it to her, or anyone else."

"Good! Good!" the Takaran replies brightly before leaning in close, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. "You…ah, you know she's a spy, right?"

"I am aware," you answer, "though I—"

Before you can continue, Lord Cassius is already leaning back in his chair, letting the heavy piece of furniture tilt back precariously as he drains the last portion of brandy. For a moment, he stays in that undignified posture, his head tilted back, the empty bottle to his lips as his eyes flick from side to side, looking for a fourth bottle which is evidently nowhere to be found.

He leans forward again, the front legs of his chair and the empty bottle landing with a simultaneous thump. "Leud!" he shouts. "Leud!"

The door behind you opens quietly, just wide enough for Lord Cassius' manservant to peek his head through. "Iha, mir hiir?"

The Takaran ambassador says something in his own tongue. You recognise the word 'brandy,' but that is all. Almost immediately, Leud answers with a lengthy reply of his own, in a tone more fit for a parent admonishing a child than a servant addressing his master.

Lord Cassius answers back, angrily, half-rising from his chair. Leud seems to pay him no mind, answering in that same calm, soothing tone as he slips through the door, crosses the carpeted room, and begins to pick up the empty bottles, one by one. Then he turns to you.

"His Excellency the Ambassador is not in a state fit to receive visitors at the moment," he announces, as if the subject of his declaration were not three paces away from him.

As for Lord Cassius himself, his mouth is already half-open in objection, but it takes only one sharp look from his manservant to leave his shoulders sagging in defeat. "Yes, yes. I suppose that would be best. Good day, Alaric, and please, visit again before I die of boredom."

-​

Your subsequent visits follow a similar pattern. You learn to arrive expecting to find Lord Cassius in an inevitable state of inebriation. And likewise, you cultivate the expectation that your visits are not to be ended at his request, or yours, but at the discretion of his manservant, when he judges his impetuous charge to have at last proven no longer fit to be in even your company.

Yet even so, in between your arrival and your inevitable departure, you possess a most rare and extraordinary opportunity: to speak frankly with the envoy of the Takaran Emperor, without either diplomatic niceties or all but the most basic restraint. It isn't always a comfortable experience, but it is an elucidating one.

Yet as the weeks pass and your visits continue, Lord Cassius' own state seems to grow more and more dishevelled. Perhaps it is another sign of his growing trust in you, a loosening of the corset before one now deemed close enough to warrant witnessing it. Perhaps it's a sign of some greater deterioration, the same sort of directionless lethargy which you yourself have felt at times.

You can only hope that he finds some way out of it. It is high summer now, the apex of Aetoria's social season. Before long, the weather will begin to cool, and the days will begin to shorten. In what seems like only a few weeks, the city's temporary visitors will stream out of its gates and hit harbour quays like air from a sheep's bladder, leaving only its much-truncated shell to face the ravages of another winter.

Yet from the Cortes, there is still no news of upheaval, no call for a budget vote.

The Cortes must pass a budget before it dismisses, but neither Wulfram nor the King have presented one. Before long, they'll have no choice but to move forward.

But until they do, you must find some way to occupy yourself.

-​

[X] I should do what I can to support the cause of raising Hunter of Wolfswood to Sainthood.

You suppose it's always been obvious that a task so monumental as raising your old commanding officer to a position of eternal exaltation would be one which would require many great names acting in concert. For all that your own efforts towards that end have seemed a solitary enterprise betwixt you and the Dowager Viscountess, you never held any real illusions as to the fact that there would need to be a great many others taking up the same cause if it was to hold any prospect of success.

So you suppose it's only natural that you would eventually have to meet your fellows in the cause, if nothing else so that you may know the company in which you are to stand. So it is that you arrange your attendance at one of the meetings now ongoing in the capital, to greet your would-be allies in the flesh.

The meeting is set for the late afternoon in a townhouse in the very oldest part of the Castle Quarter, amid buildings which you suspect had survived Edmund II's plan for reconstruction by sole virtue of their pleasant and dignified appearance. If this is the residence of one of your fellows in the cause, then you suppose the Viscountess wasn't exaggerating when she mentioned powerful friends.

Indeed, when you're ushered past an entry hall lined with the green-and-white banners of House Hunter of Wolfswood and into the great hall, you find no shortage of important personages present. Colonel Lefebvre of the Grenadiers is here, of course, as are three or four other officers of the same regiment—men who served with the late Viscount Wolfswood as you did. There are leading men from all five of the city's fashionable clubs, and half a dozen other Lords of the Cortes as well.

And there is someone who could only be the Dowager Viscountess herself, slim and grey and ramrod straight, her sharp features softened by a quiet, melancholy dignity and underlined by a simple white dress of mourning.

And on her arm, playing the part of the chaperone…

"My lord Reddingfield," the Duke of Wulfram smiles as he and the Dowager approach. "Welcome. Allow me the great honour of introducing…"

You suppose you might have expected as much. Wulfram had been Wolfswood's liege lord, and you suppose that as far as powerful allies go, the Duke of Wulfram is certainly the mightiest you could imagine, short of the King himself.

You cannot deny at least some degree of comfort in the knowledge that your old commanding officer's bid for Sainthood is backed by one of the Dukes of the Unified Kingdom, and judging by the almost reverential manner with which the Dowager regards the Duke, you suspect that the sentiment is a shared one.

"His Grace has been most helpful in advancing our common cause," the Dowager states as the three of you circulate around the hall. "He has not only provided this townhouse for our use, but brought the attention and support of so many great names whom I couldn't have possibly imagined to be willing to contribute to such a cause." She shakes her head, a sad smile on her lips. "To know that my son was so well-loved by so many…"

Wulfram smiles back. "His virtues were great, my lady. It could only follow that he should be so well-admired. He set an example to us all, not merely through his sacrifice, but through the whole of his life before it. It ought only be fitting that such an example be held up for all, atop the most prominent of pedestals."

[X] "Did you know Lord Wolfswood well, Your Grace?"

Wulfram gives the question a long moment of thought. "We were of an age, he and I, and I suppose we were well enough acquainted, though our interests quite rarely converged." For an instant, he frowns, his eyes taking on a distant cast. "My father approved of him greatly, I daresay at times more greatly than he approved of me. That would certainly make us known to each other, but…" He shakes his head. "I admired his courage, his clarity of mind, the way that he could always seem to distinguish right from wrong. But I do not know whether that would be enough to qualify me as his friend."

"It did," the Dowager replies, with a warm smile and a look of resolution. "Of that you may be assured. My son considered you a man worth trusting, and it was no accident that I first applied to you for the details regarding his end."

For a moment, the old woman's words seem to have put the Duke of Wulfram into a state which not even the Cortes at full fury could manage: speechless. "I—thank you," he finally manages. "If that's the case, then he did me an honour I did not know I deserved."

[X] "Given Your Grace's opposition to the army, it is curious that you would champion a soldier's memory."

Wulfram shakes his head. "You are mistaken, my lord. I bear no grudge against the army, nor any officer or soldier within its ranks. I take issue only with the Crown's intention of retaining the war taxes to maintain it—and with its likely motives for doing so."

He glances at the Dowager for an instant. "Lord Wolfswood was more than just a soldier. He was a man of courage and convictions. One who saw the distinction betwixt right and wrong as clearly as one might see the distance between winter and high summer. He is an example worth emulating, and that would have been no different had he been a poet or a philosopher or a politician."

The Dowager gives the Duke a sad little look in return. "It would have been different, had he chosen a more peaceable course. He would still be with us."

"Take some consolation, my lady," Wulfram replies earnestly. "If we are successful here, Lord Wolfswood will be raised as an exemplar of all the manly virtues. He shall be a model to emulate forever more."

"Perhaps," the Dowager says with a slight, absent nod. "But you must forgive an old woman if such a notion seems a poor exchange for a son."

[X] "How shall matters progress from here?"

"Are you familiar with the process by which a Sainted Martyr is proclaimed, my lord?" the Dowager asks.

You nod without hesitation. The knowledge was drilled into your head as a boy, one of the most fundamental pillars of the faith which so few of your class truly follow. "A fire is lit to represent the candidate's bid for Sainthood, one which must be within clear sight of the chapter house of an existing order. The flame must be kept for a year and a day, which means it must be tended to and guarded from attack by those who would oppose the elevation of the candidate. Only then can the candidate be proclaimed as a Sainted Martyr."

"Then there is your answer," Wulfram replies. "If we are to see Lord Wolfswood become Saint Enrique, as he well deserves, then a fire must be lit and kept and guarded for a year and a day. Here in Aetoria, such a flame would be under the gaze of both the Order of Saint Joshua and the Order of Saint Octavia—but if we are to see it last the interval, then we must ensure that we have enough support to tend the flame—and most importantly, enough support to ward off any who might wish to see our effort fail."

"Fail?" The Dowager's eyes narrow. "But my son had no enemies. Who would wish such a thing?"

The Duke shrugs. "Perhaps those who might consider Lord Wolfswood unsuited for some reason, or those who would consider there already to be too many Knightly Orders in Tierra. Precautions must be made." He turns to you. "It is up to us, my lord, to gather support for this effort. To ensure that when the flame is lit, no one will be able to secure any support for extinguishing it. You must convince your fellows wherever possible to support this cause."

"And you, Your Grace?" you ask. "What shall you do?"

Wulfram offers you a confident look. "I have been blessed with a great fortune and a great name, and I intend to use both to my advantage. I have allies in the Cortes, some of whom you see here tonight. I shall rally the rest to this cause, to ensure that my close supporters in the Cortes will be my close supporters in this matter as well." He turns to the Dowager with a look of deepest sincerity. "You may rest assured, my lady. I shall ensure that the elevation of your son's sacrifice shall become integral to the cause of my faction."

And to whose greater benefit would that be, you wonder.

It seems rather convenient to you that by associating his own political faction with the effort to see Hunter of Wolfswood elevated to Sainthood, he would also be associating his own supporters with Lord Wolfswood's reputation, one which carries no small amount of weight amongst precisely the sorts of individuals normally ill-disposed towards the thrust of Wulfram's proposed policy. Had Wolfswood yet lived, you suspect that he would have been a perfect spokesman for Wulfram's cause. Dead, he's an even better one, without opinion or interest of his own to contradict that of any political master.

Indeed, as you continue to attend subsequent meetings, you notice the proportion of Wulfram's known political allies growing greater and greater—even as some of those you know to be supporters of the King's policy become rarer and rarer. Yes, it certainly seems as if Wulfram is co-opting the campaign to elevate your old commanding officer for the purposes of his own faction, an end which the Dowager Viscountess seems entirely unopposed to.

The question is, what do you mean to do about it?

After all, you cannot deny that you possess at least some small sympathy for the King's policy. You've made that clear enough through your actions. Yet if you commit yourself to advancing the cause of your old commanding officer's Sainthood, then you may well be strengthening the very forces arrayed against that same policy. If you intend to remain a partisan of the King, then it follows that you must disengage yourself at the very least.

Indeed, if you truly find yourself committed to the King's party, then perhaps you may even need to go a step further. If Wulfram intends on using Hunter of Wolfswood's memory as a weapon, then perhaps it would be necessary to deprive him of it, to ensure the campaign fails—no matter how much it might pain you to do so.

[ ] [SAINT] The Dowager's campaign will continue to have my support.
[ ] [SAINT] If Wulfram insists upon associating himself with this campaign, then I must oppose it.
[ ] [SAINT] If this cause is bound to become a political battleground, then I must withdraw from it.
 
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