[X] [SAY] "Perhaps you're right. We must prepare for the worst."
Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga
- Thread starter Rogue Attican
- Start date
- Pronouns
- He
[X] [SAY] "The Queen may yet force Wulfram to give way."
Honestly, most things in Guns and Lords are trade-offs. Sabres is the only game with severely unbalanced choices.
Lords 8.12
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] [SAY] "Perhaps you're right. We must prepare for the worst."
"We will have time yet, I think," Blaylock replies, your declaration having evidently put him in a thoughtful frame of mind. "We won't wake up tomorrow to see the city in flames."
"Then we must use our remaining time wisely," Sandoral adds, a surprising firmness in his voice. "We must continue to drill the men when we can and do our best to get them to trust one another. We may not be able to forge the sort of mutual loyalty which battle creates ahead of time, but we must ensure that Second Squadron is as prepared as possible when it is time to act."
Garret frowns. "Act how?"
"Saints be damned, Garret," Blaylock growls. "Speak plain, man."
"Clearly, if things go badly, neutrality will no longer be an option. Both factions will want us as an ally, and they would rather destroy us than have us as an enemy. In such a circumstance, we shall be forced to pick a side." Your second-in-command leans in closer, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "So my question is, if this fight does continue, if things do get worse, then where does the regiment stand?"
"We are a Queen's regiment," Blaylock answers, loudly and without hesitation. "She is our legal sovereign and General-Royal. Where she commands, we will follow."
"And if she were not?" Garret asks, his curious expression offering as much of an insinuation as his words. "If there was another who could lay claim to the same legitimacy, would you follow them instead?"
You're not sure what Blaylock is about to say, but judging by the look on his face, you suspect that it's either to be heated, treasonous, or both. "That's enough," you interject with all the firmness you can muster. "This conversation is heading onto dangerous ground, and I would prefer it not progress further." You stand up, a quiet signal that the time for discussion is at an end. "Gentlemen, we have work to do. We should get to it."
Sandoral nods his agreement and stands up after you. After a moment, Blaylock and Garret do the same.
There will be no more talk of this kind today.
But Captain Garret isn't quite finished yet.
"There's one more thing, sir."
You turn, leaving Sandoral and Blaylock to go on without you. "Yes?"
"Captain Hawkins," Garret replies. "You should know that he does not sit as easily under your command as you might perhaps wish."
Your eyes narrow. "What exactly do you mean by that?"
"Hawkins served as Cazarosta's second-in-command in Antar for six years. No other officer has lasted so long as Sir Caius' subordinate, not even close," Garret explains. "Hawkins may command Third Squadron now, but in his head, I suspect he still considers himself Cazarosta's deputy."
You answer your second with a steady look of your own. "That is no cause for alarm. Sir Caius and I understood each other well in Antar, and I am sure we still do. We collaborate easily enough, and I see no reason for conflict."
"Not yet," your subordinate replies, somewhat ominously. "That may change."
Bloody martyr, will the man talk plain just this once? "Captain Garret. What, precisely, are you trying to insinuate?"
"Insinuate? Nothing," Garret replies with a perfect mask of bland innocence. "I merely mean to appraise you of something which you may not be aware of, something which ought to be of great interest to you, given your current position."
"And what, precisely, is that supposed to mean?" you ask.
But it's too late. By the time the words come out of your mouth, Garret has passed you and is already well on his way to the parade ground.
Damn the man, it's almost as if he enjoys speaking in riddles, as if he delights in watching the vexation of those who supposedly command him. You suspect that he intends you to figure out the meaning of this enigmatic little exchange eventually, else he wouldn't have started it in the first place. You'll figure out what it means someday.
Just not today.
As the summer at last begins to turn, the violence on the streets grows worse.
Worse and more frequent.
Where a fortnight or even a month once went past without an incident grievous enough to require the presence of a full squadron, such instances become weekly occurrences as the heat of summer recedes and the first splashes of autumn rains fall over Aetoria. The immediate causes are varied enough as to beggar the imagination: a peaceful demonstration wandering into the wrong neighbourhood, an agitator on the wrong street, a loud argument in a park, a duel gone wrong, a pamphleteer seized in a square. Every time, it's something different.
And yet, every time, it is the same, whatever the inciting incident. By the time you arrive, it is Royalists and Wulframites assembled in number, weapons in hand and fury in their voices.
And every time, when you and your men arrive, it is you that both parties turn to, their expressions filled with anxiety and anticipation, waiting to see what you order your men to do…
[ ] [ORDER] We are the Queen's Dragoons; naturally, we must offer the Queen's partisans protection.
[ ] [ORDER] Wulfram's supporters have the right to protest and petition; they deserve our protection.
[ ] [ORDER] Keeping the peace means keeping apart those who would disrupt it, regardless of allegiance.
[ ] [ORDER] Each incident must be judged individually, independent of political circumstance or allegiance.
"We will have time yet, I think," Blaylock replies, your declaration having evidently put him in a thoughtful frame of mind. "We won't wake up tomorrow to see the city in flames."
"Then we must use our remaining time wisely," Sandoral adds, a surprising firmness in his voice. "We must continue to drill the men when we can and do our best to get them to trust one another. We may not be able to forge the sort of mutual loyalty which battle creates ahead of time, but we must ensure that Second Squadron is as prepared as possible when it is time to act."
Garret frowns. "Act how?"
"Saints be damned, Garret," Blaylock growls. "Speak plain, man."
"Clearly, if things go badly, neutrality will no longer be an option. Both factions will want us as an ally, and they would rather destroy us than have us as an enemy. In such a circumstance, we shall be forced to pick a side." Your second-in-command leans in closer, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "So my question is, if this fight does continue, if things do get worse, then where does the regiment stand?"
"We are a Queen's regiment," Blaylock answers, loudly and without hesitation. "She is our legal sovereign and General-Royal. Where she commands, we will follow."
"And if she were not?" Garret asks, his curious expression offering as much of an insinuation as his words. "If there was another who could lay claim to the same legitimacy, would you follow them instead?"
You're not sure what Blaylock is about to say, but judging by the look on his face, you suspect that it's either to be heated, treasonous, or both. "That's enough," you interject with all the firmness you can muster. "This conversation is heading onto dangerous ground, and I would prefer it not progress further." You stand up, a quiet signal that the time for discussion is at an end. "Gentlemen, we have work to do. We should get to it."
Sandoral nods his agreement and stands up after you. After a moment, Blaylock and Garret do the same.
There will be no more talk of this kind today.
But Captain Garret isn't quite finished yet.
"There's one more thing, sir."
You turn, leaving Sandoral and Blaylock to go on without you. "Yes?"
"Captain Hawkins," Garret replies. "You should know that he does not sit as easily under your command as you might perhaps wish."
Your eyes narrow. "What exactly do you mean by that?"
"Hawkins served as Cazarosta's second-in-command in Antar for six years. No other officer has lasted so long as Sir Caius' subordinate, not even close," Garret explains. "Hawkins may command Third Squadron now, but in his head, I suspect he still considers himself Cazarosta's deputy."
You answer your second with a steady look of your own. "That is no cause for alarm. Sir Caius and I understood each other well in Antar, and I am sure we still do. We collaborate easily enough, and I see no reason for conflict."
"Not yet," your subordinate replies, somewhat ominously. "That may change."
Bloody martyr, will the man talk plain just this once? "Captain Garret. What, precisely, are you trying to insinuate?"
"Insinuate? Nothing," Garret replies with a perfect mask of bland innocence. "I merely mean to appraise you of something which you may not be aware of, something which ought to be of great interest to you, given your current position."
"And what, precisely, is that supposed to mean?" you ask.
But it's too late. By the time the words come out of your mouth, Garret has passed you and is already well on his way to the parade ground.
Damn the man, it's almost as if he enjoys speaking in riddles, as if he delights in watching the vexation of those who supposedly command him. You suspect that he intends you to figure out the meaning of this enigmatic little exchange eventually, else he wouldn't have started it in the first place. You'll figure out what it means someday.
Just not today.
-
As the summer at last begins to turn, the violence on the streets grows worse.
Worse and more frequent.
Where a fortnight or even a month once went past without an incident grievous enough to require the presence of a full squadron, such instances become weekly occurrences as the heat of summer recedes and the first splashes of autumn rains fall over Aetoria. The immediate causes are varied enough as to beggar the imagination: a peaceful demonstration wandering into the wrong neighbourhood, an agitator on the wrong street, a loud argument in a park, a duel gone wrong, a pamphleteer seized in a square. Every time, it's something different.
And yet, every time, it is the same, whatever the inciting incident. By the time you arrive, it is Royalists and Wulframites assembled in number, weapons in hand and fury in their voices.
And every time, when you and your men arrive, it is you that both parties turn to, their expressions filled with anxiety and anticipation, waiting to see what you order your men to do…
[ ] [ORDER] We are the Queen's Dragoons; naturally, we must offer the Queen's partisans protection.
[ ] [ORDER] Wulfram's supporters have the right to protest and petition; they deserve our protection.
[ ] [ORDER] Keeping the peace means keeping apart those who would disrupt it, regardless of allegiance.
[ ] [ORDER] Each incident must be judged individually, independent of political circumstance or allegiance.
[X] [ORDER] Each incident must be judged individually, independent of political circumstance or allegiance.
- Pronouns
- He
[X] [ORDER] Keeping the peace means keeping apart those who would disrupt it, regardless of allegiance.
IamtooSleepy
I came here to be an ant
[X] [ORDER] Each incident must be judged individually, independent of political circumstance or allegiance.
I think we can try to use a little bit of our Intellect here, hopefully. Trying to keep them apart sound like it's only going to make everyone hate us.
I think we can try to use a little bit of our Intellect here, hopefully. Trying to keep them apart sound like it's only going to make everyone hate us.
Lords 8.13
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] [ORDER] Each incident must be judged individually, independent of political circumstance or allegiance.
There are some who would think it a pointless or even foolish endeavour to attempt to ascertain the particular cause of each and every single class you're called out to stop, but you know full well that through no other means might blame for such incidents be rightfully applied. Only then might you be able to enforce some manner of real justice, as opposed to the sort of partisan retaliation against one side or the other which would surely only make the general situation worse.
So, when you and your men turn up to the scene of yet another confrontation, you make no effort to act as if right and wrong are already fixed in your head. Instead, you do your best to gather all the intelligence you can: you question witnesses, call forth delegations from the opposing sides, and take their statements. Only then do you make a ruling.
It works.
Your decisions rarely make those in the wrong happy, and you have little doubt that you're making few friends amongst either party for such actions, but at the very least, you earn their respect for refusing to take a side before all are heard. Cunaris also seems pleased by your methods, and by the reputation for patience and even-handedness which they bring to the regiment. Indeed, at times it seems he treats you like an exemplar, exhorting both Captain Hawkins and his own son to follow your example.
Your men seem to approve of your methods as well, for it is rare that you must oblige your squadron to back up your rulings with the flats of their sabres, and they certainly appreciate your ability to keep them out of bodily peril through the exercise of your wits and intellect alone.
Unfortunately, you doubt it will last. While most of your men seem pleased with your leadership, others continue to desert. Between that and the regular stream of injuries, accidents, and incidental wounds, the strength of your squadron continues to deplete, even as the clashes on the street grow larger and more frequent, as the leaders of those involved grow more hostile towards both you and each other, as more and more of the angry mobs give up brickbats and clubs for swords and firelocks.
The situation remains under control.
But you cannot answer for how long it will remain so.
In the end, a reprieve arrives from the most unexpected direction.
It comes late one evening in the middle of autumn, as you await the return of the last of your patrolling troops.
Yet when the officer of the day comes to alert you to a body of horse approaching, it quickly becomes apparent that the approaching force isn't one of yours. True, they may wear the same grey-green and red coats of your regiment, but even in the pale half-light of the gaslamps, you can see that their uniforms are stained with the dust of the road and the sweat of a long ride, the hooves of their horses splattered with the mud of country lanes, their faces not those of many of your men.
And there are a lot more than a troop of them.
For a moment, you're not sure whether to shout out a challenge or call out the guard—but only for a moment, for while the men of this new column may be unknown to you, the face of the officer leading it is very familiar, indeed.
He stops his force short of the gate, his cold, piercing eyes cutting through the gas-lit gloom towards you as his hand snaps up to a perfect salute.
"My compliments to His Grace," announces Sir Caius d'al Cazarosta. "It is my honour to report that the reinforcements he requested are now at his disposal."
There are some who would think it a pointless or even foolish endeavour to attempt to ascertain the particular cause of each and every single class you're called out to stop, but you know full well that through no other means might blame for such incidents be rightfully applied. Only then might you be able to enforce some manner of real justice, as opposed to the sort of partisan retaliation against one side or the other which would surely only make the general situation worse.
So, when you and your men turn up to the scene of yet another confrontation, you make no effort to act as if right and wrong are already fixed in your head. Instead, you do your best to gather all the intelligence you can: you question witnesses, call forth delegations from the opposing sides, and take their statements. Only then do you make a ruling.
It works.
Your decisions rarely make those in the wrong happy, and you have little doubt that you're making few friends amongst either party for such actions, but at the very least, you earn their respect for refusing to take a side before all are heard. Cunaris also seems pleased by your methods, and by the reputation for patience and even-handedness which they bring to the regiment. Indeed, at times it seems he treats you like an exemplar, exhorting both Captain Hawkins and his own son to follow your example.
Your men seem to approve of your methods as well, for it is rare that you must oblige your squadron to back up your rulings with the flats of their sabres, and they certainly appreciate your ability to keep them out of bodily peril through the exercise of your wits and intellect alone.
Unfortunately, you doubt it will last. While most of your men seem pleased with your leadership, others continue to desert. Between that and the regular stream of injuries, accidents, and incidental wounds, the strength of your squadron continues to deplete, even as the clashes on the street grow larger and more frequent, as the leaders of those involved grow more hostile towards both you and each other, as more and more of the angry mobs give up brickbats and clubs for swords and firelocks.
The situation remains under control.
But you cannot answer for how long it will remain so.
-
In the end, a reprieve arrives from the most unexpected direction.
It comes late one evening in the middle of autumn, as you await the return of the last of your patrolling troops.
Yet when the officer of the day comes to alert you to a body of horse approaching, it quickly becomes apparent that the approaching force isn't one of yours. True, they may wear the same grey-green and red coats of your regiment, but even in the pale half-light of the gaslamps, you can see that their uniforms are stained with the dust of the road and the sweat of a long ride, the hooves of their horses splattered with the mud of country lanes, their faces not those of many of your men.
And there are a lot more than a troop of them.
For a moment, you're not sure whether to shout out a challenge or call out the guard—but only for a moment, for while the men of this new column may be unknown to you, the face of the officer leading it is very familiar, indeed.
He stops his force short of the gate, his cold, piercing eyes cutting through the gas-lit gloom towards you as his hand snaps up to a perfect salute.
"My compliments to His Grace," announces Sir Caius d'al Cazarosta. "It is my honour to report that the reinforcements he requested are now at his disposal."
Lords 9.01
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CHAPTER IX
Wherein the LORD OF THE CORTES winters in AETORIA and PREPARES for the crisis which may be soon TO COME.
Wherein the LORD OF THE CORTES winters in AETORIA and PREPARES for the crisis which may be soon TO COME.
It's clear to your well-accustomed eye that the new men are in rather worn shape as they ride through the gate. Almost all have doffed their helmets, leaving their hair exposed and matted with sweat despite the coolness of the evening air. Most sag in their saddles, a few seem even on the verge of collapse, gasping for air and grimacing with soreness for each step which their mount takes.
They've had a relatively easy time of it, along wide roads in good weather, and going a distance which would have seemed as nothing to the veterans of the vast Antari steppe, but for them, it is perhaps the greatest distance they've ever travelled in their lives.
You suppose you once presented such a sight before some jaded exemplar of the regiment which had gone before you. But that time is long gone; those men who once bore witness to your own callow awkwardness are retired or long dead. You are the exemplar now, the stern gaze of the regiment's battle-hardened core.
But you're not the only one.
Out of all the men coming through the gate, Sir Caius d'al Cazarosta alone remains entirely firm in the saddle, his posture perfect, his movements sharp and precise and betraying not the slightest sign of fatigue, his eyes as filled with that familiar indomitable resolve as ever as he pulls his grey mare up beside you.
"My lord," he intones, the barest flicker of emotion in his aquiline features as he touches his gloved fingers to the brim of his helmet. "One hundred and nineteen men departed. One hundred and nineteen men accounted for."
[ ] [CAZAROSTA] "Saints above, Sir Caius. It is good to see you again."
[ ] [CAZAROSTA] "Acknowledged, Sir Caius."
[ ] [CAZAROSTA] "Bloody martyr! What are you doing here?"
[X] [CAZAROSTA] "Saints above, Sir Caius. It is good to see you again."
IamtooSleepy
I came here to be an ant
[X] [CAZAROSTA] "Saints above, Sir Caius. It is good to see you again."
Please, Sir Caius, save us from our horrible soldering stat.
Please, Sir Caius, save us from our horrible soldering stat.
Lords 9.02
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] [CAZAROSTA] "Saints above, Sir Caius. It is good to see you again."
The deathborn officer's lips pull into a thin line, that barest ghost of a smile which he seems to have inherited from the illustrious line of the House of Cazarosta—even if he received nothing else.
"I suspect that you are more glad of the reinforcements I brought," he replies as he slides out of his saddle.
"Cunaris said you were training up the rest of the regiment in Fernandescourt," you observe. As sizeable as Cazarosta's contingent might seem, it's still smaller than one full squadron, let alone three.
"I was," he replies. "But His Grace stressed the urgency of the situation, and his orders demanded the utmost speed. I chose the men which would best weather the journey from all three squadrons and departed immediately. Better to deliver a hundred men now than five hundred in spring, is that not so?"
He has a point. You don't know the state of the three squadrons still at Fernandescourt, but had he spent the winter training them up before coming to Aetoria, he might well have found himself encountering not three understrength squadrons, but three sets of almost-empty barracks, with only a handful of officers and men left.
"That is so," you reply, meaning every word as you extend him your hand. "Welcome to Aetoria, Sir Caius."
He takes it with all the grace of oiled steel. "Thank you, old friend," he replies in a tone which seems almost surely sincere. "It is good to be here."
[X] "How fares Fernandescourt?"
"Fernandescourt is profoundly unsettled," Cazarosta replies. "There had been no news of violence when I departed, but it is only a matter of time. The majority of the city's poor are for the Queen, but many of the city merchants seem to support Wulfram in one way or another."
For a moment, you entertain the possibility of teasing out the other officer's own leanings, but then again, you suppose there's no chance of that. He can be utterly unreadable when he means to be, and judging by his expression now, he clearly doesn't mean to be read.
Instead, you press on to the more salient matter. "You predict violence? Surely the authorities of the city must respond?"
"With His Grace and his heir both absent, control of Fernandescourt falls to Lord Laurent, the younger of the Duke's sons."
You nod. "I remember him. He was with us at Second Kharangia. Cunaris sent him home after, did he?"
"He did," Cazarosta replies. "In a time of peace, he might have proven himself well-suited for the task he has been charged with. In times such as these, he has not the temperament to act accordingly. And so there will be violence in Fernandescourt within half a year, and neither of us will envy whoever must suppress it."
You nod. It is honest enough of a sentiment, but you've known Cazarosta long enough to catch his hidden meaning: if violence were to break out in Fernandescourt, then the Dragoons stationed in the Old Fortress would no doubt be called to quell it, under the command of the senior regimental officer present. Had Sir Caius been present in Fernandescourt at such a time, the responsibility would have fallen upon him—the responsibility and the blame.
In Antar, Cunaris had used the deathborn officer to commit to actions which honour would have never allowed a legitimately born Baneblooded officer to accept. As a result, Cazarosta had earned the enmity and disdain of much of the army. In doing as he has, Sir Caius has removed himself from the possibility of being so used again.
You can only wonder if that had been his intention.
[X] "How did the men handle the journey?"
"Poorly," Cazarosta replies. "Though it is through no fault of their own. They are half-trained and unused to the rigours of campaigning. It will be some time yet before they are fit to face an enemy in earnest."
"And yet you brought them a third of the way across the Unified Kingdom without losing a man," you point out with some admiration. In truth, doing so with even a squadron of veteran troops would have been a substantial accomplishment. To perform such a feat with a hodge-podge of recruits is almost a miracle.
But the deathborn officer only shakes his head. "I had the liberty of choosing the men I intended to bring, and that allowed me to select those who possessed the means to maintain their will to see the journey to the end."
"How did you accomplish that?" you ask, genuinely curious. "It isn't as if a willingness to endure hardship can be measured with a pace-stick and scales."
"I told them the truth," Cazarosta replies. "I told them they would be bivouacking in the open and sleeping on hard ground. I told them they would rest only for the sake of the horses. I told them they would eat nothing but hardtack, ration beef, and dust; that their legs would bleed from wearing against the saddle, that there were purpose-made tortures which would inflict upon them less suffering and less harm. I told them that if they faltered, they would be left behind, that if they made it to Aetoria, they would be subject to the hatred and suspicion of the greatest city in the realm. I told them all of this, and I made certain they knew I was telling them in earnest. Then I asked for volunteers."
You try not to grimace. Sir Caius had told the truth indeed, even the parts which the most plain-spoken veteran would have left out. "You must not have gotten very many."
He glances over at the men he brought from Fernandescourt as they file through the gate past you, at the bruised, exhausted, and yes, even bloodied figures as they sag in their saddles. For the barest instant, you see the flash in his eye; a look of appraisal and approval and perhaps even pride.
"I got one hundred and nineteen."
[X] "You have my condolences regarding Leoniscourt's passing. I know he was very dear to you."
Sir Caius nods, ever so slightly, with only the smallest of hesitations. "Yes. My sister assures me that the rites were performed with the utmost care and deliberation. I suppose that must serve as some consolation."
He was told?
"You make it sound as if you were not even present. Surely you were invited to attend?"
"I was not," Sir Caius replies, his voice tautly controlled. "No invitation was offered, and no leave was given. No more than expected."
"No more than expected?" you ask, a faint tinge of outrage creeping into your voice. "Saints above, you were practically a son to him."
Cazarosta's eyes narrow ever so slightly. "But I was not," he replies, his voice growing more cold and flat with every word. "I was not a son of his body, and that was the matter of relevance to those who committed his body to the pyre and those who saw fit to safeguard his legacy. Leoniscourt is to be remembered as a man of impeccable judgement and discretion. By being the residue of my mother's crimes, I am evidence of his failure in that regard. By being an object of his affection regardless, I am doubly so. To those who would safeguard his legacy, my existence serves an inconvenience, and he is no longer present to argue otherwise. Is that not so?"
They are the sort of the words, the sort of sentiment, fit to reduce any speaker to tears, but when Sir Caius speaks them, it is without any sense of feeling at all. Whether he has simply numbed himself to his own sentiments or buried them deep enough to be beyond perception, you cannot know.
All that you know is that this is a topic no longer fit to be discussed.
[X] "Have you been assigned a command here?"
"I have not," Sir Caius replies. "My orders are to remain here as quartermaster, to ensure that the men I brought are properly quartered, fed, and equipped—and to prepare similar arrangements for the regiment's remaining squadrons when they arrive."
"And when they do?" you ask. "Surely they will be in need of at least one seasoned squadron commander to keep them in line."
"So they will," Cazarosta replies. "Blaylock and Sandoral are still both without commands, and Garret has the experience for the task, if not the temperament."
"You are senior to all three," you point out.
"I am unqualified."
"You have held squadron command before."
"In wartime," Sir Caius replies. "The conditions when amongst one's own people are different, and thus the methods must be as well."
You nod agreement. You know enough of Third Squadron's exploits when Sir Caius had commanded it to know that you wouldn't wish such measures against your own countrymen.
"Perhaps you are right. Better not to contemplate such means at all," you reply.
"Perhaps it would be," Cazarosta replies with a hint of what sounds almost like approval.
Approval, but not agreement.
[X] "You must see these men billeted. I'll not detain you further."
Cazarosta answers with a curt nod, then glances at the last of the men he brought from Fernandescourt, already halfway across the courtyard.
"Saints go with you, Sir Caius."
"And you, sir."
With that, he takes his leave, following after the men he has so briefly led.
It isn't until noon the next day that the Duke of Cunaris calls you and his other squadron commanders to discuss the matter of the recently arrived reinforcements.
"Gentlemen," he begins as the three of you stand before him. "The additional men arrived from Fernandescourt now allow us to make up the losses we have taken over the summer to desertion. However, they will not be sufficient to bring all three squadrons up to full strength. Thus, I must oblige you to determine amongst yourselves how the new men are to be distributed."
Hawkins speaks first. "With respect, sir. Third Squadron has not lost any men to desertion, and so we shall not need any further reinforcement."
The Duke's eyes narrow. "I would not withdraw the matter from consideration so quickly, Captain. Third Squadron is heavily understrength, and Sir Caius assures me that the men he has brought are those most suited to the task at hand."
"They are unblooded, sir, and possess experience only of the garrison and the marching column," Hawkins replies. "Third Squadron's strengths have always been in the experience and the hardiness of its men, and I would not dilute those qualities, save perhaps at the direst extremity."
Cunaris nods, after a moment's hesitation.
"Very well," he continues, turning to you. "My lord, you are the senior, I leave the first pick of reinforcements to you."
[ ] [REINFORCEMENT] "Second Squadron is in dire need of reinforcement; restoring it to strength ought to be top priority."
[ ] [REINFORCEMENT] "Twenty or so men will serve my purposes well enough. First Squadron may take the rest."
[ ] [REINFORCEMENT] "Second Squadron does not need reinforcement, either. First Squadron can have all the new men."
The deathborn officer's lips pull into a thin line, that barest ghost of a smile which he seems to have inherited from the illustrious line of the House of Cazarosta—even if he received nothing else.
"I suspect that you are more glad of the reinforcements I brought," he replies as he slides out of his saddle.
"Cunaris said you were training up the rest of the regiment in Fernandescourt," you observe. As sizeable as Cazarosta's contingent might seem, it's still smaller than one full squadron, let alone three.
"I was," he replies. "But His Grace stressed the urgency of the situation, and his orders demanded the utmost speed. I chose the men which would best weather the journey from all three squadrons and departed immediately. Better to deliver a hundred men now than five hundred in spring, is that not so?"
He has a point. You don't know the state of the three squadrons still at Fernandescourt, but had he spent the winter training them up before coming to Aetoria, he might well have found himself encountering not three understrength squadrons, but three sets of almost-empty barracks, with only a handful of officers and men left.
"That is so," you reply, meaning every word as you extend him your hand. "Welcome to Aetoria, Sir Caius."
He takes it with all the grace of oiled steel. "Thank you, old friend," he replies in a tone which seems almost surely sincere. "It is good to be here."
[X] "How fares Fernandescourt?"
"Fernandescourt is profoundly unsettled," Cazarosta replies. "There had been no news of violence when I departed, but it is only a matter of time. The majority of the city's poor are for the Queen, but many of the city merchants seem to support Wulfram in one way or another."
For a moment, you entertain the possibility of teasing out the other officer's own leanings, but then again, you suppose there's no chance of that. He can be utterly unreadable when he means to be, and judging by his expression now, he clearly doesn't mean to be read.
Instead, you press on to the more salient matter. "You predict violence? Surely the authorities of the city must respond?"
"With His Grace and his heir both absent, control of Fernandescourt falls to Lord Laurent, the younger of the Duke's sons."
You nod. "I remember him. He was with us at Second Kharangia. Cunaris sent him home after, did he?"
"He did," Cazarosta replies. "In a time of peace, he might have proven himself well-suited for the task he has been charged with. In times such as these, he has not the temperament to act accordingly. And so there will be violence in Fernandescourt within half a year, and neither of us will envy whoever must suppress it."
You nod. It is honest enough of a sentiment, but you've known Cazarosta long enough to catch his hidden meaning: if violence were to break out in Fernandescourt, then the Dragoons stationed in the Old Fortress would no doubt be called to quell it, under the command of the senior regimental officer present. Had Sir Caius been present in Fernandescourt at such a time, the responsibility would have fallen upon him—the responsibility and the blame.
In Antar, Cunaris had used the deathborn officer to commit to actions which honour would have never allowed a legitimately born Baneblooded officer to accept. As a result, Cazarosta had earned the enmity and disdain of much of the army. In doing as he has, Sir Caius has removed himself from the possibility of being so used again.
You can only wonder if that had been his intention.
[X] "How did the men handle the journey?"
"Poorly," Cazarosta replies. "Though it is through no fault of their own. They are half-trained and unused to the rigours of campaigning. It will be some time yet before they are fit to face an enemy in earnest."
"And yet you brought them a third of the way across the Unified Kingdom without losing a man," you point out with some admiration. In truth, doing so with even a squadron of veteran troops would have been a substantial accomplishment. To perform such a feat with a hodge-podge of recruits is almost a miracle.
But the deathborn officer only shakes his head. "I had the liberty of choosing the men I intended to bring, and that allowed me to select those who possessed the means to maintain their will to see the journey to the end."
"How did you accomplish that?" you ask, genuinely curious. "It isn't as if a willingness to endure hardship can be measured with a pace-stick and scales."
"I told them the truth," Cazarosta replies. "I told them they would be bivouacking in the open and sleeping on hard ground. I told them they would rest only for the sake of the horses. I told them they would eat nothing but hardtack, ration beef, and dust; that their legs would bleed from wearing against the saddle, that there were purpose-made tortures which would inflict upon them less suffering and less harm. I told them that if they faltered, they would be left behind, that if they made it to Aetoria, they would be subject to the hatred and suspicion of the greatest city in the realm. I told them all of this, and I made certain they knew I was telling them in earnest. Then I asked for volunteers."
You try not to grimace. Sir Caius had told the truth indeed, even the parts which the most plain-spoken veteran would have left out. "You must not have gotten very many."
He glances over at the men he brought from Fernandescourt as they file through the gate past you, at the bruised, exhausted, and yes, even bloodied figures as they sag in their saddles. For the barest instant, you see the flash in his eye; a look of appraisal and approval and perhaps even pride.
"I got one hundred and nineteen."
[X] "You have my condolences regarding Leoniscourt's passing. I know he was very dear to you."
Sir Caius nods, ever so slightly, with only the smallest of hesitations. "Yes. My sister assures me that the rites were performed with the utmost care and deliberation. I suppose that must serve as some consolation."
He was told?
"You make it sound as if you were not even present. Surely you were invited to attend?"
"I was not," Sir Caius replies, his voice tautly controlled. "No invitation was offered, and no leave was given. No more than expected."
"No more than expected?" you ask, a faint tinge of outrage creeping into your voice. "Saints above, you were practically a son to him."
Cazarosta's eyes narrow ever so slightly. "But I was not," he replies, his voice growing more cold and flat with every word. "I was not a son of his body, and that was the matter of relevance to those who committed his body to the pyre and those who saw fit to safeguard his legacy. Leoniscourt is to be remembered as a man of impeccable judgement and discretion. By being the residue of my mother's crimes, I am evidence of his failure in that regard. By being an object of his affection regardless, I am doubly so. To those who would safeguard his legacy, my existence serves an inconvenience, and he is no longer present to argue otherwise. Is that not so?"
They are the sort of the words, the sort of sentiment, fit to reduce any speaker to tears, but when Sir Caius speaks them, it is without any sense of feeling at all. Whether he has simply numbed himself to his own sentiments or buried them deep enough to be beyond perception, you cannot know.
All that you know is that this is a topic no longer fit to be discussed.
[X] "Have you been assigned a command here?"
"I have not," Sir Caius replies. "My orders are to remain here as quartermaster, to ensure that the men I brought are properly quartered, fed, and equipped—and to prepare similar arrangements for the regiment's remaining squadrons when they arrive."
"And when they do?" you ask. "Surely they will be in need of at least one seasoned squadron commander to keep them in line."
"So they will," Cazarosta replies. "Blaylock and Sandoral are still both without commands, and Garret has the experience for the task, if not the temperament."
"You are senior to all three," you point out.
"I am unqualified."
"You have held squadron command before."
"In wartime," Sir Caius replies. "The conditions when amongst one's own people are different, and thus the methods must be as well."
You nod agreement. You know enough of Third Squadron's exploits when Sir Caius had commanded it to know that you wouldn't wish such measures against your own countrymen.
"Perhaps you are right. Better not to contemplate such means at all," you reply.
"Perhaps it would be," Cazarosta replies with a hint of what sounds almost like approval.
Approval, but not agreement.
[X] "You must see these men billeted. I'll not detain you further."
Cazarosta answers with a curt nod, then glances at the last of the men he brought from Fernandescourt, already halfway across the courtyard.
"Saints go with you, Sir Caius."
"And you, sir."
With that, he takes his leave, following after the men he has so briefly led.
-
It isn't until noon the next day that the Duke of Cunaris calls you and his other squadron commanders to discuss the matter of the recently arrived reinforcements.
"Gentlemen," he begins as the three of you stand before him. "The additional men arrived from Fernandescourt now allow us to make up the losses we have taken over the summer to desertion. However, they will not be sufficient to bring all three squadrons up to full strength. Thus, I must oblige you to determine amongst yourselves how the new men are to be distributed."
Hawkins speaks first. "With respect, sir. Third Squadron has not lost any men to desertion, and so we shall not need any further reinforcement."
The Duke's eyes narrow. "I would not withdraw the matter from consideration so quickly, Captain. Third Squadron is heavily understrength, and Sir Caius assures me that the men he has brought are those most suited to the task at hand."
"They are unblooded, sir, and possess experience only of the garrison and the marching column," Hawkins replies. "Third Squadron's strengths have always been in the experience and the hardiness of its men, and I would not dilute those qualities, save perhaps at the direst extremity."
Cunaris nods, after a moment's hesitation.
"Very well," he continues, turning to you. "My lord, you are the senior, I leave the first pick of reinforcements to you."
[ ] [REINFORCEMENT] "Second Squadron is in dire need of reinforcement; restoring it to strength ought to be top priority."
[ ] [REINFORCEMENT] "Twenty or so men will serve my purposes well enough. First Squadron may take the rest."
[ ] [REINFORCEMENT] "Second Squadron does not need reinforcement, either. First Squadron can have all the new men."
[X] [REINFORCEMENT] "Twenty or so men will serve my purposes well enough. First Squadron may take the rest."
A good middle ground that makes up 2nd's loses to desertion while still allowing 1st the numerical superiority it will have to rely on.
A good middle ground that makes up 2nd's loses to desertion while still allowing 1st the numerical superiority it will have to rely on.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] [REINFORCEMENT] "Twenty or so men will serve my purposes well enough. First Squadron may take the rest."
I can't believe I missed meeting Caius again. I hope we don't wind up on opposite sides... is that what was being hinted? We'll see, I suppose.
I can't believe I missed meeting Caius again. I hope we don't wind up on opposite sides... is that what was being hinted? We'll see, I suppose.
[X] [REINFORCEMENT] "Second Squadron does not need reinforcement, either. First Squadron can have all the new men."
Alas, our non-INT stats are awful.
If we had better CHA stat, we could have figured it out without asking.
Alas, our non-INT stats are awful.
Lords 9.03
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[X] [REINFORCEMENT] "Twenty or so men will serve my purposes well enough. First Squadron may take the rest."
Cunaris nods; perhaps it was the answer he expected of you.
"Very good," he says. "I give you leave to choose twenty of them at your discretion. The rest go to First Squadron." He turns to the other officers. "Any objections?"
Nothing.
"The new men are to be assembled on the parade ground in ten minutes. Dismissed."
After so many years as a leader of fighting men, you don't find it all that difficult to take the measure of the new men arrayed in two ranks before you. Within minutes, you've picked out the good from the bad, the ones who are likely to make corporal in six weeks from the ones who are more likely to be a persistent headache until the day they're finally dismissed from service, or meet the end of a noose.
It would be easy to simply pick out the twenty strongest, hardiest, and most motivated men for your own squadron. That would be the obvious thing, but it may not perhaps be the wisest one.
To pick out the best of the new men for your squadron would mean saddling First Squadron with the remainder, and the First already has troubles enough without introducing a fresh crop of potential deserters, cowards, drunks, and chronic disciplinary issues into their ranks. No, it's possible that First Squadron may have a more dire need of the cream of these men than you do. Amidst that lesser assemblage, they may perhaps do more good, acting as examples to be followed for a unit in dire need of them.
Perhaps you could go further still. You could pick out the worst of the new men just as easily as the best—and you could just as easily take those men into your own command as well, to keep their malign influence from spreading too far amidst First Squadron's less seasoned ranks. It will hurt your own squadron in the meantime, but it's all the more likely to make the whole of the regiment stronger in the long run.
Perhaps that would mean such a measure would be worth it.
[ ] [REINFORCE] I will hand-pick the best men and leave the rest for First Squadron.
[ ] [REINFORCE] I will pick some of the best men, and some of the worst as well.
[ ] [REINFORCE] My command will shoulder the burden of the worst, so First Squadron won't have to.
Cunaris nods; perhaps it was the answer he expected of you.
"Very good," he says. "I give you leave to choose twenty of them at your discretion. The rest go to First Squadron." He turns to the other officers. "Any objections?"
Nothing.
"The new men are to be assembled on the parade ground in ten minutes. Dismissed."
-
After so many years as a leader of fighting men, you don't find it all that difficult to take the measure of the new men arrayed in two ranks before you. Within minutes, you've picked out the good from the bad, the ones who are likely to make corporal in six weeks from the ones who are more likely to be a persistent headache until the day they're finally dismissed from service, or meet the end of a noose.
It would be easy to simply pick out the twenty strongest, hardiest, and most motivated men for your own squadron. That would be the obvious thing, but it may not perhaps be the wisest one.
To pick out the best of the new men for your squadron would mean saddling First Squadron with the remainder, and the First already has troubles enough without introducing a fresh crop of potential deserters, cowards, drunks, and chronic disciplinary issues into their ranks. No, it's possible that First Squadron may have a more dire need of the cream of these men than you do. Amidst that lesser assemblage, they may perhaps do more good, acting as examples to be followed for a unit in dire need of them.
Perhaps you could go further still. You could pick out the worst of the new men just as easily as the best—and you could just as easily take those men into your own command as well, to keep their malign influence from spreading too far amidst First Squadron's less seasoned ranks. It will hurt your own squadron in the meantime, but it's all the more likely to make the whole of the regiment stronger in the long run.
Perhaps that would mean such a measure would be worth it.
[ ] [REINFORCE] I will hand-pick the best men and leave the rest for First Squadron.
[ ] [REINFORCE] I will pick some of the best men, and some of the worst as well.
[ ] [REINFORCE] My command will shoulder the burden of the worst, so First Squadron won't have to.
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- They/Them
[X] [REINFORCE] My command will shoulder the burden of the worst, so First Squadron won't have to.
[X] [REINFORCE] I will pick some of the best men, and some of the worst as well.
We did more work on our squad, right? So there's at least more ability to absorb them without completely going to shit.
[X] [REINFORCE] I will pick some of the best men, and some of the worst as well.
We did more work on our squad, right? So there's at least more ability to absorb them without completely going to shit.
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[X] [REINFORCE] I will hand-pick the best men and leave the rest for First Squadron.
No point in messing up a squadron we've just brought up to snuff. The worst recruits will do less damage in the already poor 1st.
No point in messing up a squadron we've just brought up to snuff. The worst recruits will do less damage in the already poor 1st.
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...Cunaris will absolutely hate us intentionally fucking over the entire Regiment in the name of a single Squadron.
And he'd be honestly right to hate us for that.
On the contrary, Cunaris will be somewhat unhappy with us for not fucking over the entire regiment for the sake of his son's squadron.
And that's his prerogative, but he should've thought of it before giving us first pick.
And that's his prerogative, but he should've thought of it before giving us first pick.
- Pronouns
- He
[X] [REINFORCE] I will pick some of the best men, and some of the worst as well.
Our playthrough isn't bad, but on the next try I'd recommend being from the capital and skipping Antari language.
Don't forget the runegun. That thing's so powerful the MC becomes ripped just from touching it.
That does help, but Soldiering is surprisingly optional in this game about being a soldier.