Being a strong, well-trained fighter? ❌
Being a weak nerd who befriends a sociopath and owns a magic shotgun? ✔
Being a weak nerd who befriends a sociopath and owns a magic shotgun? ✔
Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga
- Thread starter Rogue Attican
- Start date
- Pronouns
- They/Them
HIs son leads 1/3rd of the Regiment. It's in fact our job to prioritize more than literally just our own Squadron above all others.
Intentionally making a third of the Regiment worse--rather than an evenhanded or even a generous divide--is absolutely the thinking of a Captain/Major of a Squadron and not someone who is effectively a Colonel.
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Lords 9.04
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] [REINFORCE] I will pick some of the best men, and some of the worst as well.
There's little question that First Squadron is more in need of steady, intelligent recruits than your own, but that hardly means you must surrender to them all of the very best of the new arrivals. Surely, some sort of compromise would be ideal.
So, you decide to pick out the twenty best and the twenty worst among the men assembled before you on the parade square. Then, you split both groups into two and mark one such division of each for your own command, whilst returning the remaining half to ranks, to be left for First Squadron.
The men you've chosen are an incongruous lot, and judging by their reactions, they themselves have not discovered the reason to your methods. Indeed, you have stood model soldiers of real will and talent behind those whose eyes are already darting back and forth, their minds fully at work trying to figure out exactly what they can get away with.
Perhaps they will never truly understand why they were chosen, but that doesn't matter. The important thing is that you've secured a means by which both squadrons may benefit from the incorporation of the best of the reinforcements, along with bearing the burden of dealing with the greatest problem cases as well.
Of course, it doesn't seem that way at first. Even the best of the new arrivals are half-trained and worn down in spirits by the long journey from Fernandescourt. The worst of the lot might well be openly mutinous for the looks on their faces. It will take time to complete their instruction in drill, raise their morale, and fully integrate them into your command.
Until you do, any new crisis you may find yourself in will put you at the head of a squadron which is far from its best.
Thankfully, the circumstances outside the walls of the Southern Keep allow the regiment at least some semblance of tranquillity. As the last signs of summer fade before the advance of autumn, the demonstrations and marches grow rarer and calmer, the armed militias seem to clear the streets, and your men report a marked increase in clashes.
Perhaps the start of the autumn rains have cooled the ardour of the city's rage, or perhaps it has simply blown itself out from sheer fatigue.
Whatever the reason, it allows the regiment a precious respite. With Aetoria at least in some state of calm and desertions on the wane, circumstances allow for the men to maintain their equipment, polish their drill, and raise their spirits with some much-needed time to themselves.
You too have some use for the last of those boons. Letters have arrived from your estate, detailing the events which have transpired in the months following your departure and giving you a reckoning of the current state of your lands. There's also a more personal sort of letter, from your sister.
Dearest Brother,
Have you killed and eaten any infants recently? We got our hands on some Wulframite broadsheets which make claims that you and your men have been doing precisely that on the streets of Aetoria. Why, some of them even have pictures, though how the engraver managed to make you look even uglier than you actually are completely escapes me.
Of course, we know well enough such stories are nonsense, but I don't think one can blame us for being so ravenous for any news regarding you, even if it's accompanied by the sort of libellous slander which ought to get the perpetrator blown out of a cannon. We're all very anxious for any news which might indicate some improvement in the current state of affairs. The thought of the capital being in a state of such violent upheaval, with the fate of the realm at stake, cannot help but provoke a certain degree of worry—nothing on a scale of what I am sure you feel, of course, but I must suppose you're used to such pressure by now.
After all, you had to live with me for much of your childhood.
We are all of us here hoping for your success, no matter what the broadsheets say. Know that you possess our every confidence, and that we know that no matter what happens, you will do our House proud. I pray that you look after yourself, and do not allow the perils and disorders of your current position to wear you down. With luck, you will soon be among us once again, far from such foolery.
Saints watch over you, Brother. Damnation to them all if they do not.
Your infinitely wise (but extremely worried) sister
So the events of the past few months have done little to repress your sister's eccentric sense of humour. That is almost a relief.
Yet there's also much worry in her words, beneath the jesting surface, so much that she even states it plain. You suppose she has good reason for such anxiety; after the events of the past few months, it must seem as if the city is on the verge of some great eruption. For all you know, it still might be, with tensions only hibernating like an Antari bear, only to rouse with renewed strength and fury when the snow melts.
But if that's the case, there's nothing you can do about it now. You can only wait, consider a reply, and see to the reports from your estate…
Your estate manager, Karol of Loch, reports that 13 new rent-paying households moved into your fief in the past few months. He also reports that 1 household have left your fief in search of better opportunities elsewhere.
Your estate manager also reports that your fief's relatively low rents allow your tenants some measure of surplus coin, which invariably offers some small increase to prosperity and contentment.
With the latest reports taken into account, your current financial situation is as follows:
Bi-Annual Revenues
Rents: 669 Crown
Personal Income: 270 Crown
Bi-Annual Expenditures
Estate Wages: 175 Crown
Food and Necessities: 75 Crown
Luxuries and Allowances: 150 Crown
Groundskeeping and Maintenance: 50 Crown
Townhouse Rent: 135 Crown
Townhouse Wages: 60 Crown
Interest Payments: 160 Crown
Special Expenses: 0 Crown
Total Net Income (Next Six Months): 134 Crown
New Loans: 0 Crown
Current Wealth: 2,263 Crown
Projected Wealth Next Half-Year: 2,397
What do you wish to do?
[ ] [REPAY] I wish to pay off some of my family's debts.
[ ] [REPAY] I wish to turn my attention to other matters.
[ ] [LOAN] I must try to renegotiate the interest on my loans.
[ ] [LOAN] I wish to turn my attention to other matters.
[ ] [LOAN] I mean to ask for a modest loan; 1000 crown, perhaps?
[ ] [LOAN] I am in need of a sizeable loan, 2500 crown or so.
[ ] [LOAN] I shall require a great deal of money; 5000 crown, at least.
[ ] [LOAN] I'll draw upon my connections to arrange a new loan on more favourable terms.
-[ ] I will see what friends in the capital are willing to assist me.
-[ ] Perhaps the Shipowners can offer me some assistance here.
Were you physically present at your estate, you would be able to order the construction of new additions and improvements directly. However, as you're in Aetoria, you shall have to rely upon the judgement and good offices of your estate manager to order what construction he sees fit.
Of course, your estate manager cannot order any construction at all unless he has the money to afford it, and as your manager has no substantial independent wealth of his own, the burden of payment falls upon you, as lord of the estate. Should you wish your estate improved in any way, you shall have to send him enough money to pay for it.
At the moment, you have 2,263 crown available to send to your estate manager. So far, you've sent a total of 3,500 crown to your estate in total. Judging by his current reports, your manager should have something like 0 crown currently available to him.
According to his report, your estate manager is currently planning on clearing out some additional crop land. To do this, he'll require an additional 1,000 crown.
How much will you send?
[ ] [LOCH] Loch shall have his thousand crown for the new farmland.
[ ] [LOCH] None. I could use that money later.
[ ] [LOCH] Let me write in a different amount for the remittance.
You currently have 0 crown in investments.
You can afford to invest 2,263 crown. Do not forget that larger investments may boost overall confidence in the Exchange as a whole—and improve the opinion of other Shipowners' Club members.
How much do you intend to invest?
[ ] [INVEST] I would like to invest 1000 crown.
[ ] [INVEST] I mean to invest 2500 crown. (Requires loan)
[ ] [INVEST] I am investing 5000 crown. (Requires loan)
[ ] [INVEST] I must think upon the matter more.
There's little question that First Squadron is more in need of steady, intelligent recruits than your own, but that hardly means you must surrender to them all of the very best of the new arrivals. Surely, some sort of compromise would be ideal.
So, you decide to pick out the twenty best and the twenty worst among the men assembled before you on the parade square. Then, you split both groups into two and mark one such division of each for your own command, whilst returning the remaining half to ranks, to be left for First Squadron.
The men you've chosen are an incongruous lot, and judging by their reactions, they themselves have not discovered the reason to your methods. Indeed, you have stood model soldiers of real will and talent behind those whose eyes are already darting back and forth, their minds fully at work trying to figure out exactly what they can get away with.
Perhaps they will never truly understand why they were chosen, but that doesn't matter. The important thing is that you've secured a means by which both squadrons may benefit from the incorporation of the best of the reinforcements, along with bearing the burden of dealing with the greatest problem cases as well.
Of course, it doesn't seem that way at first. Even the best of the new arrivals are half-trained and worn down in spirits by the long journey from Fernandescourt. The worst of the lot might well be openly mutinous for the looks on their faces. It will take time to complete their instruction in drill, raise their morale, and fully integrate them into your command.
Until you do, any new crisis you may find yourself in will put you at the head of a squadron which is far from its best.
Perhaps the start of the autumn rains have cooled the ardour of the city's rage, or perhaps it has simply blown itself out from sheer fatigue.
Whatever the reason, it allows the regiment a precious respite. With Aetoria at least in some state of calm and desertions on the wane, circumstances allow for the men to maintain their equipment, polish their drill, and raise their spirits with some much-needed time to themselves.
You too have some use for the last of those boons. Letters have arrived from your estate, detailing the events which have transpired in the months following your departure and giving you a reckoning of the current state of your lands. There's also a more personal sort of letter, from your sister.
-
Dearest Brother,
Have you killed and eaten any infants recently? We got our hands on some Wulframite broadsheets which make claims that you and your men have been doing precisely that on the streets of Aetoria. Why, some of them even have pictures, though how the engraver managed to make you look even uglier than you actually are completely escapes me.
Of course, we know well enough such stories are nonsense, but I don't think one can blame us for being so ravenous for any news regarding you, even if it's accompanied by the sort of libellous slander which ought to get the perpetrator blown out of a cannon. We're all very anxious for any news which might indicate some improvement in the current state of affairs. The thought of the capital being in a state of such violent upheaval, with the fate of the realm at stake, cannot help but provoke a certain degree of worry—nothing on a scale of what I am sure you feel, of course, but I must suppose you're used to such pressure by now.
After all, you had to live with me for much of your childhood.
We are all of us here hoping for your success, no matter what the broadsheets say. Know that you possess our every confidence, and that we know that no matter what happens, you will do our House proud. I pray that you look after yourself, and do not allow the perils and disorders of your current position to wear you down. With luck, you will soon be among us once again, far from such foolery.
Saints watch over you, Brother. Damnation to them all if they do not.
Your infinitely wise (but extremely worried) sister
-
So the events of the past few months have done little to repress your sister's eccentric sense of humour. That is almost a relief.
Yet there's also much worry in her words, beneath the jesting surface, so much that she even states it plain. You suppose she has good reason for such anxiety; after the events of the past few months, it must seem as if the city is on the verge of some great eruption. For all you know, it still might be, with tensions only hibernating like an Antari bear, only to rouse with renewed strength and fury when the snow melts.
But if that's the case, there's nothing you can do about it now. You can only wait, consider a reply, and see to the reports from your estate…
Your estate manager, Karol of Loch, reports that 13 new rent-paying households moved into your fief in the past few months. He also reports that 1 household have left your fief in search of better opportunities elsewhere.
Your estate manager also reports that your fief's relatively low rents allow your tenants some measure of surplus coin, which invariably offers some small increase to prosperity and contentment.
-
With the latest reports taken into account, your current financial situation is as follows:
Bi-Annual Revenues
Rents: 669 Crown
Personal Income: 270 Crown
Bi-Annual Expenditures
Estate Wages: 175 Crown
Food and Necessities: 75 Crown
Luxuries and Allowances: 150 Crown
Groundskeeping and Maintenance: 50 Crown
Townhouse Rent: 135 Crown
Townhouse Wages: 60 Crown
Interest Payments: 160 Crown
Special Expenses: 0 Crown
Total Net Income (Next Six Months): 134 Crown
New Loans: 0 Crown
Current Wealth: 2,263 Crown
Projected Wealth Next Half-Year: 2,397
What do you wish to do?
-
[ ] [REPAY] I wish to pay off some of my family's debts.
[ ] [REPAY] I wish to turn my attention to other matters.
[ ] [LOAN] I wish to turn my attention to other matters.
[ ] [LOAN] I mean to ask for a modest loan; 1000 crown, perhaps?
[ ] [LOAN] I am in need of a sizeable loan, 2500 crown or so.
[ ] [LOAN] I shall require a great deal of money; 5000 crown, at least.
[ ] [LOAN] I'll draw upon my connections to arrange a new loan on more favourable terms.
-[ ] I will see what friends in the capital are willing to assist me.
-[ ] Perhaps the Shipowners can offer me some assistance here.
-
Were you physically present at your estate, you would be able to order the construction of new additions and improvements directly. However, as you're in Aetoria, you shall have to rely upon the judgement and good offices of your estate manager to order what construction he sees fit.
Of course, your estate manager cannot order any construction at all unless he has the money to afford it, and as your manager has no substantial independent wealth of his own, the burden of payment falls upon you, as lord of the estate. Should you wish your estate improved in any way, you shall have to send him enough money to pay for it.
At the moment, you have 2,263 crown available to send to your estate manager. So far, you've sent a total of 3,500 crown to your estate in total. Judging by his current reports, your manager should have something like 0 crown currently available to him.
According to his report, your estate manager is currently planning on clearing out some additional crop land. To do this, he'll require an additional 1,000 crown.
How much will you send?
[ ] [LOCH] Loch shall have his thousand crown for the new farmland.
[ ] [LOCH] None. I could use that money later.
[ ] [LOCH] Let me write in a different amount for the remittance.
-
You currently have 0 crown in investments.
You can afford to invest 2,263 crown. Do not forget that larger investments may boost overall confidence in the Exchange as a whole—and improve the opinion of other Shipowners' Club members.
How much do you intend to invest?
[ ] [INVEST] I would like to invest 1000 crown.
[ ] [INVEST] I mean to invest 2500 crown. (Requires loan)
[ ] [INVEST] I am investing 5000 crown. (Requires loan)
[ ] [INVEST] I must think upon the matter more.
- Pronouns
- He
Leaning towards not shelling anything out, not if the worries about having to buy stuff here soon are accurate.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] [LOCH] None. I could use that money later.
[X] [INVEST] I must think upon the matter more.
I almost wanna take out a loan of 1000 Crowns just to have ready money... however, we've finally gotten a pretty significant positive cashflow going, so.
[X] [INVEST] I must think upon the matter more.
I almost wanna take out a loan of 1000 Crowns just to have ready money... however, we've finally gotten a pretty significant positive cashflow going, so.
[X] [REPAY] I wish to turn my attention to other matters.
[X] [LOAN] I wish to turn my attention to other matters.
[X] [LOCH] None. I could use that money later.
[X] [INVEST] I must think upon the matter more.
[X] [LOAN] I wish to turn my attention to other matters.
[X] [LOCH] None. I could use that money later.
[X] [INVEST] I must think upon the matter more.
Every option makes them worse. The only thing accomplished by taking on the worst soldiers would be bringing 2nd squadron down to their level. 1st's strength lies in their numbers, just like 3rd's lies in their skill and 2nd's somewhere in between. As overall commander, the MC has to understand the different qualities of the squadrons under his command and treat them accordingly.
Lords 9.05
- Pronouns
- He/Him
As you conclude the business of your faraway estate, you cannot help but ponder the situation on the now rain-sodden streets, the situation which serves as the culmination of the tensions which brought you to Aetoria in the first place.
Perhaps the calm will hold. Perhaps the long and cold isolation of winter will allow those who have let their temper vent over the past few months the time and means to look within themselves and discover within their minds a wish for peace and reconciliation, along with a will to bring the situation to a peaceful conclusion before it all spills entirely out of control.
Perhaps when spring comes, the calm will hold. Perhaps when spring comes, Wulfram will at last make peace with the Queen.
Perhaps when spring comes, you will be headed back to your estate once more, to deal with the matters of your ancestral lands in person.
Such thoughts are still on your mind three days later when Captain Garret approaches you as you're eating dinner in the officers' mess. With one hand, he reaches into his coat pocket and sets a sealed and folded piece of paper down on the table in front of you.
"The Duke of Wulfram has invited you to dine with him at the Rendower tomorrow evening," he says, as easily as if he were announcing the day's patrol schedule.
You pick the message up from the desk. It is sealed with blue wax and the wolf's head of House Candless. It also shows no sign of being opened. Your eyes narrow with suspicion as you look up at the other officer. "How could you possibly know what this message is about?"
Garret answers with a sly little grin as he plucks an identical piece of paper from his other coat pocket. "I got one too. I daresay Hawkins and the young lord will get one as well, if they've not received one already," he replies with a meaningful look.
You nod back. Garret's implication is obvious. After the role your regiment has played over the past summer and Cunaris' repeatedly stated policy of careful neutrality, it seems clear that Wulfram means to sound out each of the regiment's squadron officers—to see if he might be able to secure a more favourable opinion.
"You'll accept, of course?" Garret asks. "Not that I am particularly keen to be entangled in whatever Wulfram intends, but I hear the Rendower sets a fine table. Best wine, best silver, a Kian-trained master chef. Wouldn't want to pass that up, eh?"
[ ] [INVITATION] "No, you're right, I wouldn't."
[ ] [INVITATION] "I am a loyal Queen's Officer. I'll not sup with her enemies."
[X] [INVITATION] "No, you're right, I wouldn't."
Garret knows what's up.
Garret knows what's up.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] [INVITATION] "No, you're right, I wouldn't."
This is going to be so awkward.
This is going to be so awkward.
[X] [INVITATION] "No, you're right, I wouldn't."
Lords 9.06
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] [INVITATION] "No, you're right, I wouldn't."
Garret nods. "The invitation will be for seven in the evening tomorrow. There's nothing too untoward about it, but it will ask you to wear civilian clothes. I daresay they don't want too many people to see that we are soldiers." He gives you a knowing look. "Damn me if anyone knows the reason for that, eh?"
You open the message a moment after he leaves, and it is precisely what Garret claimed it to be: an invitation from the Duke of Wulfram to dine at the Rendower.
You wonder how Garret could have known. True, he could have simply seen that you had received the same sort of message as he had and intuited the rest, but he couldn't have known the details. After all, it would have been entirely possible that Wulfram had meant to invite you on separate days, or made some other request of you—after all, you're supposed to be his enemy.
You cannot help but wonder if there's something Garret knows that he isn't letting on. Perhaps you'll find a way to get it out of him.
Until then, however, you have a dinner to prepare for.
You dismiss your squadron an hour early the next day, something which proves much needed to allow you and Garret the time to prepare yourselves for the evening properly.
It is no small matter to prepare for the sort of meeting which Wulfram's invitation seems to imply. You set aside your best frock coat and vest for the occasion, and all the other accoutrements besides: hat, boots, breeches, cravat, gloves, stockings, stays, and collar. Wulfram may be your enemy, but that doesn't mean you intend to parade before him and whoever else he intends to bring along in rags. Besides, it would seem an insult to the whole of the Rendower's membership otherwise, and you have no desire to make enemies you do not need.
Then, finally prepared, you pass through the now half-deserted parade ground of the Southern Keep in the somehow already-unfamiliar clothing of a Baneblooded gentleman of the city. Garret, similarly attired, shows up a few minutes later, evidently even more discomfited by the fit of his own frock and stockings than you.
For a moment, he seems about to say something, but then he closes his mouth and shakes his head, leaving only the dying bustle of the city around you for accompaniment. A heavy, sable-bodied coach bearing no coat of arms pulls up to the gate not two minutes later. It is almost a ridiculous thing, a romance novelist's idea of a conspirator's carriage, but its complete lack of identifying features and the heavy velvet curtains hung across its windows seem eminently practical for such a purpose.
The coachman, however, gives himself away almost immediately. His accent is pure Tannersburg, and not that of a tenant farmer's son either.
"Lord Reddingfield? Captain Garret?"
"We are they," Garret replies, a twist of ironic melodrama in his voice.
"His Grace's compliments. I am to take you to the Rendower."
"A bit overdoing it, isn't it?" Garret mutters as he climbs inside.
"Not my idea, sir," the coachman replies, his ears evidently sharp enough to catch the other officer's half-whispered remark even through the body of the coach.
Strangely enough, Garret doesn't say much after that.
Thankfully, your silent journey proves a comfortable one. The interior of the coach is well-upholstered, and whether due to the prodigious size of the vehicle itself or some ingenious new arrangement of springs, you cannot even feel the difference in the cobblestones as the great coach rumbles through the city, away from the relatively shabby districts surrounding the Southern Keep, through the middle of Saint Octavia's Park, and deep into the Castle Quarter, where the Rendower Club awaits.
In a lesser city, the headquarters of the Rendower Club might have been mistaken for the city palace of a particularly powerful local magnate. In Aetoria, it's just a club-house. Yet the sight cannot help but fill you with a certain grandeur nonetheless. Garret, a native Aetorian, seems less impressed, but even he pauses for a moment to take in the grand building before stepping out to cross the handful of steps from the drive to the front door.
From there, a pair of liveried footmen take you past the entry hall and through the common room, where you notice several of your political enemies huddled together in whispered discussion and several more watching you carefully as you pass.
But then, you are beyond the public rooms, down a sequence of stately but unfamiliar corridors guarded by pairs of deferential but quite clearly armed footmen. You are beyond the parts of the building commonly trafficked, beyond the domain of even the vast majority of the club's regulars. You are in Wulfram's inner sanctum now.
At last, you reach a door, unmarked but clearly important. There are four men guarding it, not just two—and they are not footmen but non-commissioned officers of the Wolf's Head Cuirassiers, in full armour, with only their helmets tucked under their shoulders for the sake of decorum. They snap to attention as you approach, then one of them reaches for the door, opens it, and motions you to proceed beyond…
The Duke of Wulfram's private dining room turns out to be a close, even perhaps an intimate affair. No great hall this, but a small chamber, tastefully appointed with all the understated opulence which you saw at Wulfram House, but of a size that might have been more familiar inside the confines of a prosperous shopkeeper's family home than what is perhaps one of the very pinnacles of power.
Wulfram is there himself, behind the heavy oaken table, as is his cousin, Lord Brockenburg, who has either ignored or been excluded from the Duke's dress code—he is in full uniform, the only one save for the guards at the entry—who quickly shut the door behind them as they resume their previous positions on the outside.
"Captain Garret," Wulfram begins. "And Lord Reddingfield. I am very pleased you accepted my invitation."
The Duke looks to you. "I'll not feign false pleasantry with you, my lord. We are not allies, you and I."
"No, we are not," you reply, somewhat coldly. "Which is why I question why you would see fit to invite me here."
Wulfram nods, ever so slightly. "That, one shall receive an explanation for soon enough; before that, however…" He waves to a pair of empty chairs opposite his own and Brockenburg's. "Sit. We may be on different sides, but I am sure you will not begrudge a good meal before we progress to matters of substance?"
No, you suppose you cannot.
Some part of you feels faintly ridiculous at taking a seat to dine opposite the most prominent enemy of the Queen and her party, but some other part of you cannot help but feel somewhat relieved about it. Some modicum of civility evidently still exists amongst Aetoria's highest classes, and even amidst the riots and the slanders, a man of such controversial positions might still invite his political enemy to a meal.
He must have some reason for doing so, of course, but for the sake of a good supper, you're willing to hear him out at least.
Supper is a dazzling array of dishes, some of which you have never even seen before, let alone tasted: a delicately seasoned soup of boiled shark fins, Callindrian rice cooked softer and more fine than you've ever experienced before, Langoustine Nanne'haie, fillet of turbot, and baie'yanne egg custard.
Wulfram eats little; perhaps he's accustomed to such fine dining. Brockenburg, on the other hand, works his knife and fork and eating sticks like a common soldier taking on a pork pie, with a speed and precision borne out of long practise and that persistent belief that one might be called away from a meal at any time.
You don't allow yourself to be drawn into such an unwise course of action, of course. You take care to pace yourself, as you have learned to do since you left the army, eating carefully and deliberately, with the understanding that the dishes of such a meal are to be savoured and enjoyed, not merely consumed.
There are more practical reasons for such an approach, as well: as the greatest in status, it is Wulfram who sets the pace of the meal, and he most decidedly does not eat like a soldier. For protracted periods, he picks at one course, whilst Garret and Brockenburg sit with empty plates, already awaiting the next—an interval you manage to avoid.
At last, after a final course of Fait'fonne pastries, Wulfram orders the table cleared save for brandies and whiskey, and for the room to be left undisturbed from here on out. At last, he comes to the true reason for your being here.
For once, there is no preamble, no rhetorical device. "The Queen will make her move within the next six months; a great gamble," he states with a sincerity that's almost ominous. "If she wins, she will destroy the rights and powers of the Cortes and establish herself as the head of a tyranny the likes of which Tierra has never seen before. If she loses, she will usher in the complete destruction of her own power."
[X] "You seem remarkably certain regarding the Queen's plans, Your Grace."
"I am, my lord," Wulfram replies firmly. "I am certain, because the Queen has no choice. The Cortes has not passed a budget this year, nor did it pass one the year before that. Without such an accord, the Crown may collect taxes but it may not spend them."
You can already see the trouble there. Without a budget, there's no way for the Crown to fund its offices and bureaucracies with tax revenues. The Royal Household goes for want of public funds, as do the Foreign Office, Royal Intelligence, the Intendancy, and for that matter, the Army and Navy. But if that's the case…
Garret reaches the same conclusion at the same time you do. "If the Army is receiving no funding from the Crown, then who has been paying us this past year?"
"I suspect that the Queen is using the resources of House Rendower to maintain the necessary offices," the Duke replies. "It has been done before, during the reign of Alaric Spitfire—but that had only been for a year, and the King's government was much smaller then. To manage a similar feat today, she would have to borrow a great deal, from the Kian, I suspect. Her intention to carry on with the treaty has no doubt bought her some leeway, but I am sure it will last no more than half a year. When that time runs out…"
You can see the picture clearly enough. When the Royal House can no longer pay to maintain its government, then its support will shortly collapse. Without the ability to distribute patronage, without the ability to maintain its state offices, without the ability even to pay its fleets and its troops, the Queen's government would be all but powerless. You and some of your officers might still be willing to defend the Crown without pay, but you're not foolish enough to claim similarly for the men under your command.
"To avoid such an eventuality, Her Majesty has two options," Wulfram continues. "The first is to negotiate terms and reconcile her budget with our own. If she were willing to do that, then she would have done it in the spring."
"And her second option?" you ask.
"To render any opposition to her own budget untenable," the Duke replies. "To place herself in a position where no opposition from the Cortes may be capable of stopping her."
He leans forward, his expression grim and set. "She means to have her way. She means to do so by destroying all of those who are seen to stand against her, and she will do it within six months. Of that, I am absolutely sure."
[X] "And what is your opinion of this, Lord Brockenburg?"
Brockenburg answers with the barest hint of a grin. "Not of any real importance, I would think."
Your eyebrow raises. "Oh, and why would you say that?"
"I am a soldier, my lord," he replies, as if that explained everything. "My duty is to command the Houseguard, to ensure the security of my liege and to see his interests secured. Beyond that?" he shrugs.
Your eyes narrow. "So you really do not have an opinion?"
The Cuirassier gives you a knowing look. "I did not say that."
"Then might you elaborate?"
He shakes his head. "No."
[X] "What sort of gamble does His Grace believe she has in mind?"
Wulfram thinks upon your question for a moment, almost as if trying to put together the right answer in his head.
"The truth is," he finally admits, "that I cannot say. I know that the Queen's current situation requires her to take some drastic action in the next half year if she means to salvage her position. I know from her previous actions that it is almost certainly not to be a call for terms or otherwise a move towards negotiation. As to what the precise nature of that action might be? I can offer no insight."
Garret gives Wulfram a look that would have been immediately denounced as insolence had he done it in public. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but you mean to tell us that you have called us all the way here, amid such obvious efforts to maintain confidentiality, to recruit us into some scheme to respond to a plot whose existence is yet to be confirmed, and whose nature you yourself are not even aware of?"
The Duke answers with a tone of surprising patience. "You may rest assured, sir, that the existence of the plot is quite certain," he says, his voice firm. "As for the part we would ask of you, do not think of it as a response so much as a precaution. We do not know the precise nature of the Queen's plans, and thus we cannot act directly to foil them. All we can do is consider the likely possibilities and make contingencies. Indeed, when the matter is revealed, we may find ourselves not in need at all of the actions we would ask of you."
"And if you are?" you ask.
This time it is Brockenburg who answers, his rasping voice made grimmer by his intent expression. "If we are, then you may rest assured, my lord, that we would need your help most desperately."
[X] "Allow me to get to the point: what do you want us to do?"
It is Wulfram you address your question to, but it is Brockenburg who answers.
"We are not certain as to the Queen's plans, but we can make a decent guess based on her circumstances," he explains. "She possesses certain reliable advantages over us, and given her ability, it would be folly to assume that she would not use them to her utmost, when she makes her move."
"Advantages?" Garret asks. "You mean the Cortes? I suppose you could count the commons, too."
Wulfram shakes his head. "No, not that. I am not well accustomed with the Queen's mode of thinking, but the Duchess is, and I suspect that if she were here, she would say that the Queen would rate neither of those advantages as certain, and thus that neither would be considered reliable." He shakes his head again. "No, the advantages my cousin speaks of are the fact that she possesses a fortified base in the Northern Keep and a full battalion of Grenadiers within the city."
No, he cannot mean…
"You expect the Queen's move to be…military in nature?" You can scarcely believe the words as they come out of your mouth. Surely that cannot be right. Surely such a prospect must be absurd.
"The Crown has already deployed the Grenadiers against the commons," Brockenburg reminds you. "It is not so great a leap to think that it might do so against the Cortes."
"Should the Queen resort to a military solution, then we would be compelled to respond in kind, and in such a confrontation, we would be at a great disadvantage," Wulfram concludes grimly. "A handful of Cuirassiers, a motley of other Houseguards, an assemblage of street militias, they will not stand against seven hundred drilled infantry. We need you and your men."
Garret pieces it together an instant before you do. His face goes pale.
"You want us to fight for you. If the Queen calls the Grenadiers against your supporters, you want us to order our Dragoons to stop them."
Wulfram nods, his expression solemn.
"I do."
It is not, strictly speaking, quite treason.
It would certainly be a dereliction of duty, a perversion of your oaths, and a personal betrayal of the Duke of Cunaris' trust, but what Wulfram asks of you stops short of treason. So long as he merely wishes you to prepare your men as a precaution, to make them ready to act, even if they do not, you remain within the barest measure of legality. After all, it isn't so unusual for serving officers to have their own personal agendas for the sake of accruing wealth or influence. It isn't so rare for such schemes to involve the men under their command, either.
Yet the instant Wulfram calls you to action, the instant you give the order for your men to take up arms against soldiers of the Queen, you would be a traitor, by any and all definitions of the word.
Surely, you cannot allow yourself to be complicit in so thoroughly insidious an act.
Can you?
Wulfram and Brockenburg evidently think so. You must admit, their appeal to the defence of the Cortes and Tierran liberties cannot help but strike a chord, and you cannot deny that they may have a point in their predictions of the Queen's actions. But surely, that is not enough to justify treason. If one must choose between his sovereign and his peers, one must choose the former.
Right?
[ ] [WULFRAM] Very well, Wulfram will have my support in this.
[ ] [WULFRAM] I will not take up arms against my own sovereign!
[ ] [WULFRAM] I refuse, with the best grace I can.
[ ] [WULFRAM] I'll agree to Wulfram's request, but only to harm his schemes from the inside.
Garret nods. "The invitation will be for seven in the evening tomorrow. There's nothing too untoward about it, but it will ask you to wear civilian clothes. I daresay they don't want too many people to see that we are soldiers." He gives you a knowing look. "Damn me if anyone knows the reason for that, eh?"
You open the message a moment after he leaves, and it is precisely what Garret claimed it to be: an invitation from the Duke of Wulfram to dine at the Rendower.
You wonder how Garret could have known. True, he could have simply seen that you had received the same sort of message as he had and intuited the rest, but he couldn't have known the details. After all, it would have been entirely possible that Wulfram had meant to invite you on separate days, or made some other request of you—after all, you're supposed to be his enemy.
You cannot help but wonder if there's something Garret knows that he isn't letting on. Perhaps you'll find a way to get it out of him.
Until then, however, you have a dinner to prepare for.
-
You dismiss your squadron an hour early the next day, something which proves much needed to allow you and Garret the time to prepare yourselves for the evening properly.
It is no small matter to prepare for the sort of meeting which Wulfram's invitation seems to imply. You set aside your best frock coat and vest for the occasion, and all the other accoutrements besides: hat, boots, breeches, cravat, gloves, stockings, stays, and collar. Wulfram may be your enemy, but that doesn't mean you intend to parade before him and whoever else he intends to bring along in rags. Besides, it would seem an insult to the whole of the Rendower's membership otherwise, and you have no desire to make enemies you do not need.
Then, finally prepared, you pass through the now half-deserted parade ground of the Southern Keep in the somehow already-unfamiliar clothing of a Baneblooded gentleman of the city. Garret, similarly attired, shows up a few minutes later, evidently even more discomfited by the fit of his own frock and stockings than you.
For a moment, he seems about to say something, but then he closes his mouth and shakes his head, leaving only the dying bustle of the city around you for accompaniment. A heavy, sable-bodied coach bearing no coat of arms pulls up to the gate not two minutes later. It is almost a ridiculous thing, a romance novelist's idea of a conspirator's carriage, but its complete lack of identifying features and the heavy velvet curtains hung across its windows seem eminently practical for such a purpose.
The coachman, however, gives himself away almost immediately. His accent is pure Tannersburg, and not that of a tenant farmer's son either.
"Lord Reddingfield? Captain Garret?"
"We are they," Garret replies, a twist of ironic melodrama in his voice.
"His Grace's compliments. I am to take you to the Rendower."
"A bit overdoing it, isn't it?" Garret mutters as he climbs inside.
"Not my idea, sir," the coachman replies, his ears evidently sharp enough to catch the other officer's half-whispered remark even through the body of the coach.
Strangely enough, Garret doesn't say much after that.
Thankfully, your silent journey proves a comfortable one. The interior of the coach is well-upholstered, and whether due to the prodigious size of the vehicle itself or some ingenious new arrangement of springs, you cannot even feel the difference in the cobblestones as the great coach rumbles through the city, away from the relatively shabby districts surrounding the Southern Keep, through the middle of Saint Octavia's Park, and deep into the Castle Quarter, where the Rendower Club awaits.
In a lesser city, the headquarters of the Rendower Club might have been mistaken for the city palace of a particularly powerful local magnate. In Aetoria, it's just a club-house. Yet the sight cannot help but fill you with a certain grandeur nonetheless. Garret, a native Aetorian, seems less impressed, but even he pauses for a moment to take in the grand building before stepping out to cross the handful of steps from the drive to the front door.
From there, a pair of liveried footmen take you past the entry hall and through the common room, where you notice several of your political enemies huddled together in whispered discussion and several more watching you carefully as you pass.
But then, you are beyond the public rooms, down a sequence of stately but unfamiliar corridors guarded by pairs of deferential but quite clearly armed footmen. You are beyond the parts of the building commonly trafficked, beyond the domain of even the vast majority of the club's regulars. You are in Wulfram's inner sanctum now.
At last, you reach a door, unmarked but clearly important. There are four men guarding it, not just two—and they are not footmen but non-commissioned officers of the Wolf's Head Cuirassiers, in full armour, with only their helmets tucked under their shoulders for the sake of decorum. They snap to attention as you approach, then one of them reaches for the door, opens it, and motions you to proceed beyond…
-
The Duke of Wulfram's private dining room turns out to be a close, even perhaps an intimate affair. No great hall this, but a small chamber, tastefully appointed with all the understated opulence which you saw at Wulfram House, but of a size that might have been more familiar inside the confines of a prosperous shopkeeper's family home than what is perhaps one of the very pinnacles of power.
Wulfram is there himself, behind the heavy oaken table, as is his cousin, Lord Brockenburg, who has either ignored or been excluded from the Duke's dress code—he is in full uniform, the only one save for the guards at the entry—who quickly shut the door behind them as they resume their previous positions on the outside.
"Captain Garret," Wulfram begins. "And Lord Reddingfield. I am very pleased you accepted my invitation."
The Duke looks to you. "I'll not feign false pleasantry with you, my lord. We are not allies, you and I."
"No, we are not," you reply, somewhat coldly. "Which is why I question why you would see fit to invite me here."
Wulfram nods, ever so slightly. "That, one shall receive an explanation for soon enough; before that, however…" He waves to a pair of empty chairs opposite his own and Brockenburg's. "Sit. We may be on different sides, but I am sure you will not begrudge a good meal before we progress to matters of substance?"
No, you suppose you cannot.
Some part of you feels faintly ridiculous at taking a seat to dine opposite the most prominent enemy of the Queen and her party, but some other part of you cannot help but feel somewhat relieved about it. Some modicum of civility evidently still exists amongst Aetoria's highest classes, and even amidst the riots and the slanders, a man of such controversial positions might still invite his political enemy to a meal.
He must have some reason for doing so, of course, but for the sake of a good supper, you're willing to hear him out at least.
Supper is a dazzling array of dishes, some of which you have never even seen before, let alone tasted: a delicately seasoned soup of boiled shark fins, Callindrian rice cooked softer and more fine than you've ever experienced before, Langoustine Nanne'haie, fillet of turbot, and baie'yanne egg custard.
Wulfram eats little; perhaps he's accustomed to such fine dining. Brockenburg, on the other hand, works his knife and fork and eating sticks like a common soldier taking on a pork pie, with a speed and precision borne out of long practise and that persistent belief that one might be called away from a meal at any time.
You don't allow yourself to be drawn into such an unwise course of action, of course. You take care to pace yourself, as you have learned to do since you left the army, eating carefully and deliberately, with the understanding that the dishes of such a meal are to be savoured and enjoyed, not merely consumed.
There are more practical reasons for such an approach, as well: as the greatest in status, it is Wulfram who sets the pace of the meal, and he most decidedly does not eat like a soldier. For protracted periods, he picks at one course, whilst Garret and Brockenburg sit with empty plates, already awaiting the next—an interval you manage to avoid.
At last, after a final course of Fait'fonne pastries, Wulfram orders the table cleared save for brandies and whiskey, and for the room to be left undisturbed from here on out. At last, he comes to the true reason for your being here.
For once, there is no preamble, no rhetorical device. "The Queen will make her move within the next six months; a great gamble," he states with a sincerity that's almost ominous. "If she wins, she will destroy the rights and powers of the Cortes and establish herself as the head of a tyranny the likes of which Tierra has never seen before. If she loses, she will usher in the complete destruction of her own power."
[X] "You seem remarkably certain regarding the Queen's plans, Your Grace."
"I am, my lord," Wulfram replies firmly. "I am certain, because the Queen has no choice. The Cortes has not passed a budget this year, nor did it pass one the year before that. Without such an accord, the Crown may collect taxes but it may not spend them."
You can already see the trouble there. Without a budget, there's no way for the Crown to fund its offices and bureaucracies with tax revenues. The Royal Household goes for want of public funds, as do the Foreign Office, Royal Intelligence, the Intendancy, and for that matter, the Army and Navy. But if that's the case…
Garret reaches the same conclusion at the same time you do. "If the Army is receiving no funding from the Crown, then who has been paying us this past year?"
"I suspect that the Queen is using the resources of House Rendower to maintain the necessary offices," the Duke replies. "It has been done before, during the reign of Alaric Spitfire—but that had only been for a year, and the King's government was much smaller then. To manage a similar feat today, she would have to borrow a great deal, from the Kian, I suspect. Her intention to carry on with the treaty has no doubt bought her some leeway, but I am sure it will last no more than half a year. When that time runs out…"
You can see the picture clearly enough. When the Royal House can no longer pay to maintain its government, then its support will shortly collapse. Without the ability to distribute patronage, without the ability to maintain its state offices, without the ability even to pay its fleets and its troops, the Queen's government would be all but powerless. You and some of your officers might still be willing to defend the Crown without pay, but you're not foolish enough to claim similarly for the men under your command.
"To avoid such an eventuality, Her Majesty has two options," Wulfram continues. "The first is to negotiate terms and reconcile her budget with our own. If she were willing to do that, then she would have done it in the spring."
"And her second option?" you ask.
"To render any opposition to her own budget untenable," the Duke replies. "To place herself in a position where no opposition from the Cortes may be capable of stopping her."
He leans forward, his expression grim and set. "She means to have her way. She means to do so by destroying all of those who are seen to stand against her, and she will do it within six months. Of that, I am absolutely sure."
[X] "And what is your opinion of this, Lord Brockenburg?"
Brockenburg answers with the barest hint of a grin. "Not of any real importance, I would think."
Your eyebrow raises. "Oh, and why would you say that?"
"I am a soldier, my lord," he replies, as if that explained everything. "My duty is to command the Houseguard, to ensure the security of my liege and to see his interests secured. Beyond that?" he shrugs.
Your eyes narrow. "So you really do not have an opinion?"
The Cuirassier gives you a knowing look. "I did not say that."
"Then might you elaborate?"
He shakes his head. "No."
[X] "What sort of gamble does His Grace believe she has in mind?"
Wulfram thinks upon your question for a moment, almost as if trying to put together the right answer in his head.
"The truth is," he finally admits, "that I cannot say. I know that the Queen's current situation requires her to take some drastic action in the next half year if she means to salvage her position. I know from her previous actions that it is almost certainly not to be a call for terms or otherwise a move towards negotiation. As to what the precise nature of that action might be? I can offer no insight."
Garret gives Wulfram a look that would have been immediately denounced as insolence had he done it in public. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but you mean to tell us that you have called us all the way here, amid such obvious efforts to maintain confidentiality, to recruit us into some scheme to respond to a plot whose existence is yet to be confirmed, and whose nature you yourself are not even aware of?"
The Duke answers with a tone of surprising patience. "You may rest assured, sir, that the existence of the plot is quite certain," he says, his voice firm. "As for the part we would ask of you, do not think of it as a response so much as a precaution. We do not know the precise nature of the Queen's plans, and thus we cannot act directly to foil them. All we can do is consider the likely possibilities and make contingencies. Indeed, when the matter is revealed, we may find ourselves not in need at all of the actions we would ask of you."
"And if you are?" you ask.
This time it is Brockenburg who answers, his rasping voice made grimmer by his intent expression. "If we are, then you may rest assured, my lord, that we would need your help most desperately."
[X] "Allow me to get to the point: what do you want us to do?"
It is Wulfram you address your question to, but it is Brockenburg who answers.
"We are not certain as to the Queen's plans, but we can make a decent guess based on her circumstances," he explains. "She possesses certain reliable advantages over us, and given her ability, it would be folly to assume that she would not use them to her utmost, when she makes her move."
"Advantages?" Garret asks. "You mean the Cortes? I suppose you could count the commons, too."
Wulfram shakes his head. "No, not that. I am not well accustomed with the Queen's mode of thinking, but the Duchess is, and I suspect that if she were here, she would say that the Queen would rate neither of those advantages as certain, and thus that neither would be considered reliable." He shakes his head again. "No, the advantages my cousin speaks of are the fact that she possesses a fortified base in the Northern Keep and a full battalion of Grenadiers within the city."
No, he cannot mean…
"You expect the Queen's move to be…military in nature?" You can scarcely believe the words as they come out of your mouth. Surely that cannot be right. Surely such a prospect must be absurd.
"The Crown has already deployed the Grenadiers against the commons," Brockenburg reminds you. "It is not so great a leap to think that it might do so against the Cortes."
"Should the Queen resort to a military solution, then we would be compelled to respond in kind, and in such a confrontation, we would be at a great disadvantage," Wulfram concludes grimly. "A handful of Cuirassiers, a motley of other Houseguards, an assemblage of street militias, they will not stand against seven hundred drilled infantry. We need you and your men."
Garret pieces it together an instant before you do. His face goes pale.
"You want us to fight for you. If the Queen calls the Grenadiers against your supporters, you want us to order our Dragoons to stop them."
Wulfram nods, his expression solemn.
"I do."
It is not, strictly speaking, quite treason.
It would certainly be a dereliction of duty, a perversion of your oaths, and a personal betrayal of the Duke of Cunaris' trust, but what Wulfram asks of you stops short of treason. So long as he merely wishes you to prepare your men as a precaution, to make them ready to act, even if they do not, you remain within the barest measure of legality. After all, it isn't so unusual for serving officers to have their own personal agendas for the sake of accruing wealth or influence. It isn't so rare for such schemes to involve the men under their command, either.
Yet the instant Wulfram calls you to action, the instant you give the order for your men to take up arms against soldiers of the Queen, you would be a traitor, by any and all definitions of the word.
Surely, you cannot allow yourself to be complicit in so thoroughly insidious an act.
Can you?
Wulfram and Brockenburg evidently think so. You must admit, their appeal to the defence of the Cortes and Tierran liberties cannot help but strike a chord, and you cannot deny that they may have a point in their predictions of the Queen's actions. But surely, that is not enough to justify treason. If one must choose between his sovereign and his peers, one must choose the former.
Right?
[ ] [WULFRAM] Very well, Wulfram will have my support in this.
[ ] [WULFRAM] I will not take up arms against my own sovereign!
[ ] [WULFRAM] I refuse, with the best grace I can.
[ ] [WULFRAM] I'll agree to Wulfram's request, but only to harm his schemes from the inside.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] [WULFRAM] I refuse, with the best grace I can.
[X] [WULFRAM] I refuse, with the best grace I can.
Time to refuse His Grace with grace.
Time to refuse His Grace with grace.
- Pronouns
- He
I'm shocked that he's even trying to make this attempt.
[X] [WULFRAM] I refuse, with the best grace I can.
[X] [WULFRAM] I refuse, with the best grace I can.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Ewen d'al Candless is an idealist at heart, and he's watched too many comic operas in which the villain has a change of heart at the last second.
Lords 9.07
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] [WULFRAM] I refuse, with the best grace I can.
You realise that it will probably make no difference whatsoever.
No matter how you couch your refusal, it will still be a refusal. It will still mean that you will be declaring yourself unwilling to acquiesce to Wulfram's plan, and under circumstances like these, you have little doubt that Wulfram and Brockenburg would take such a declaration as a statement of enmity, no matter how carefully worded it is.
But that doesn't mean the decencies mustn't be observed.
"Your Grace, I fear that I cannot condone the course of action you suggest," you begin, choosing your words carefully. "Should the events you predict come to pass, then I assure you that I will act to safeguard our common rights from any who might seek to infringe upon them. Until then, however, my oath to the Crown prevents me from contemplating such matters." You get up, slowly, carefully, so that the chair barely makes a sound as it slides back, so that the others do not even notice that you're standing until you're stepping away from the table.
"Now, if you will excuse me. Your Grace, my lord."
You do not wait for either Wulfram or Brockenburg to excuse you. Indeed, you don't even take an instant to register their reactions to your reply. You simply turn on your heel and leave.
It isn't until you're a dozen steps down the hall and around the corner that you realise you're being followed. At first, you consider the possibility that it's the guards, coming to ensure that you do not escape this meeting alive. Wulfram may not have the instinct to order so cold-blooded a move, but you're not sure about Brockenburg.
Indeed, you are half-considering the possibility that you may very soon have to turn and fight for your life bare-handed against four armed men, when you realise that the steps behind you do not clatter with the sound of armour.
A familiar voice comes from behind you. "Sir."
You turn. "Garret, I'm surprised you didn't stay."
He shakes his head. "I mean to. But first, I mean to convince you to do the same."
"I am a loyal servant of the Queen," you hiss back in reply, keeping your voice down so as not to be overheard. "The only way I'm going back in there is with a pair of loaded pistols!"
Garret shakes his head. "Go back in there pretending to have changed your mind, and you could do far more damage, I can assure you of that," he says. "If you take a part in Wulfram's plans, you will take a part in his councils. You will know what he is planning, and how to stop it."
Your eyes narrow. "And when he orders me to turn our men against the Queen?"
The other officer shrugs. "Don't, if it suits you. Do you think he'll come to the Southern Keep and stand over our shoulders every morning to ensure that his directives are being followed? Wulfram isn't a soldier, and he has precious few supporters who are. If we seem to make ourselves useful to him, he'll have no choice but to make use of us. That will give us leverage we could use to our true purpose."
Garret has a point. The amount of damage you could do from within Wulfram's plans will far outweigh what you might achieve from without. Yet to do such a thing would require a dangerous game. You would need to not only prove your loyalty to the satisfaction of your false allies, but offer your real ones the assurance that your treason is a ploy, and not in earnest. Fail to do one or the other, and you'll find yourself declared a traitor regardless of your intentions.
And that isn't even to touch upon the question of whether Garret himself can be trusted. He has given you no certain indication as to whose side he's really on, and certainly no explanation as to why he seems so intent upon pushing you into the course of action he has. What is he playing at?
It is all a most distressing situation, full of uncertainties and hazards, coming to a fork in a foggy mountain pass in a strange and treacherous land, and being obliged to choose a path without map nor compass.
But choose you must, and quickly, before Wulfram and Brockenburg make the choice for you.
"And what of you, Captain? Whose side are you on?"
Garret gives you a curious look, as if the answer should be obvious. "Why, I am on yours, of course."
You try to keep the scepticism from your voice. You're pretty sure you fail. "Really? Mine?"
Another officer might have taken offense at that. Garret simply grins. "It's true, sir. I may promise you wholeheartedly that I am with you here, at this moment. If you choose to turn around and treat with Wulfram, I will follow. If you choose to turn away without another word, then I shall follow you as well."
"You swear?"
"By the Saints, and by my Sacred Honour," he replies, the vow made with a most uncharacteristic sincerity.
You suppose it'll have to do.
[ ] [SABOTEUR] "Then let us join Wulfram's plot—but only to destroy it from the inside."
[ ] [SABOTEUR] "No, I want nothing to do with this."
You realise that it will probably make no difference whatsoever.
No matter how you couch your refusal, it will still be a refusal. It will still mean that you will be declaring yourself unwilling to acquiesce to Wulfram's plan, and under circumstances like these, you have little doubt that Wulfram and Brockenburg would take such a declaration as a statement of enmity, no matter how carefully worded it is.
But that doesn't mean the decencies mustn't be observed.
"Your Grace, I fear that I cannot condone the course of action you suggest," you begin, choosing your words carefully. "Should the events you predict come to pass, then I assure you that I will act to safeguard our common rights from any who might seek to infringe upon them. Until then, however, my oath to the Crown prevents me from contemplating such matters." You get up, slowly, carefully, so that the chair barely makes a sound as it slides back, so that the others do not even notice that you're standing until you're stepping away from the table.
"Now, if you will excuse me. Your Grace, my lord."
You do not wait for either Wulfram or Brockenburg to excuse you. Indeed, you don't even take an instant to register their reactions to your reply. You simply turn on your heel and leave.
It isn't until you're a dozen steps down the hall and around the corner that you realise you're being followed. At first, you consider the possibility that it's the guards, coming to ensure that you do not escape this meeting alive. Wulfram may not have the instinct to order so cold-blooded a move, but you're not sure about Brockenburg.
Indeed, you are half-considering the possibility that you may very soon have to turn and fight for your life bare-handed against four armed men, when you realise that the steps behind you do not clatter with the sound of armour.
A familiar voice comes from behind you. "Sir."
You turn. "Garret, I'm surprised you didn't stay."
He shakes his head. "I mean to. But first, I mean to convince you to do the same."
"I am a loyal servant of the Queen," you hiss back in reply, keeping your voice down so as not to be overheard. "The only way I'm going back in there is with a pair of loaded pistols!"
Garret shakes his head. "Go back in there pretending to have changed your mind, and you could do far more damage, I can assure you of that," he says. "If you take a part in Wulfram's plans, you will take a part in his councils. You will know what he is planning, and how to stop it."
Your eyes narrow. "And when he orders me to turn our men against the Queen?"
The other officer shrugs. "Don't, if it suits you. Do you think he'll come to the Southern Keep and stand over our shoulders every morning to ensure that his directives are being followed? Wulfram isn't a soldier, and he has precious few supporters who are. If we seem to make ourselves useful to him, he'll have no choice but to make use of us. That will give us leverage we could use to our true purpose."
Garret has a point. The amount of damage you could do from within Wulfram's plans will far outweigh what you might achieve from without. Yet to do such a thing would require a dangerous game. You would need to not only prove your loyalty to the satisfaction of your false allies, but offer your real ones the assurance that your treason is a ploy, and not in earnest. Fail to do one or the other, and you'll find yourself declared a traitor regardless of your intentions.
And that isn't even to touch upon the question of whether Garret himself can be trusted. He has given you no certain indication as to whose side he's really on, and certainly no explanation as to why he seems so intent upon pushing you into the course of action he has. What is he playing at?
It is all a most distressing situation, full of uncertainties and hazards, coming to a fork in a foggy mountain pass in a strange and treacherous land, and being obliged to choose a path without map nor compass.
But choose you must, and quickly, before Wulfram and Brockenburg make the choice for you.
"And what of you, Captain? Whose side are you on?"
Garret gives you a curious look, as if the answer should be obvious. "Why, I am on yours, of course."
You try to keep the scepticism from your voice. You're pretty sure you fail. "Really? Mine?"
Another officer might have taken offense at that. Garret simply grins. "It's true, sir. I may promise you wholeheartedly that I am with you here, at this moment. If you choose to turn around and treat with Wulfram, I will follow. If you choose to turn away without another word, then I shall follow you as well."
"You swear?"
"By the Saints, and by my Sacred Honour," he replies, the vow made with a most uncharacteristic sincerity.
You suppose it'll have to do.
[ ] [SABOTEUR] "Then let us join Wulfram's plot—but only to destroy it from the inside."
[ ] [SABOTEUR] "No, I want nothing to do with this."
[X] [SABOTEUR] "No, I want nothing to do with this."
Given that Alaric lacks both skill at deception and Wulframite connections, playing spy seems like a bad idea.
Given that Alaric lacks both skill at deception and Wulframite connections, playing spy seems like a bad idea.
[X] [SABOTEUR] "No, I want nothing to do with this."
This isn't in the MC's skillset. He's an academic soldier not a charisma build or a spy.
This isn't in the MC's skillset. He's an academic soldier not a charisma build or a spy.
IamtooSleepy
I came here to be an ant
Awwwww
[X] [SABOTEUR] "No, I want nothing to do with this."
Yeah, it wold look really suspicious when we already walk out.
The saboteur route is very fun and arguably more effective, but it's true that we're not in the best position to take advantage of it.
Lords 9.08
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] [SABOTEUR] "No, I want nothing to do with this."
Garret doesn't offer any further objection, not even when you turn and begin heading back out through the sequence of hallways which brought you here, through the Rendower's common rooms and its entry hall and out towards the foyer.
Your second-in-command is still with you even as you step into the gas-lit gloom. The black coach which delivered you here is still waiting, but you're not so foolish as to climb inside, not so quickly after you made the owner of that conveyance into your enemy.
So you walk, with Garret following quietly behind, just far enough to allow you the peace you need to consider what you've just done.
Wulfram truly is your enemy now, and with the stakes at play, you have little doubt that any concept of civility or morality will not stay his hand long. Though he has presented himself as a man of honour before, you know full well that the smell of powder tends to corrode such noble sentiments. He may yet preserve his, but you're not quite willing to take that risk. Now you shall have to look for plots not only against your opinions or your fortune or your reputation, but your life and limb as well.
It's a thought which comes to you more than once as you and Garret stalk the dark and rain-slick streets on your long walk back to the Southern Keep. More than once, you wish you'd brought your sabre or your pistols. More than once, shadows rise in the pools of light cast against the side alleys by the gas lamps. You see danger in every corner and peril in every step.
It is the same breed of nervousness which you once felt in Antar, that feeling of anxious, trembling energy which seems to turn every errant shape and movement into a mortal threat.
By the time you finally reach the gates of the Southern Keep, your nerves have frayed themselves almost to oakum. The cost of it all hits you almost in an instant, like the sharp hangover of some unpleasant liquor.
You're able to sustain yourself just long enough to commandeer an empty bed before you collapse into unconsciousness entirely.
As the days grow colder and shorter, the city seems to grow progressively more calm. Part of it, you suppose, has to do with the regular departure of much of the city's society for their estates in the country. With the departing string of coaches goes much of the tinder which the heat of the summer had threatened so greatly to ignite. But that isn't the whole of it. Even in the Old City, far from the concerns of the Cortes nobility, matters seem to settle.
Yet the tension which has built up over the course of the tumultuous and violent summer does not dissipate. It is not so uncommon a prediction that the current interval is nothing more than a reprieve, that once the snow melts and the summer sun shines again, the violence of the past year will resume, almost as if there had been no interruption.
No, to see the expressions of tense resignation in the faces of those you pass on the street, you suspect that most would suspect such a prospect to be a likely one.
You, on the other hand, know better. You know that such a prospect is almost a certainty.
Yet despite such ominous portents, the city continues to function almost as if nothing were amiss. Like a crew still scrubbing the deck of their ship even as it careens towards inevitable and calamitous shipwreck, the people of Aetoria seem content only to momentarily look up at the catastrophe which threatens to engulf them betwixt the stations of their routine.
Every morning, the market carts rumble to the squares. The great bell in the Shipping Exchange tolls out the official beginning of the trading day, just as the public houses still open to greet its end. The streets are still full with pedestrians, palanquins, and coaches, trudging and splashing and rolling through the waterlogged cobbles. The shops still open, the manufactures still whirr, even the printing presses grind on, pumping out new romances and travelogues alongside the political pamphlets which continue to bank the fires of unrest.
As the days grow colder and the chill drives most of the city's inhabitants off the streets, the appearance of normalcy seems to grow even stronger. Desertions are all but non-existent now. Cunaris even orders patrols reduced, both to spare horses and men from the increasingly cold weather and because there's no longer anything to patrol: the armed militias who had marched so brazenly in the heat of summer are nowhere to be seen. Even those willing to defy armed bodies of horse have no stomach for marching in defiance of the cold.
It almost feels like peace, as if the worst part of the crisis has passed, as it is almost possible that what lies ahead is only the long darkening of the last embers of unrest and a genuine, lasting peace.
But you have too much sense in you to be taken in by such baseless optimism. All too likely, the crisis will resume with renewed force the instant the returning warmth of spring brings the commons back onto the streets. What you're seeing now is not a permanent turning but a momentary respite, the last calm before what may well be the worst of the storm.
It is a time which you resolve to use wisely. Wulfram is clearly planning something come spring. You'll have to ensure that the position of the Queen's faction relative to the Duke of Wulfram's is as strong as possible—through any means necessary.
[ ] [WINTER] I mean to call upon Lady Welles, whilst I still have the chance.
I take a personal hand in the regiment's drill, to prepare them for what is to come.
[ ] [WINTER] First Squadron is most in want of drill, it shall take priority.
[ ] [WINTER] Second Squadron is my personal command, and thus ought to be prioritised.
[ ] [WINTER] Third Squadron's fighting edge is its main advantage. I mean to see it honed.
If I am to rely upon the men, I must ensure that they are loyal to me.
[ ] [WINTER] There's no better way to secure a soldier's loyalty than through coin.
-[ ] A gift of one month's pay for each enlisted man should suffice. (-1,200 Crown)
-[ ] The enlisted men would certainly react well to getting a bonus of two months' pay. (-2,400 Crown)
-[ ] Three months' pay for every enlisted man, that will make them most happy indeed. (-3,600 Crown)
[ ] [WINTER] I can use my pull at Grenadier Square to do the men a few favours.
[ ] [WINTER] Allowing the men more leisure will improve their disposition—even if it dulls their edge.
I might still use my connections at the club to strengthen my position.
[ ] [WINTER] My current priority must be to secure my influence within the Shipowners.
[ ] [WINTER] I mean to use my status within the Shipowners to ensure my reputation is secure.
[ ] [WINTER] I mean to use my status within the Shipowners to advance the goals of my faction.
I must look to restoring my own physical and mental fitness.
[ ] [WINTER] I must restore the strength of my body, I may have great need of it soon enough.
[ ] [WINTER] The times ahead will require a sharpened mind, a requirement I intend to meet.
[ ] [WINTER] My ability to lead and inspire has dulled over the years; I must hone it again.
Garret doesn't offer any further objection, not even when you turn and begin heading back out through the sequence of hallways which brought you here, through the Rendower's common rooms and its entry hall and out towards the foyer.
Your second-in-command is still with you even as you step into the gas-lit gloom. The black coach which delivered you here is still waiting, but you're not so foolish as to climb inside, not so quickly after you made the owner of that conveyance into your enemy.
So you walk, with Garret following quietly behind, just far enough to allow you the peace you need to consider what you've just done.
Wulfram truly is your enemy now, and with the stakes at play, you have little doubt that any concept of civility or morality will not stay his hand long. Though he has presented himself as a man of honour before, you know full well that the smell of powder tends to corrode such noble sentiments. He may yet preserve his, but you're not quite willing to take that risk. Now you shall have to look for plots not only against your opinions or your fortune or your reputation, but your life and limb as well.
It's a thought which comes to you more than once as you and Garret stalk the dark and rain-slick streets on your long walk back to the Southern Keep. More than once, you wish you'd brought your sabre or your pistols. More than once, shadows rise in the pools of light cast against the side alleys by the gas lamps. You see danger in every corner and peril in every step.
It is the same breed of nervousness which you once felt in Antar, that feeling of anxious, trembling energy which seems to turn every errant shape and movement into a mortal threat.
By the time you finally reach the gates of the Southern Keep, your nerves have frayed themselves almost to oakum. The cost of it all hits you almost in an instant, like the sharp hangover of some unpleasant liquor.
You're able to sustain yourself just long enough to commandeer an empty bed before you collapse into unconsciousness entirely.
-
As the days grow colder and shorter, the city seems to grow progressively more calm. Part of it, you suppose, has to do with the regular departure of much of the city's society for their estates in the country. With the departing string of coaches goes much of the tinder which the heat of the summer had threatened so greatly to ignite. But that isn't the whole of it. Even in the Old City, far from the concerns of the Cortes nobility, matters seem to settle.
Yet the tension which has built up over the course of the tumultuous and violent summer does not dissipate. It is not so uncommon a prediction that the current interval is nothing more than a reprieve, that once the snow melts and the summer sun shines again, the violence of the past year will resume, almost as if there had been no interruption.
No, to see the expressions of tense resignation in the faces of those you pass on the street, you suspect that most would suspect such a prospect to be a likely one.
You, on the other hand, know better. You know that such a prospect is almost a certainty.
Yet despite such ominous portents, the city continues to function almost as if nothing were amiss. Like a crew still scrubbing the deck of their ship even as it careens towards inevitable and calamitous shipwreck, the people of Aetoria seem content only to momentarily look up at the catastrophe which threatens to engulf them betwixt the stations of their routine.
Every morning, the market carts rumble to the squares. The great bell in the Shipping Exchange tolls out the official beginning of the trading day, just as the public houses still open to greet its end. The streets are still full with pedestrians, palanquins, and coaches, trudging and splashing and rolling through the waterlogged cobbles. The shops still open, the manufactures still whirr, even the printing presses grind on, pumping out new romances and travelogues alongside the political pamphlets which continue to bank the fires of unrest.
As the days grow colder and the chill drives most of the city's inhabitants off the streets, the appearance of normalcy seems to grow even stronger. Desertions are all but non-existent now. Cunaris even orders patrols reduced, both to spare horses and men from the increasingly cold weather and because there's no longer anything to patrol: the armed militias who had marched so brazenly in the heat of summer are nowhere to be seen. Even those willing to defy armed bodies of horse have no stomach for marching in defiance of the cold.
It almost feels like peace, as if the worst part of the crisis has passed, as it is almost possible that what lies ahead is only the long darkening of the last embers of unrest and a genuine, lasting peace.
But you have too much sense in you to be taken in by such baseless optimism. All too likely, the crisis will resume with renewed force the instant the returning warmth of spring brings the commons back onto the streets. What you're seeing now is not a permanent turning but a momentary respite, the last calm before what may well be the worst of the storm.
It is a time which you resolve to use wisely. Wulfram is clearly planning something come spring. You'll have to ensure that the position of the Queen's faction relative to the Duke of Wulfram's is as strong as possible—through any means necessary.
[ ] [WINTER] I mean to call upon Lady Welles, whilst I still have the chance.
I take a personal hand in the regiment's drill, to prepare them for what is to come.
[ ] [WINTER] First Squadron is most in want of drill, it shall take priority.
[ ] [WINTER] Second Squadron is my personal command, and thus ought to be prioritised.
[ ] [WINTER] Third Squadron's fighting edge is its main advantage. I mean to see it honed.
If I am to rely upon the men, I must ensure that they are loyal to me.
[ ] [WINTER] There's no better way to secure a soldier's loyalty than through coin.
-[ ] A gift of one month's pay for each enlisted man should suffice. (-1,200 Crown)
-[ ] Three months' pay for every enlisted man, that will make them most happy indeed. (-3,600 Crown)
[ ] [WINTER] I can use my pull at Grenadier Square to do the men a few favours.
[ ] [WINTER] Allowing the men more leisure will improve their disposition—even if it dulls their edge.
I might still use my connections at the club to strengthen my position.
[ ] [WINTER] My current priority must be to secure my influence within the Shipowners.
[ ] [WINTER] I mean to use my status within the Shipowners to ensure my reputation is secure.
[ ] [WINTER] I mean to use my status within the Shipowners to advance the goals of my faction.
I must look to restoring my own physical and mental fitness.
[ ] [WINTER] I must restore the strength of my body, I may have great need of it soon enough.
[ ] [WINTER] The times ahead will require a sharpened mind, a requirement I intend to meet.
[ ] [WINTER] My ability to lead and inspire has dulled over the years; I must hone it again.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] [WINTER] There's no better way to secure a soldier's loyalty than through coin.
-[X] A gift of one month's pay for each enlisted man should suffice. (-1,200 Crown)
[X] [WINTER] Third Squadron's fighting edge is its main advantage. I mean to see it honed.
[X] [WINTER] I mean to call upon Lady Welles, whilst I still have the chance.
Hey, @Rogue Attican , how much have each of our stats decayed? Which has decayed the most?
(Also, Cazarosta.)
-[X] A gift of one month's pay for each enlisted man should suffice. (-1,200 Crown)
[X] [WINTER] Third Squadron's fighting edge is its main advantage. I mean to see it honed.
[X] [WINTER] I mean to call upon Lady Welles, whilst I still have the chance.
Hey, @Rogue Attican , how much have each of our stats decayed? Which has decayed the most?
(Also, Cazarosta.)
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Both our Soldiering and Charisma peaked at 35, while our Intellect reached a high of 72.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
If we don't take an increase, does it still stay where it is?
I'm trying to decide between, I suppose, Training My Brain versus doing something with the Shipowners.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
As far as I remember, there won't be more stat decay (at least in this book), if that's what you're asking.