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- They/Them
...Jesus fuck. God, now I kinda wanna marry Katarina for her family in multiple ways.
Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga
- Thread starter Rogue Attican
- Start date
...Jesus fuck. God, now I kinda wanna marry Katarina for her family in multiple ways.
It is slightly weird that we have both Earls and Counts.
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- They/Them
What do you think on this matter? I mean, this vote and all that...
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Saints above, what the hell is attracting you to this lineage of pirates and schemers? Do you just have a thing for people of dubious morality?...Jesus fuck. God, now I kinda wanna marry Katarina for her family in multiple ways.
In the British peerage from which Tierra derives its ranks of nobility, a male Earl and a female Countess are equal in rank. If I recall correctly, the early Norman rulers started using the native title of earl instead of "count" because the latter was just a wee too close to another native word used to refer to a part of a woman's genitalia.
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Sometimes, yeah. We're all nobles here, so it's not as if there is anything but a 'relatively' to any discussion of morality. Alaric is about as nice as he could be considering all that his position implies and requires, and that's honestly pretty nice. But there is a fascination with the outlaw and the schemer, at least as long as you don't have to personally deal with them in real life.
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Lords 9.12
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- He/Him
[X] [WELLES] "I could not do otherwise, given the love I bear for you."
"The love you—" The Countess' eyes go wide with surprise. "My lord, do you mean to say—"
"I do," you reply, wrapping your fingers around hers and squeezing them gently as you step forward. "You must know that I have always harboured a great admiration for your courage and perspicacity, one which I do believe has developed into a passion. Now that your suitors have all proven themselves unworthy of acting as accompaniment to you, how could I not be compelled to step forward and take their place?"
"My l—" she begins, only for an instant before her voice fails her. "Sir, I…" She tries again, only again be stymied, her expression flushed and anxious. Now she steps back, firmly, extricating her fingers from yours. She takes a breath, two, three.
Finally, she speaks again, her voice once again carefully restrained. "My lord, I fear you broach a subject of great complexity, one which is not made simpler by the current circumstances. She pauses for a moment, as if her words have outrun her thoughts. "Perhaps once matters here and elsewhere are settled, our respective positions will be clearer. Perhaps then we may discuss the matter in more detail."
It seems, at first, an almost cold way of dismissing the confession you just made. But to hear her say the words, to almost feel the strain of the Countess' reserve as it struggles to hold back the tide of feeling behind it—that tells you more about her sentiments than her words alone could possibly say.
Things are bound to get complicated now, especially with you still somewhat entangled with the Countess of Leoniscourt, but the very fact that she has offered such a reply regardless, that is something worth noting.
And that, you suppose, is reason enough for hope.
You stay on the quay as the last of the cargo is stowed away and the lines are cast off. So does Lady Welles, fixing you with a fond look as her ship at last begins to drift away.
It is only when she at last goes below that you head back to your coach.
Soon afterwards, there's another brawl on the streets, and another, and another. Once again, it becomes a distinct rarity for three or four days to pass in succession without some instance of blood on the streets. For now, this year seems to be shaping up to be a grim reprise of the last.
If only you were all so fortunate.
The message comes late one evening, half an hour after the last of your squadron's patrols has come in when you're sitting down to supper in the officers' mess. The courier that brings it all but sprints headlong out of the night, wild-eyed and straining for breath as he fights to make his report to you through desperate, wracking gasps.
He must repeat himself twice before you're entirely certain that the message he bears is precisely what it seems.
When you do, you waste no time in raising the alarm. You call out the whole of Second Squadron, the orders snapping out of your mouth almost as if by reflex, your blood like ice water in your veins.
"Damned inconvenient time for a drill," Garret grouses when you catch him shrugging on his uniform jacket as the men of your command scramble to mount up around you. "Some of us were planning to make an early night of it."
"This is no drill," you reply. "A mob is attacking Wulfram House."
Only the darkest-blue shades of the receding spring sunset remain by the time you're leading Second Squadron out of the gates of the Southern Keep. The possibility of losing your way in the darkened streets pulls at your thoughts as you lead your men onwards almost at the gallop; the chance that some poor pedestrian might be trampled under the iron-shod hooves of your command's mounts presents no less a risk.
Yet they're ones you're willing to take. If the situation is as dire as it seems, then you have little choice.
In the end, both risks come to nothing. The streets are all but empty on the way through the city, and as for the chance of getting lost in the darkness…
You hear the howls of the crowd before you see them, their voices rising and falling like the storm wind as you lead your men into the Castle Quarter. They stretch before you for blocks in every direction, a sea of roiling humanity larger than any you have seen yet, their heads and shoulders and faces lit ruddy orange by a distant, orange glow which bathes the outline of the Duke of Wulfram's residence, drowning out even the gas lamps as it melds into the darkened sky.
"Damn me," Garret grimaces as he leans forward, squinting in the saddle. "I can't account as to what Wulfram thinks he's up to in there, lighting up his house like that. Why, it seems as if he's lit every lamp he's got."
It takes you only two heartbeats to see the truth of it: one to raise your field glasses to your eyes, another to allow the sight to register in your mind.
"Those aren't lamps, Captain," you reply, your words almost distant through your own haze of shock.
"Those are flames."
"The love you—" The Countess' eyes go wide with surprise. "My lord, do you mean to say—"
"I do," you reply, wrapping your fingers around hers and squeezing them gently as you step forward. "You must know that I have always harboured a great admiration for your courage and perspicacity, one which I do believe has developed into a passion. Now that your suitors have all proven themselves unworthy of acting as accompaniment to you, how could I not be compelled to step forward and take their place?"
"My l—" she begins, only for an instant before her voice fails her. "Sir, I…" She tries again, only again be stymied, her expression flushed and anxious. Now she steps back, firmly, extricating her fingers from yours. She takes a breath, two, three.
Finally, she speaks again, her voice once again carefully restrained. "My lord, I fear you broach a subject of great complexity, one which is not made simpler by the current circumstances. She pauses for a moment, as if her words have outrun her thoughts. "Perhaps once matters here and elsewhere are settled, our respective positions will be clearer. Perhaps then we may discuss the matter in more detail."
It seems, at first, an almost cold way of dismissing the confession you just made. But to hear her say the words, to almost feel the strain of the Countess' reserve as it struggles to hold back the tide of feeling behind it—that tells you more about her sentiments than her words alone could possibly say.
Things are bound to get complicated now, especially with you still somewhat entangled with the Countess of Leoniscourt, but the very fact that she has offered such a reply regardless, that is something worth noting.
And that, you suppose, is reason enough for hope.
You stay on the quay as the last of the cargo is stowed away and the lines are cast off. So does Lady Welles, fixing you with a fond look as her ship at last begins to drift away.
It is only when she at last goes below that you head back to your coach.
Soon afterwards, there's another brawl on the streets, and another, and another. Once again, it becomes a distinct rarity for three or four days to pass in succession without some instance of blood on the streets. For now, this year seems to be shaping up to be a grim reprise of the last.
If only you were all so fortunate.
-
The message comes late one evening, half an hour after the last of your squadron's patrols has come in when you're sitting down to supper in the officers' mess. The courier that brings it all but sprints headlong out of the night, wild-eyed and straining for breath as he fights to make his report to you through desperate, wracking gasps.
He must repeat himself twice before you're entirely certain that the message he bears is precisely what it seems.
When you do, you waste no time in raising the alarm. You call out the whole of Second Squadron, the orders snapping out of your mouth almost as if by reflex, your blood like ice water in your veins.
"Damned inconvenient time for a drill," Garret grouses when you catch him shrugging on his uniform jacket as the men of your command scramble to mount up around you. "Some of us were planning to make an early night of it."
"This is no drill," you reply. "A mob is attacking Wulfram House."
-
Only the darkest-blue shades of the receding spring sunset remain by the time you're leading Second Squadron out of the gates of the Southern Keep. The possibility of losing your way in the darkened streets pulls at your thoughts as you lead your men onwards almost at the gallop; the chance that some poor pedestrian might be trampled under the iron-shod hooves of your command's mounts presents no less a risk.
Yet they're ones you're willing to take. If the situation is as dire as it seems, then you have little choice.
In the end, both risks come to nothing. The streets are all but empty on the way through the city, and as for the chance of getting lost in the darkness…
You hear the howls of the crowd before you see them, their voices rising and falling like the storm wind as you lead your men into the Castle Quarter. They stretch before you for blocks in every direction, a sea of roiling humanity larger than any you have seen yet, their heads and shoulders and faces lit ruddy orange by a distant, orange glow which bathes the outline of the Duke of Wulfram's residence, drowning out even the gas lamps as it melds into the darkened sky.
"Damn me," Garret grimaces as he leans forward, squinting in the saddle. "I can't account as to what Wulfram thinks he's up to in there, lighting up his house like that. Why, it seems as if he's lit every lamp he's got."
It takes you only two heartbeats to see the truth of it: one to raise your field glasses to your eyes, another to allow the sight to register in your mind.
"Those aren't lamps, Captain," you reply, your words almost distant through your own haze of shock.
"Those are flames."
Lords 10.01
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- He/Him
CHAPTER X
In which MATTERS come to a HEAD.
In which MATTERS come to a HEAD.
Wulfram lives.
Indeed, the Duke had been with Brockenburg in the Rendower Club when the whole affair had happened. He escaped the attack entirely.
Others were not so fortunate. Caught betwixt the flames and the mob, they had nowhere to run. Of those trapped within the burning wreckage of Wulfram House, none escaped. Not the Duke's servants, not his guards, not his attendants.
Not his wife and children.
The Duke of Cunaris' voice is a shattered husk when he tells you the day after, slumped in his chair, his face pale, his shoulders slumped in a total and final defeat. It is clear the news has broken him.
Beside him, Lord Renard seems almost a statue, his back ramrod-straight, his limbs frozen, his eyes as glazed over and unfocused as those of a doll, despite their obvious redness. He says nothing as his father's voice staggers on, back breaking under the weight of a news which neither of them seem able to carry, until the Duke too falls quiet, and the room stills of its own accord, as if the grief of the two men has weighed down their thoughts and words, until only the half-audible sounds of the parading regiment outside remains, muffled by glass and sorrow into the slow beats of a dead march.
For a moment, you await your dismissal in silence, but Cunaris does not dismiss you. Instead, he takes a breath, and with a conscious effort, looks back up at you.
"There is…"
His voice falters in a way you've never heard before. He inhales, exhales, tries again.
"Given the circumstances, I must consider myself unfit to discharge the duties which Her Majesty the Queen has entrusted to me," he says, his voice almost a mumble, a shambling rumble meant more to be spoken than heard. "I have requested a leave of absence, for myself and my son. It has been accepted."
Whatever thoughts you might have harboured suddenly draw to a complete halt. "Sir?" you manage, mastering your shock as best you can. Surely he cannot mean—
"We are returning to Fernandescourt," the Duke continues, a note of something like sour, sickened satisfaction creeping into his voice. "We leave this afternoon."
[X] "What of the attack on Wulfram House? Surely we must find a culprit first."
"And what concern is that of mine?" Cunaris replies, the empty shell of his voice filling with an all but venomous fury. "Will it bring my daughter back? Will it bring back her children? Will it undo a bare measure of what has already been done?" he demands, his face twisted into what is almost a snarl. "No, sir! It will not!"
Lord Renard's eyes suddenly focus, shifting towards his father as his expression fills with an expression that is half fear and half worry.
"I have tried, sir. I have tried my utmost to make this city see reason, to bring some measure of justice," he continues, the exhaustion creeping back into his words as his voice hollows out once more. "I have sunk every last measure of effort, and I have nothing to show for it but the ashes of a dead child." He shakes his head. "What possible reason would I have to involve myself further, to see what else this city will take from me next?"
He lets out a long, weary breath as he slumps deeper into his chair, his eyes glittering with moisture.
"No. I am done here. Wulfram, the Queen, Aetoria. I am done with it all, before it can take anything more from me."
[X] "Have you any idea when you will be returning, sir?"
For a moment, Cunaris remains silent. For a moment, whatever reply he intended to offer seems to fight to escape his lips, as if the simple act of speaking it were some form of capitulation.
Then his shoulders slump, and his features collapse. He shakes his head. "No, I do not."
Silence hangs betwixt the three of you like a fog. By the look on the Duke's face, it is clearly not the answer which he would have preferred to give, but it is the answer he has given, despite the chagrin which now mars his haggard features.
"Once our affairs are settled in Fernandescourt, once I am able to—" He stops himself, his voice drawing away from the words he's about to utter like fingertips from an open flame. "Once I am able to see to my daughter's rites, I will return as soon as I judge myself fit to do so, of that you may be assured."
Judging by the way the Duke says it and the bare remnant of a smile he gives you, his words are meant to be a reassurance, but you, for one, certainly feel far from reassured. Indeed, given the state of your commanding officer as he looks back at you, his promise that he means to return once he's recovered seems less like an assurance and more like an equivocation. It might be weeks before he fully recuperates from the shock that his daughter's death has clearly caused him.
It might be months.
It might be forever.
[ ] [CUNARIS] "First Squadron will be missing its officer commanding; have you a replacement in mind?"
[ ] [CUNARIS] "Of course, sir. I understand entirely."
IamtooSleepy
I came here to be an ant
Yeah, that fact there are no easy way to restore or increase relation with people we don't already have good relation with already is kinda suck. Then again, I suppose it make narrative sense. If you relation with someone is already strained, you won't have much reason to accept the social call or something like that.
I sure hope we can get the MC reputation back in order so we can get our own earldom.
[x] [CUNARIS] "Of course, sir. I understand entirely."
Yeah, let's not push Cunaris too much here...
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[x] [CUNARIS] "Of course, sir. I understand entirely."
Lords 10.02
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[X] [CUNARIS] "Of course, sir. I understand entirely."
Under other circumstances, you couldn't have helped but regard your commanding officer's abdication of responsibility at such a time with some measure of contempt. After all, strong leadership is needed, now more than ever.
Yet it isn't every day that a man loses a beloved child. Surely in such an extreme case, allowances must be made. As much as the service may require a certain level of reserve and practicality, it certainly has no right to demand complete insensibility.
Of course, Cunaris' pending absence—and the absence of his son—does raise two rather important questions.
"If I may ask, sir, who is to command the regiment in your absence?"
"You will," the Duke replies. "When I go, you will be the most senior officer of the regiment present in the city. Command of the Dragoons will fall to you, as will responsibility for choosing First Squadron's new commander."
For an instant, there's a familiar glow behind Cunaris' eyes, a flash of the old strength. However badly recent events might have broken his opinion of his own judgement, this decision is one in which he evidently possesses full confidence.
[ ] [CUNARIS] "I am honoured, sir. Thank you."
[ ] [CUNARIS] "I will do my utmost to rise to the occasion."
[ ] [CUNARIS] "Will you leave me any standing orders or counsel, as to the current situation?"
Under other circumstances, you couldn't have helped but regard your commanding officer's abdication of responsibility at such a time with some measure of contempt. After all, strong leadership is needed, now more than ever.
Yet it isn't every day that a man loses a beloved child. Surely in such an extreme case, allowances must be made. As much as the service may require a certain level of reserve and practicality, it certainly has no right to demand complete insensibility.
Of course, Cunaris' pending absence—and the absence of his son—does raise two rather important questions.
"If I may ask, sir, who is to command the regiment in your absence?"
"You will," the Duke replies. "When I go, you will be the most senior officer of the regiment present in the city. Command of the Dragoons will fall to you, as will responsibility for choosing First Squadron's new commander."
For an instant, there's a familiar glow behind Cunaris' eyes, a flash of the old strength. However badly recent events might have broken his opinion of his own judgement, this decision is one in which he evidently possesses full confidence.
[ ] [CUNARIS] "I am honoured, sir. Thank you."
[ ] [CUNARIS] "I will do my utmost to rise to the occasion."
[ ] [CUNARIS] "Will you leave me any standing orders or counsel, as to the current situation?"
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[X] [CUNARIS] "I am honoured, sir. Thank you."
This makes sense for us considering we're a Lieutenant Colonel, but it's a real stretch when applied to characters who are still Captains.
IamtooSleepy
I came here to be an ant
[X] [CUNARIS] "I am honoured, sir. Thank you."
Lords 10.03
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[X] [CUNARIS] "I am honoured, sir. Thank you."
Cunaris offers you the joyless memory of a smile. "I appreciate the compliment, but I fear that no kind words can disguise the fact that I am doing you no favours by handing you the regiment at a time like this, when matters are as they are." He lets out a long, melancholy sigh. "The fact of the matter is that I have been charged with a task, and I have failed it. I failed to keep the peace of the city, and it has exacted the price for that failure out of my own flesh and blood."
He looks up, struggling to put on that mask of effortless, fearless calm which had once come to him as naturally as breathing. "I have failed, sir. And this position is one which I can neither deserve or fulfil. My only hope is that you can do the job better than I have."
Cunaris leaves quietly, almost more like a fugitive than a Duke of the Unified Kingdom. It would have been all too easy to see his leave-taking as a matter of little consequence, were it not for the sombre ranks of dismounted Dragoons assembled in the parade ground as the Duke's coach is brought around, standing in silence as their commanding officer makes his exit.
The Duke himself says nothing as he's lifted into the dark interior of the coach. As he is taken from his chair, he seems limp, unmoving, more corpse than man, as if what powers he had remaining to him were now utterly exhausted.
His son looks no less wretched, though at least he has the vigour left within him to turn to you and offer you his hand before he departs. His fingers grip yours limply when you take it, but his lips offer almost the barest twitch of a smile when you do. Despite everything, it seems he, too, retains some confidence in your abilities.
Hopefully, you will see such a belief justified.
You can spare no time or effort to linger on the parade ground once Cunaris' coach clatters out of the fortress gates. Perhaps if these were calmer times, you would have had a moment for introspection, to reflect upon the task ahead of you, and the responsibility—not only as acting commander of the regiment, but as the leader of one of the only bodies of ordered soldiery in the capital—which now rests upon your shoulders.
But time cannot help but be short now. You will have to spend every moment wisely. Introspection can wait until the crisis is past.
Now is the time for action.
Your first step is to call a meeting of all the regiment's senior officers. Under normal circumstances, they would be entitled to some manner of address by a newly installed commander, which is what you are in all but name. But you know these men, and even if some of them aren't entirely your friends, they are at least familiar to you, and you to them.
So instead, you go immediately into practical matters, as if this had always been your regiment, as if your place had always been at the head of the table. You're appraised on the strength of the three squadrons at your disposal, their condition after the long winter and the state of their arms, mounts, and accoutrements. Sir Caius delivers reports on the current reserves of powder and shot, of hay and rations, of arrears in pay, of the small reserve of unassigned enlisted men left over from the autumn's reinforcements, and of the state of the regimental smithies and farriers. He delivers them with the precision and ease which seem to be possessed by only the most conscientious and studied of clerks. If it were not for all the years you'd seen him fight in Antar, you could have almost thought him made for the quartermaster's desk.
It is only when he's finished that you're at last able to turn to the most pressing issue: that of First Squadron.
Captain Garret is the obvious option. He is senior and has had the most experience in squadron command. More than that, he alone out of the potential candidates has spent the past four years on active service. Under normal circumstances, there would be little to recommend against him.
But you know that for all of his perceived strengths, there are also weaknesses: his vices, for one, his inconstancy, and the fact that his damnable refusal to give you a straight answer gives you no real idea of where his loyalties lie. He's a man who must carry a great number of secrets under his coat, ones which you suspect may be dangerous in the wrong hands.
To appoint him to a separate command may well allow him to use that knowledge to serve your shared interests—or it may prove a most fatal misjudgement, placing a third of your force in the hands of an officer whose motives remain unknown, and whose intent may well be entirely at cross purposes to yours.
There are safer choices, of course. There's Captain Blaylock, whom you had gotten to know well in Antar. He is callous at times, brutal even; but he's far from unintelligent, and possesses strength and aggression and the sort of raw courage which seems capable of covering up so many other faults, even at squadron command. Perhaps most importantly of all, you know him to be loyal and little interested in political scheming. If you give him orders, he will follow them.
Captain Sandoral is a more thoughtful sort, but no less reliable. You looked after him in Antar, something which you suspect he still harbours some gratitude for. Though he may lack for Blaylock's physical strength and killing instinct, he's also considerably more willing to think before acting—and is no less loyal a soldier for it.
All three possess the rank and experience to lead First Squadron, at least on paper. All three lean forward as you consider your options, waiting for you to make your decision.
[ ] [COMMAND] Captain Garret will command First Squadron.
[ ] [COMMAND] First Squadron will go to Captain Blaylock.
[ ] [COMMAND] Captain Sandoral will have First Squadron.
Cunaris offers you the joyless memory of a smile. "I appreciate the compliment, but I fear that no kind words can disguise the fact that I am doing you no favours by handing you the regiment at a time like this, when matters are as they are." He lets out a long, melancholy sigh. "The fact of the matter is that I have been charged with a task, and I have failed it. I failed to keep the peace of the city, and it has exacted the price for that failure out of my own flesh and blood."
He looks up, struggling to put on that mask of effortless, fearless calm which had once come to him as naturally as breathing. "I have failed, sir. And this position is one which I can neither deserve or fulfil. My only hope is that you can do the job better than I have."
Cunaris leaves quietly, almost more like a fugitive than a Duke of the Unified Kingdom. It would have been all too easy to see his leave-taking as a matter of little consequence, were it not for the sombre ranks of dismounted Dragoons assembled in the parade ground as the Duke's coach is brought around, standing in silence as their commanding officer makes his exit.
The Duke himself says nothing as he's lifted into the dark interior of the coach. As he is taken from his chair, he seems limp, unmoving, more corpse than man, as if what powers he had remaining to him were now utterly exhausted.
His son looks no less wretched, though at least he has the vigour left within him to turn to you and offer you his hand before he departs. His fingers grip yours limply when you take it, but his lips offer almost the barest twitch of a smile when you do. Despite everything, it seems he, too, retains some confidence in your abilities.
Hopefully, you will see such a belief justified.
-
You can spare no time or effort to linger on the parade ground once Cunaris' coach clatters out of the fortress gates. Perhaps if these were calmer times, you would have had a moment for introspection, to reflect upon the task ahead of you, and the responsibility—not only as acting commander of the regiment, but as the leader of one of the only bodies of ordered soldiery in the capital—which now rests upon your shoulders.
But time cannot help but be short now. You will have to spend every moment wisely. Introspection can wait until the crisis is past.
Now is the time for action.
Your first step is to call a meeting of all the regiment's senior officers. Under normal circumstances, they would be entitled to some manner of address by a newly installed commander, which is what you are in all but name. But you know these men, and even if some of them aren't entirely your friends, they are at least familiar to you, and you to them.
So instead, you go immediately into practical matters, as if this had always been your regiment, as if your place had always been at the head of the table. You're appraised on the strength of the three squadrons at your disposal, their condition after the long winter and the state of their arms, mounts, and accoutrements. Sir Caius delivers reports on the current reserves of powder and shot, of hay and rations, of arrears in pay, of the small reserve of unassigned enlisted men left over from the autumn's reinforcements, and of the state of the regimental smithies and farriers. He delivers them with the precision and ease which seem to be possessed by only the most conscientious and studied of clerks. If it were not for all the years you'd seen him fight in Antar, you could have almost thought him made for the quartermaster's desk.
It is only when he's finished that you're at last able to turn to the most pressing issue: that of First Squadron.
Captain Garret is the obvious option. He is senior and has had the most experience in squadron command. More than that, he alone out of the potential candidates has spent the past four years on active service. Under normal circumstances, there would be little to recommend against him.
But you know that for all of his perceived strengths, there are also weaknesses: his vices, for one, his inconstancy, and the fact that his damnable refusal to give you a straight answer gives you no real idea of where his loyalties lie. He's a man who must carry a great number of secrets under his coat, ones which you suspect may be dangerous in the wrong hands.
To appoint him to a separate command may well allow him to use that knowledge to serve your shared interests—or it may prove a most fatal misjudgement, placing a third of your force in the hands of an officer whose motives remain unknown, and whose intent may well be entirely at cross purposes to yours.
There are safer choices, of course. There's Captain Blaylock, whom you had gotten to know well in Antar. He is callous at times, brutal even; but he's far from unintelligent, and possesses strength and aggression and the sort of raw courage which seems capable of covering up so many other faults, even at squadron command. Perhaps most importantly of all, you know him to be loyal and little interested in political scheming. If you give him orders, he will follow them.
Captain Sandoral is a more thoughtful sort, but no less reliable. You looked after him in Antar, something which you suspect he still harbours some gratitude for. Though he may lack for Blaylock's physical strength and killing instinct, he's also considerably more willing to think before acting—and is no less loyal a soldier for it.
All three possess the rank and experience to lead First Squadron, at least on paper. All three lean forward as you consider your options, waiting for you to make your decision.
[ ] [COMMAND] Captain Garret will command First Squadron.
[ ] [COMMAND] First Squadron will go to Captain Blaylock.
[ ] [COMMAND] Captain Sandoral will have First Squadron.
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Hmm, which of Sandoral or Blaylock would you say we got to know most well, @Rogue Attican ? Kinda wanna go with the nepotism pick so that they know what we like.
[X] [COMMAND] Captain Garret will command First Squadron.
Given that Garet actively pushed us to betray Wulfram, I think the MC's loyalty concerns may be overblown.
Given that Garet actively pushed us to betray Wulfram, I think the MC's loyalty concerns may be overblown.
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In mechanical terms, both Blaylock and Sandoral have a mentorship stat of 1. If you want Discipline, have Blaylock beat it into them. If Loyalty is your highest priority, go with Sandoral.
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...did all the Loyalty we gained from bribery and/or training just disappear?
[X] [COMMAND] Captain Sandoral will have First Squadron.
Because it lists their loyalty at 12%. That's brutal.
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Worse than Third Squad haha.
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So yeah, we need someone to try to pump up the loyalty, because at the moment they're going to betray and murder all of us. Or try to and fail because they're so bad at their jobs.
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I believe most of the decrease is attributable to the bad influences among the reinforcements Cazarosta supplied.
You know things are bad when the war criminals like you more than the "respectable" units.
Renard also has relationship dependent goodbyes. There's this whole estate locked path where you mentor him into becoming a fellow knight for your order and he gives you a hug and has confidence you'd catch whoever killed her sister and her children.
If you didn't do that but did the be buds with renard in book 2, I think he still shakes your hand but its much friendlier.
What does Garret do for first squadron's stats?
If you didn't do that but did the be buds with renard in book 2, I think he still shakes your hand but its much friendlier.
What does Garret do for first squadron's stats?
- Pronouns
- He
[X] [COMMAND] Captain Garret will command First Squadron.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Squiring Renard and helping him become a Knight of Saint Joshua is one of my favorite storylines in Lords of Infinity. In general, the estate path is good for memorable character interactions, especially with high Charisma.
Garret boosts Morale.