The queen strikes me as someone who is very intelligent but also someone who, by dint of her precarious position, can't afford to admit ignorance or a mistake, at least not easily.
Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga
- Thread starter Rogue Attican
- Start date
[X] [COMMIT] "Send in the militias."
Since we armed them, we might as well use them.
Since we armed them, we might as well use them.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] [COMMIT] "Send in the militias."
Lords 12.08
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] [COMMIT] "Send in the militias."
For half a minute, you're not even sure if your order has gotten through. Beneath you, the great mass of disordered militias continues to mill, unresponsive, even as the messengers you sent to convey your orders begin to filter through and make your decision known.
Then, a handful of voices begins to rise, the handful becomes hundreds, then thousands. In fits and starts, the mass begins to shift, like a sandbank washing into the sea, bit by bit, piece by piece, the water around it churning and heaving until it coalesces into a great wave—and roars forward.
The Cuirassiers are ready for them. After such a period of warning, they would have to be blind and deaf not to be. They meet the oncoming tide of armed humanity with cool, steady professionalism, the sort which you would have admired without reservation, had it been from your own side. Some of the militia empty their firelocks at the barricades as they rush forward. One or two of the enemy fall. A great piercing ring cuts through the air, the sound of a pistol ball bouncing off a steel breastplate.
Then, the enemy answer in a single crisp volley, some with carbines, some with pistols held, one in each hand. The barricades disappear under smoke and fire. The leading edge of the militia charge slows, halts, eddies, like a wave which has reached too far. It recoils, leaving the dead littered in its wake.
But only for a moment.
It is only the space of a few moments for the mob to rush forward again, shrugging off the effects of the Cuirassier volley. The enemy may be well-disciplined, but they are few—not enough to hold off a force of thousands, no matter how disordered. This time, their fire barely slows the mob down, as the human tide crests the barricades like a tidal wave over a sand castle. For a moment, the Cuirassiers are able to hold, their discipline and their courage barring the narrow staircases up to the gun platform—but one by one, they're driven back, thrown aside by sheer force of numbers, as the militias pour through the gap.
After that, there's no further question of how things are to end. Some of the Cuirassiers fight on in tight knots, back to back, shrinking rings of steel battered and defiant against an onrushing tide of humanity. The rest withdraw over the makeshift bridges which link this section of the batteries with the next. For an instant, a handful of the enemy linger at the passageway, Brockenburg among them. He shouts something, lost in the sound of battle, his hands beckoning towards the holdouts still trying to fight towards the way out. One of their number shouts back. Your field glass is just powerful enough for you to see the commander of Wulfram's Houseguard look down and shake his head before giving fresh orders.
By the time his men have pulled the last of the bridges away, the whole of the first section of shore batteries is in Royalist hands.
The first section of shore batteries is firmly under Royalist control by the time you're able to get to it. Already, the dead are being cleared away, the wounded—or at least, your wounded—are being tended to. Around them, swarms of men are moving down each gun platform, securing both the massive cannon themselves and the shot lockers, powder magazines, and covered passages that accompany them.
Soon, the report comes that all stores of powder and shot are secure. The guns are also intact, though it comes as perhaps no surprise to learn that their vent holes had been spiked by the retreating Cuirassiers—which means if you're to end Wulfram's evacuation, it will have to be through more direct means.
There's no question as to what those means shall be, and there's no question that the force to do it will be in for a difficult challenge, indeed.
For a moment, you consider taking the next set of shore batteries the way you had the first, with an assault from the street. But the problems with such an approach become obvious almost immediately: to reach the closest of the street approaches, any attacking force would have to expose themselves to enfilading fire from the Wulframite-held batteries on their approach—you doubt that any force you have in your possession would be able to do so and still successfully carry the position.
Which means you only have one real way forward: the same way by which your enemy just made their retreat.
The matter of crossing the gap betwixt your section of the shore batteries and the next is not a complicated one. The makeshift bridges—really little more than improvised gangplanks—which the Cuirassiers had retreated over would only take a few minutes at most to replace, and once you get men across the gap in numbers, the matter may well be settled quickly; the enemy left the barricades along that approach weak, defended only by what seem like street militias. Yet the prospect of getting men over the gap in the first place is the real difficulty. Any crossing bridges would have to be placed in the open, and while the Wulframite militias may be disordered, they're also quite numerous—and you don't doubt that even a poorly drilled, poorly equipped enemy will inflict substantial losses upon any force approaching them in the open, across a set of narrow and uncovered passages.
But it will have to be done.
The only question is, who is to do it?
With your forces now gathered around you, it seems easy enough to make a quick examination of their component pieces:
You have little doubt that the Grenadiers still possess sufficient strength and spirit to take the next set of batteries, despite the heavy action they've sustained so far. Yet you know as well as they that they're no more proof to musketry than any other man—and that to send them on the attack now would expose them to a considerable amount of enemy fire. They may well be able to take the enemy's positions, but they shall surely bleed heavily for it.
Then, there are your Dragoons. Though they lack the specialised training or equipment the Grenadiers possess, and although the day's action hasn't left them in pristine condition, your regiment still retains much of its fighting strength, and even if they lack bayonets and muskets, let alone hand grenades, their discipline and equipment should still give them the upper hand over the enemy ahead—though they'll surely suffer heavy casualties in the approach.
Lastly, there are the street militias, the only force which could possibly match the enemy before you in sheer numbers, if nothing else. Any attempt to employ them in the assault will necessarily be a matter of attrition, two mobs of ill-trained, ill-equipped civilians battering at each other with improvised weapons until one of them gives way. But you have some confidence that your mob will last longer than theirs. Though they're far from professional soldiers, your militias clearly seem better ordered, spirited, and equipped than theirs. It won't stop them from taking horrendous losses on the approach.
But it's clear that if you're to settle this matter, someone will have to bear them…
[ ] [COMMIT] Call the militias forward and send them in.
[ ] [COMMIT] Commit the Grenadiers.
[ ] [COMMIT] Bring up the Dragoons and send them across.
For half a minute, you're not even sure if your order has gotten through. Beneath you, the great mass of disordered militias continues to mill, unresponsive, even as the messengers you sent to convey your orders begin to filter through and make your decision known.
Then, a handful of voices begins to rise, the handful becomes hundreds, then thousands. In fits and starts, the mass begins to shift, like a sandbank washing into the sea, bit by bit, piece by piece, the water around it churning and heaving until it coalesces into a great wave—and roars forward.
The Cuirassiers are ready for them. After such a period of warning, they would have to be blind and deaf not to be. They meet the oncoming tide of armed humanity with cool, steady professionalism, the sort which you would have admired without reservation, had it been from your own side. Some of the militia empty their firelocks at the barricades as they rush forward. One or two of the enemy fall. A great piercing ring cuts through the air, the sound of a pistol ball bouncing off a steel breastplate.
Then, the enemy answer in a single crisp volley, some with carbines, some with pistols held, one in each hand. The barricades disappear under smoke and fire. The leading edge of the militia charge slows, halts, eddies, like a wave which has reached too far. It recoils, leaving the dead littered in its wake.
But only for a moment.
It is only the space of a few moments for the mob to rush forward again, shrugging off the effects of the Cuirassier volley. The enemy may be well-disciplined, but they are few—not enough to hold off a force of thousands, no matter how disordered. This time, their fire barely slows the mob down, as the human tide crests the barricades like a tidal wave over a sand castle. For a moment, the Cuirassiers are able to hold, their discipline and their courage barring the narrow staircases up to the gun platform—but one by one, they're driven back, thrown aside by sheer force of numbers, as the militias pour through the gap.
After that, there's no further question of how things are to end. Some of the Cuirassiers fight on in tight knots, back to back, shrinking rings of steel battered and defiant against an onrushing tide of humanity. The rest withdraw over the makeshift bridges which link this section of the batteries with the next. For an instant, a handful of the enemy linger at the passageway, Brockenburg among them. He shouts something, lost in the sound of battle, his hands beckoning towards the holdouts still trying to fight towards the way out. One of their number shouts back. Your field glass is just powerful enough for you to see the commander of Wulfram's Houseguard look down and shake his head before giving fresh orders.
By the time his men have pulled the last of the bridges away, the whole of the first section of shore batteries is in Royalist hands.
-
The first section of shore batteries is firmly under Royalist control by the time you're able to get to it. Already, the dead are being cleared away, the wounded—or at least, your wounded—are being tended to. Around them, swarms of men are moving down each gun platform, securing both the massive cannon themselves and the shot lockers, powder magazines, and covered passages that accompany them.
Soon, the report comes that all stores of powder and shot are secure. The guns are also intact, though it comes as perhaps no surprise to learn that their vent holes had been spiked by the retreating Cuirassiers—which means if you're to end Wulfram's evacuation, it will have to be through more direct means.
There's no question as to what those means shall be, and there's no question that the force to do it will be in for a difficult challenge, indeed.
For a moment, you consider taking the next set of shore batteries the way you had the first, with an assault from the street. But the problems with such an approach become obvious almost immediately: to reach the closest of the street approaches, any attacking force would have to expose themselves to enfilading fire from the Wulframite-held batteries on their approach—you doubt that any force you have in your possession would be able to do so and still successfully carry the position.
Which means you only have one real way forward: the same way by which your enemy just made their retreat.
The matter of crossing the gap betwixt your section of the shore batteries and the next is not a complicated one. The makeshift bridges—really little more than improvised gangplanks—which the Cuirassiers had retreated over would only take a few minutes at most to replace, and once you get men across the gap in numbers, the matter may well be settled quickly; the enemy left the barricades along that approach weak, defended only by what seem like street militias. Yet the prospect of getting men over the gap in the first place is the real difficulty. Any crossing bridges would have to be placed in the open, and while the Wulframite militias may be disordered, they're also quite numerous—and you don't doubt that even a poorly drilled, poorly equipped enemy will inflict substantial losses upon any force approaching them in the open, across a set of narrow and uncovered passages.
But it will have to be done.
The only question is, who is to do it?
With your forces now gathered around you, it seems easy enough to make a quick examination of their component pieces:
You have little doubt that the Grenadiers still possess sufficient strength and spirit to take the next set of batteries, despite the heavy action they've sustained so far. Yet you know as well as they that they're no more proof to musketry than any other man—and that to send them on the attack now would expose them to a considerable amount of enemy fire. They may well be able to take the enemy's positions, but they shall surely bleed heavily for it.
Then, there are your Dragoons. Though they lack the specialised training or equipment the Grenadiers possess, and although the day's action hasn't left them in pristine condition, your regiment still retains much of its fighting strength, and even if they lack bayonets and muskets, let alone hand grenades, their discipline and equipment should still give them the upper hand over the enemy ahead—though they'll surely suffer heavy casualties in the approach.
Lastly, there are the street militias, the only force which could possibly match the enemy before you in sheer numbers, if nothing else. Any attempt to employ them in the assault will necessarily be a matter of attrition, two mobs of ill-trained, ill-equipped civilians battering at each other with improvised weapons until one of them gives way. But you have some confidence that your mob will last longer than theirs. Though they're far from professional soldiers, your militias clearly seem better ordered, spirited, and equipped than theirs. It won't stop them from taking horrendous losses on the approach.
But it's clear that if you're to settle this matter, someone will have to bear them…
[ ] [COMMIT] Call the militias forward and send them in.
[ ] [COMMIT] Commit the Grenadiers.
[ ] [COMMIT] Bring up the Dragoons and send them across.
[X] [COMMIT] Call the militias forward and send them in.
Again, we spent time preparing them, so we should use them as much as we can.
Again, we spent time preparing them, so we should use them as much as we can.
- Pronouns
- He
[X] [COMMIT] Call the militias forward and send them in.
Lords 12.09
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] [COMMIT] Call the militias forward and send them in.
The militias are not your best-drilled or best-equipped force, but they are your most numerous, and against an enemy no better ordered or armed, they may well be the best option. After all, if you must use them, then it would be far better to send them against an enemy of equal quality, rather than the slaughter which they'd be subject to if they were sent against professionals.
With warehouses full of nautical stores in every direction, it doesn't take long for someone to bring up a new set of ship's gangplanks long enough to cover the gap betwixt the Royalist-held and Wulframite-held sections of the shore batteries, and wide enough to allow for the passage of a practicably sized assault force. Indeed, the greater problem seems to be less securing a means of bridging the gap than assembling the force which is to go over it. The militias, for all of their continuing enthusiasm, are no easier to marshal and direct, and it's only with the greatest difficulty that you're able to bring them into position, having them take up the improvised bridgeways which are to give them access to the enemy.
An enemy which now, of course, is well aware of your intentions. One can hardly hide the preparations needed for an enterprise of this magnitude, not when one is putting them into action barely two hundred paces away from their forward picquets. They too have been preparing for your attack.
At long last, all is in readiness, on your side and on theirs. There's nothing for it but to give the order to advance.
The enemy open fire the instant your forces begin moving forward. It's nothing which anyone with any real understanding of the word might call a volley, more a splattering of flame and smoke, a ragged splash of thunder, crackling up and down the great mass of the enemy as they fire off their weapons one by one. It is a ragged, slovenly thing.
But that doesn't mean it's harmless.
Even a badly aimed shot may yet find a target, and with so many in the air, some of them do. Here and there, you can see parts of the leading elements of your attacking force pitch forward or fall, only to be trampled by their advancing fellows behind them. Some of your militias answer in kind, with a slapdash volley of their own—to similar effect.
But the same cannot be said of the volley that follows.
This time, the sound of musketry comes not from in front of you, but to the side, from the roof of the Shipping Exchange—and this time, it comes not as a trickle but as a single thunderclap. At once, dozens of Wulframites fall dead, as if cut down by the blow of a single invisible hammer. At once, the enemy seems to almost recoil, as if the blow had been to their heads as well. A formation of professionals wouldn't have reacted thus, but most of the mass you're facing are but a few hours removed from workshops and market stalls. They're not accustomed to such reversals.
Most, but not all. Almost immediately, voices begin to rise from the confused throng—sharp, commanding voices, rallying those around them, bringing in at least some semblance of order.
The enemy's militias respond, but only for a few moments—for the fire from the Shipping Exchange resumes again, and the enemy leaders fall silent, one by one, having exposed themselves to the deadly aim of Reyes' sharpshooters.
By now, your own militias have begun to cross, and the enemy is in little shape to oppose them. The first shock rattled them, the second has all but hamstrung them. Already, some are beginning to flee, leaving their more stout-hearted fellows behind in besieged, shrinking knots. Your own forces, seeing victory within their grasp, rush forward to overwhelm the last holdouts with a great, bestial roar.
Within moments, it is over. The remaining Wulframite militias are in full flight. The more loyal run for the defences of their final redoubt. The rest disappear into the streets.
Another section of the shore batteries has fallen. Only one more remains.
Only one section of the shore batteries remains in Wulframite hands. Only one small redoubt still shields the Duke of Wulfram's evacuation from your forces. If you can take that last section, then you'll be able to command the whole of the docks from its ramparts. Not even a rowboat would be able to moor or shove off from Aetoria's piers without your say-so. Wulfram and Crittenden would be compelled to end their evacuation. Those of their forces still trapped in the city would be obliged to surrender.
Take that one last section, and the battle is over. Take that one last section, and the Queen will have her victory.
It's a truth which the enemy knows, too. From what you can see of their positions, it's clear that they don't plan to give up without a fight. The approaches are covered with high barricades of timber and stones, overlooked by cross-fires and makeshift towers. It's a position strong enough to make even the most ragged defenders a formidable foe, and the enemy you face is far from that: even from here, you can see the massed orange coats of the Northern fleet's Marines, their bayonets fixed and glittering in the afternoon sun. Around them, the remnants of Wulfram's street militias, evidently still keen to avenge their latest defeat at your hands.
Your depleted, exhausted forces would have to brave every successive layer of defence, all whilst sustaining not the slapdash fire of half-trained militia, but the massed volleys of professional infantry. Worse yet, they would have to do it without the support of Reyes and his sharpshooters, for the enemy's positions are now far beyond the range of even rifled muskets firing from the roof of the Shipping Exchange. Any general assault would necessarily be vicious, terrible work, with an uncertain chance of success. Even if your forces prevail, they would do so only by wading knee-deep through the blood of their comrades.
But that doesn't mean there are no other options.
You cannot imagine that the Wulframite force now trapped in the last remaining section of the shore batteries should wish to be subjected to the bloody eventuality of a general assault, especially given the fact that you know from long experience that men who have just fought their way into a fortified position at great cost are rarely inclined to take prisoners—or treat the captives they do take particularly well. If you're able to make contact with the Wulframite commander, perhaps you'd be able to persuade him that it would be far better for all involved if he and his forces were to surrender without a fight.
It would be a difficult task, of course. Wulfram and his allies would know that you might consider such a course of action, and you hardly have any doubt that they would have left behind an officer specifically inclined to resist such an approach. Yet if you're unable to negotiate such a surrender, then you would have no choice but to order a general assault, with forces you suspect to be far too weak for the task—or with forces which may well be insufficient for the task—or else simply dig in and allow Wulfram to evacuate the remainder of his forces unmolested.
[X] I must confer with my officers.
No sooner do you put the question to your officers, you receive an answer.
"With respect, sir, the correct course of action ought to be obvious," Blaylock declares. "We should prepare for a general assault at soonest possibility."
"Might we not at least entertain the possibility that we could compel the enemy to surrender first?" Garret asks. "I think enough of the Queen's subjects have died messily today, traitor or otherwise."
"Traitor or otherwise?" Blaylock replies, voice on the very edge of outrage. "The men in there have made their decision, and they know they're likely as not to hang for it. If you think they might be compelled to play the lamb and lay down their arms, then you're welcome to that delusion, but the fact is that every moment we spend debating this matter is another moment the Duke of Wulfram and his traitor friends can use to shuffle away more of their traitor soldiers!"
"The regiment will fight if the order is given, sir," Sandoral adds. "However, "Although I must wonder if such a course of action is wise, given our current state. However, if we are to attack such a position, it will have to be with the whole of our forces, not just the Dragoons."
"My Grenadiers will go up, if you require them to," Captain Riley replies, with an air of confidence as insistent as it is forced. "We've taken worse losses before and won the day despite of it."
"My men will offer what support they can," Reyes adds. "I fear that will not be a great deal. There are no buildings tall enough to overlook the enemy position from here. We will be shooting up at them."
"What about the militias?" you ask.
"They'll still fight," the Intendant replies. "They know we may well be on the cusp of a famous victory. If you order them forward, they will go—though I cannot speak for how well they'll fare against trained infantry behind good barricades."
You nod, turning your officers' reports over in your head. It's clear that you still possess quite a formidable force, one which may well be able to carry the enemy's last position by storm. But such an attempt would surely lead to a considerable effusion of blood, not only from those men under your command, but those whom you're facing as well, who—you can hardly forget—are Tierran subjects also. Surely, there must be a better course of action than one which would inevitably lead to a bloodbath. Surely, negotiation would be a better path…
Right?
[ ] [FINALE] Let us try to negotiate their surrender.
[ ] [FINALE] Only a general assault will end this quickly.
[ ] [FINALE] We have no choice but to dig in and wait the enemy out.
The militias are not your best-drilled or best-equipped force, but they are your most numerous, and against an enemy no better ordered or armed, they may well be the best option. After all, if you must use them, then it would be far better to send them against an enemy of equal quality, rather than the slaughter which they'd be subject to if they were sent against professionals.
With warehouses full of nautical stores in every direction, it doesn't take long for someone to bring up a new set of ship's gangplanks long enough to cover the gap betwixt the Royalist-held and Wulframite-held sections of the shore batteries, and wide enough to allow for the passage of a practicably sized assault force. Indeed, the greater problem seems to be less securing a means of bridging the gap than assembling the force which is to go over it. The militias, for all of their continuing enthusiasm, are no easier to marshal and direct, and it's only with the greatest difficulty that you're able to bring them into position, having them take up the improvised bridgeways which are to give them access to the enemy.
An enemy which now, of course, is well aware of your intentions. One can hardly hide the preparations needed for an enterprise of this magnitude, not when one is putting them into action barely two hundred paces away from their forward picquets. They too have been preparing for your attack.
At long last, all is in readiness, on your side and on theirs. There's nothing for it but to give the order to advance.
The enemy open fire the instant your forces begin moving forward. It's nothing which anyone with any real understanding of the word might call a volley, more a splattering of flame and smoke, a ragged splash of thunder, crackling up and down the great mass of the enemy as they fire off their weapons one by one. It is a ragged, slovenly thing.
But that doesn't mean it's harmless.
Even a badly aimed shot may yet find a target, and with so many in the air, some of them do. Here and there, you can see parts of the leading elements of your attacking force pitch forward or fall, only to be trampled by their advancing fellows behind them. Some of your militias answer in kind, with a slapdash volley of their own—to similar effect.
But the same cannot be said of the volley that follows.
This time, the sound of musketry comes not from in front of you, but to the side, from the roof of the Shipping Exchange—and this time, it comes not as a trickle but as a single thunderclap. At once, dozens of Wulframites fall dead, as if cut down by the blow of a single invisible hammer. At once, the enemy seems to almost recoil, as if the blow had been to their heads as well. A formation of professionals wouldn't have reacted thus, but most of the mass you're facing are but a few hours removed from workshops and market stalls. They're not accustomed to such reversals.
Most, but not all. Almost immediately, voices begin to rise from the confused throng—sharp, commanding voices, rallying those around them, bringing in at least some semblance of order.
The enemy's militias respond, but only for a few moments—for the fire from the Shipping Exchange resumes again, and the enemy leaders fall silent, one by one, having exposed themselves to the deadly aim of Reyes' sharpshooters.
By now, your own militias have begun to cross, and the enemy is in little shape to oppose them. The first shock rattled them, the second has all but hamstrung them. Already, some are beginning to flee, leaving their more stout-hearted fellows behind in besieged, shrinking knots. Your own forces, seeing victory within their grasp, rush forward to overwhelm the last holdouts with a great, bestial roar.
Within moments, it is over. The remaining Wulframite militias are in full flight. The more loyal run for the defences of their final redoubt. The rest disappear into the streets.
Another section of the shore batteries has fallen. Only one more remains.
-
Only one section of the shore batteries remains in Wulframite hands. Only one small redoubt still shields the Duke of Wulfram's evacuation from your forces. If you can take that last section, then you'll be able to command the whole of the docks from its ramparts. Not even a rowboat would be able to moor or shove off from Aetoria's piers without your say-so. Wulfram and Crittenden would be compelled to end their evacuation. Those of their forces still trapped in the city would be obliged to surrender.
Take that one last section, and the battle is over. Take that one last section, and the Queen will have her victory.
It's a truth which the enemy knows, too. From what you can see of their positions, it's clear that they don't plan to give up without a fight. The approaches are covered with high barricades of timber and stones, overlooked by cross-fires and makeshift towers. It's a position strong enough to make even the most ragged defenders a formidable foe, and the enemy you face is far from that: even from here, you can see the massed orange coats of the Northern fleet's Marines, their bayonets fixed and glittering in the afternoon sun. Around them, the remnants of Wulfram's street militias, evidently still keen to avenge their latest defeat at your hands.
Your depleted, exhausted forces would have to brave every successive layer of defence, all whilst sustaining not the slapdash fire of half-trained militia, but the massed volleys of professional infantry. Worse yet, they would have to do it without the support of Reyes and his sharpshooters, for the enemy's positions are now far beyond the range of even rifled muskets firing from the roof of the Shipping Exchange. Any general assault would necessarily be vicious, terrible work, with an uncertain chance of success. Even if your forces prevail, they would do so only by wading knee-deep through the blood of their comrades.
But that doesn't mean there are no other options.
You cannot imagine that the Wulframite force now trapped in the last remaining section of the shore batteries should wish to be subjected to the bloody eventuality of a general assault, especially given the fact that you know from long experience that men who have just fought their way into a fortified position at great cost are rarely inclined to take prisoners—or treat the captives they do take particularly well. If you're able to make contact with the Wulframite commander, perhaps you'd be able to persuade him that it would be far better for all involved if he and his forces were to surrender without a fight.
It would be a difficult task, of course. Wulfram and his allies would know that you might consider such a course of action, and you hardly have any doubt that they would have left behind an officer specifically inclined to resist such an approach. Yet if you're unable to negotiate such a surrender, then you would have no choice but to order a general assault, with forces you suspect to be far too weak for the task—or with forces which may well be insufficient for the task—or else simply dig in and allow Wulfram to evacuate the remainder of his forces unmolested.
[X] I must confer with my officers.
No sooner do you put the question to your officers, you receive an answer.
"With respect, sir, the correct course of action ought to be obvious," Blaylock declares. "We should prepare for a general assault at soonest possibility."
"Might we not at least entertain the possibility that we could compel the enemy to surrender first?" Garret asks. "I think enough of the Queen's subjects have died messily today, traitor or otherwise."
"Traitor or otherwise?" Blaylock replies, voice on the very edge of outrage. "The men in there have made their decision, and they know they're likely as not to hang for it. If you think they might be compelled to play the lamb and lay down their arms, then you're welcome to that delusion, but the fact is that every moment we spend debating this matter is another moment the Duke of Wulfram and his traitor friends can use to shuffle away more of their traitor soldiers!"
"The regiment will fight if the order is given, sir," Sandoral adds. "However, "Although I must wonder if such a course of action is wise, given our current state. However, if we are to attack such a position, it will have to be with the whole of our forces, not just the Dragoons."
"My Grenadiers will go up, if you require them to," Captain Riley replies, with an air of confidence as insistent as it is forced. "We've taken worse losses before and won the day despite of it."
"My men will offer what support they can," Reyes adds. "I fear that will not be a great deal. There are no buildings tall enough to overlook the enemy position from here. We will be shooting up at them."
"What about the militias?" you ask.
"They'll still fight," the Intendant replies. "They know we may well be on the cusp of a famous victory. If you order them forward, they will go—though I cannot speak for how well they'll fare against trained infantry behind good barricades."
You nod, turning your officers' reports over in your head. It's clear that you still possess quite a formidable force, one which may well be able to carry the enemy's last position by storm. But such an attempt would surely lead to a considerable effusion of blood, not only from those men under your command, but those whom you're facing as well, who—you can hardly forget—are Tierran subjects also. Surely, there must be a better course of action than one which would inevitably lead to a bloodbath. Surely, negotiation would be a better path…
Right?
[ ] [FINALE] Let us try to negotiate their surrender.
[ ] [FINALE] Only a general assault will end this quickly.
[ ] [FINALE] We have no choice but to dig in and wait the enemy out.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] [FINALE] Only a general assault will end this quickly.
[X] [FINALE] Only a general assault will end this quickly.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Having looked it up, I'm pretty sure you can only manage that by saving the square and also a *lot* of sabotage and good stats.
Lords 12.10
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] [FINALE] Only a general assault will end this quickly.
Not all of your officers approve when you make your decision known to them, but none of them argue the point. You all know time is of the essence, and if you're to end matters quickly, then you have none to spare for debating how such an end is to be achieved. So, you dismiss your subordinates to your commands and turn your attention to the final preparations to be made before the assault.
Only to find that very few are necessary.
In truth, you realise that the factors which created the circumstances for the assault you just ordered are ones which have been set already—some years in the making, some cemented only a few minutes ago. Some of those circumstances have been affected by your past actions, as far back perhaps as your time in Antar. Others had progressed in trajectories far beyond your influence.
Well, you suppose they're all beyond your influence now, for the circumstances of the impending action are much like the trajectory of a cannonball. Having already been cast and loaded and aimed, you can only go through the final mechanical steps of putting the linstock to the touch-hole and waiting for the result.
No matter of tactical skill, this, or inspired leadership; merely common sense and a basic understanding of the forces under your control:
Supported by Reyes' sharpshooters, your Dragoons and the street militias will attack head-on, pinning the enemy so that the Grenadiers may move along the street to attack the enemy position in the flank, so that they might hopefully take advantage of their specialty to overcome a distracted foe long enough to break into their rear and render their position untenable.
It isn't a plan without risk, and it will certainly cost you significant losses, but it's the best plan you might allow given the forces at your disposal; it will have to do.
Soon, your assaulting forces are in position. There's no time left for further introspection, no time for some clever ruse or space for an inspired manoeuvre. Now, it's all up to those you've led and preserved until this point. Now, all you can do is step forward.
And give the order to advance.
It cannot help but remain a surreal experience to see so climactic a scene set in motion by your orders, only to observe the course of its execution as a passive observer. It isn't the first time your decisions have determined the outcome of an action; indeed, you had in some ways gotten used to the idea of your decisions having some great effect on others, first as a fighting officer, then as a Lord of the Cortes.
But in those cases, you'd always been there in the midst of it all, sharing the peril and bearing the consequences of your own actions. Here, it occurs to you that little harm could come to you from so seemingly distant a position, for although you cannot be more than three or four hundred paces from the enemy, your advancing forces might well be on the other side of the city for how little you're able to perceive them, for how they quickly they seem to diminish from individuals with expressions on their faces and light in their eyes to almost abstract symbols—little more than counters on a map.
Then there's a great roar of musketry. The enemy have opened fire. Your own forces answer with a thundering volley of their own, your assaulting party's distant firelocks drowned out by the sharp crack of Reyes' Skirmishers much closer at hand. Even what little you can see before seems to be gone, as the battle which you've ordered now slips out of not only your control, but your perception. Leaving only the powder-fog, the clash of steel on steel, and the sound of a thousand voices fighting, killing.
And dying.
For a moment, you consider intervening directly, the sound of battle drawing you in as it carries on, concealed behind the smoke and the shadow of the barricades. The knowledge that men are fighting and dying on your order before you draws you forward like a lodestone, possessed of a force which seems to grow stronger with every single moment.
You are a Queen's Officer, and a Knight of the Red besides, surely your place ought to be in the midst of the action, alongside the men you command, especially now that there's no need for a high command to coordinate a subsequent action. The day will be decided here, and although your personal involvement may yet serve to improve the outcome, your survival is no longer a necessity.
Yet before you take for first step forward, the sounds of fighting die. The smoke begins to dissipate. A voice cries out, a cheer. Then another, and another. You barely need to wait for the powder fog to clear to realise what has happened. While you were lost in thought, your command was fighting the battle you ordered them into—fighting and winning, for you can pick out now the sight of Crittenden's Marines laying down their arms in surrender.
In the end, it seems, despite your second-guessing, your forces were enough to carry the day. Your personal intervention wasn't required, after all.
Thank the Saints for that.
Part of you wasn't expecting your assault to succeed so thoroughly. After all the fighting that your command has been through, it was all too easy to imagine that it had taken too many losses, that its energies were fully spent, and that the final assault you ordered them into would be doomed to failure if you did not personally intervene.
And yet, as you watch your men take Wulfram's forces prisoner, you realise that your forces weren't the only ones worn down by the day's fighting. After hours of waiting, after the reversal at the Northern Keep and then the repeated withdrawals in the face of your counter-attack, as well as the tales spread by the fugitives fleeing from those actions, you suppose the enemy must have lost the heart to fight on. In the end, it took surprisingly little time to drive them from their barricades, and little more to convince them to surrender.
Of course, that doesn't mean the victory came cheaply. Quick the final engagement might have been, but it was surely sharp, as well. The bodies of the dead and wounded are scattered everywhere, along the stone floor of the gun platforms, splayed out on the streets below, draped over barricades and cannon like obscene, leaking draperies. No, Crittenden's Marines may have surrendered in the end, but they exacted a price for their submission, and paid a price in turn.
And there will be more prices to pay in the days to come, that's for sure. You may have captured a significant portion of Wulfram's forces, but not all. The man himself has escaped, and with him, his strongest allies, his fleet, and much of his professional soldiery. You've deprived the arch-traitor of a great part of his power, but he has more than enough remaining to spread rebellion and tumult until it engulfs the whole of the Unified Kingdom in civil war.
Or at least, almost the whole of it, for despite Wulfram's escape, you've driven his forces from the capital. Tierra may be doomed to the sort of bloodletting which it hasn't seen since the Wars of Unification, but here and now, at the very least, there is a semblance of peace.
It is sunset before an accurate tally of your prisoners can be reported: the final reckoning of a dubious victory.
Yet it is a victory nonetheless, by any reasonable measure. You've driven the enemy back and taken possession of the field of battle. Your men rest with the exhausted relief of a victorious force, not the grim and despairing mien of a defeated one.
And there is the more material evidence, of course: a battalion colour, taken from one of Crittenden's Marine companies, its survivors now sitting prisoner with a considerable number of the street militias who had remained loyal to Wulfram's banner when the rest fled into the city. Together, they make for a compelling argument in your favour, being a substantial portion of the forces which the enemy meant to evacuate—forces now weakened substantially by your actions today.
But Wulfram himself has eluded capture, along with his close advisors, almost all of his Cortes allies, and the vast majority of his forces. Defeated he may be, but he still commands a powerful fleet, a sizeable body of armed men, and the means to raise a great many more, once he's able to retrench himself in some more secure headquarters. Then there will be nothing stopping him from raising turmoil and revolt, from spreading the flames of rebellion until they engulf the Unified Kingdom entirely.
You've have won a hard victory here today, but it's only the first action of what is sure to be a long and bitter war, one whose outcome is very much still in doubt. One fought on Tierran soil, against your own countrymen.
One which has already claimed its first instalment of blood.
The dead and wounded are littered along the whole length of the shore batteries and beyond. Already, the stink of decay has begun to overpower the smell of powder. The drying blood is sticky and rotting under the tread of your feet. Flies and carrion birds have already begun to descend, along with the first knots of looters—for some evidently aren't so shocked by the visitation of open war upon their home streets to seek some profit amongst the bodies of those now lying in them.
You set some of your men to driving off the human scavengers, and perhaps some of the birds too. Others, you set to finding and seeing to the wounded. A last group, you set to tallying and identifying the dead. It is this last detail who you shall expect to have the greatest difficulty. In the dimming light of the early evening, it's difficult to match a severed limb to its owner, or to tell the difference betwixt the body of an orange-coated Marine and an orange-coated Grenadier. The dead of the street militias, you suspect, may well never be sorted properly.
Some of the dead are far easier to identify: those in the grey-green and red of your own regiment, their broken bodies standing out amidst the carnage like welts on a flogged back. You can see a dozen or more from where you're standing, some wounded and some dead. You have little doubt that there are more elsewhere. Your regiment has suffered badly in the day's fighting, though not as badly as some: the majority of the men you started the day with are still on their feet—including a great number of your officers.
Yet for all of that, you cannot bring yourself to feel thankful for it. The better part of your regiment may have survived this day, but there's always the next, and the one after, and the one after that.
For men who are preserved in one battle may yet be slaughtered in the next—and there are many battles yet to come.
My Lord,
Some time ago, when I previously approached you regarding the necessity of taking precautions to forestall an attack upon the estate, you declared that such things were not common in Tierra, and that it would be a waste of time and resources to make preparations for an armed defence of your house and lands. 'We are not in Antar,' I believe were your exact words.
While I understand that it is not always politic to offer open contradiction to one's own lord, I feel that recent events have obliged me to conclude that your past assessment of such a risk might have been a little over-optimistic.
I am not well-versed in the politics of your land, but I cannot say I am much surprised to learn that you have declared for the Queen, after having fought so bravely and for so long for her brother. However, this leaves us in a very dangerous situation. Your lands are surrounded on all sides by the supporters of the Duke of Wulfram, and are not so very far from Wulfram's own seat of power. We must expect an attack from one or more of your neighbours, likely with some support from the main enemy force.
Against such cases, we are almost as well-prepared as we might be. I have taken the liberty of raising barricades across the approaches to the village and drilling the Houseguard you have embodied whenever possible. They are, many of them, insolent men who do not answer well to discipline, but I suspect they will stand if the situation requires it. I have also ordered the house prepared for a siege. In the worst case, we may withdraw behind the outer wall, which should be proof against anything short of artillery. There, we may hope to shelter until relieved.
I could not have ever envisioned writing such a letter when I first came to your country, but since then you have shown me many kindnesses, and I will admit that I have grown something of a fondness for your lands and those who live upon them. To think that such places and such people may soon be subject to the same destruction as that visited upon my own country is now very distressing to me. I will defend them until it is no longer needed, or I no longer have breath in my body. In this, you have my word of honour.
Karol, Armsman of House Reddingfield
Not all of your officers approve when you make your decision known to them, but none of them argue the point. You all know time is of the essence, and if you're to end matters quickly, then you have none to spare for debating how such an end is to be achieved. So, you dismiss your subordinates to your commands and turn your attention to the final preparations to be made before the assault.
Only to find that very few are necessary.
In truth, you realise that the factors which created the circumstances for the assault you just ordered are ones which have been set already—some years in the making, some cemented only a few minutes ago. Some of those circumstances have been affected by your past actions, as far back perhaps as your time in Antar. Others had progressed in trajectories far beyond your influence.
Well, you suppose they're all beyond your influence now, for the circumstances of the impending action are much like the trajectory of a cannonball. Having already been cast and loaded and aimed, you can only go through the final mechanical steps of putting the linstock to the touch-hole and waiting for the result.
No matter of tactical skill, this, or inspired leadership; merely common sense and a basic understanding of the forces under your control:
Supported by Reyes' sharpshooters, your Dragoons and the street militias will attack head-on, pinning the enemy so that the Grenadiers may move along the street to attack the enemy position in the flank, so that they might hopefully take advantage of their specialty to overcome a distracted foe long enough to break into their rear and render their position untenable.
It isn't a plan without risk, and it will certainly cost you significant losses, but it's the best plan you might allow given the forces at your disposal; it will have to do.
Soon, your assaulting forces are in position. There's no time left for further introspection, no time for some clever ruse or space for an inspired manoeuvre. Now, it's all up to those you've led and preserved until this point. Now, all you can do is step forward.
And give the order to advance.
-
It cannot help but remain a surreal experience to see so climactic a scene set in motion by your orders, only to observe the course of its execution as a passive observer. It isn't the first time your decisions have determined the outcome of an action; indeed, you had in some ways gotten used to the idea of your decisions having some great effect on others, first as a fighting officer, then as a Lord of the Cortes.
But in those cases, you'd always been there in the midst of it all, sharing the peril and bearing the consequences of your own actions. Here, it occurs to you that little harm could come to you from so seemingly distant a position, for although you cannot be more than three or four hundred paces from the enemy, your advancing forces might well be on the other side of the city for how little you're able to perceive them, for how they quickly they seem to diminish from individuals with expressions on their faces and light in their eyes to almost abstract symbols—little more than counters on a map.
Then there's a great roar of musketry. The enemy have opened fire. Your own forces answer with a thundering volley of their own, your assaulting party's distant firelocks drowned out by the sharp crack of Reyes' Skirmishers much closer at hand. Even what little you can see before seems to be gone, as the battle which you've ordered now slips out of not only your control, but your perception. Leaving only the powder-fog, the clash of steel on steel, and the sound of a thousand voices fighting, killing.
And dying.
For a moment, you consider intervening directly, the sound of battle drawing you in as it carries on, concealed behind the smoke and the shadow of the barricades. The knowledge that men are fighting and dying on your order before you draws you forward like a lodestone, possessed of a force which seems to grow stronger with every single moment.
You are a Queen's Officer, and a Knight of the Red besides, surely your place ought to be in the midst of the action, alongside the men you command, especially now that there's no need for a high command to coordinate a subsequent action. The day will be decided here, and although your personal involvement may yet serve to improve the outcome, your survival is no longer a necessity.
Yet before you take for first step forward, the sounds of fighting die. The smoke begins to dissipate. A voice cries out, a cheer. Then another, and another. You barely need to wait for the powder fog to clear to realise what has happened. While you were lost in thought, your command was fighting the battle you ordered them into—fighting and winning, for you can pick out now the sight of Crittenden's Marines laying down their arms in surrender.
In the end, it seems, despite your second-guessing, your forces were enough to carry the day. Your personal intervention wasn't required, after all.
Thank the Saints for that.
Part of you wasn't expecting your assault to succeed so thoroughly. After all the fighting that your command has been through, it was all too easy to imagine that it had taken too many losses, that its energies were fully spent, and that the final assault you ordered them into would be doomed to failure if you did not personally intervene.
And yet, as you watch your men take Wulfram's forces prisoner, you realise that your forces weren't the only ones worn down by the day's fighting. After hours of waiting, after the reversal at the Northern Keep and then the repeated withdrawals in the face of your counter-attack, as well as the tales spread by the fugitives fleeing from those actions, you suppose the enemy must have lost the heart to fight on. In the end, it took surprisingly little time to drive them from their barricades, and little more to convince them to surrender.
Of course, that doesn't mean the victory came cheaply. Quick the final engagement might have been, but it was surely sharp, as well. The bodies of the dead and wounded are scattered everywhere, along the stone floor of the gun platforms, splayed out on the streets below, draped over barricades and cannon like obscene, leaking draperies. No, Crittenden's Marines may have surrendered in the end, but they exacted a price for their submission, and paid a price in turn.
And there will be more prices to pay in the days to come, that's for sure. You may have captured a significant portion of Wulfram's forces, but not all. The man himself has escaped, and with him, his strongest allies, his fleet, and much of his professional soldiery. You've deprived the arch-traitor of a great part of his power, but he has more than enough remaining to spread rebellion and tumult until it engulfs the whole of the Unified Kingdom in civil war.
Or at least, almost the whole of it, for despite Wulfram's escape, you've driven his forces from the capital. Tierra may be doomed to the sort of bloodletting which it hasn't seen since the Wars of Unification, but here and now, at the very least, there is a semblance of peace.
-
It is sunset before an accurate tally of your prisoners can be reported: the final reckoning of a dubious victory.
Yet it is a victory nonetheless, by any reasonable measure. You've driven the enemy back and taken possession of the field of battle. Your men rest with the exhausted relief of a victorious force, not the grim and despairing mien of a defeated one.
And there is the more material evidence, of course: a battalion colour, taken from one of Crittenden's Marine companies, its survivors now sitting prisoner with a considerable number of the street militias who had remained loyal to Wulfram's banner when the rest fled into the city. Together, they make for a compelling argument in your favour, being a substantial portion of the forces which the enemy meant to evacuate—forces now weakened substantially by your actions today.
But Wulfram himself has eluded capture, along with his close advisors, almost all of his Cortes allies, and the vast majority of his forces. Defeated he may be, but he still commands a powerful fleet, a sizeable body of armed men, and the means to raise a great many more, once he's able to retrench himself in some more secure headquarters. Then there will be nothing stopping him from raising turmoil and revolt, from spreading the flames of rebellion until they engulf the Unified Kingdom entirely.
You've have won a hard victory here today, but it's only the first action of what is sure to be a long and bitter war, one whose outcome is very much still in doubt. One fought on Tierran soil, against your own countrymen.
One which has already claimed its first instalment of blood.
The dead and wounded are littered along the whole length of the shore batteries and beyond. Already, the stink of decay has begun to overpower the smell of powder. The drying blood is sticky and rotting under the tread of your feet. Flies and carrion birds have already begun to descend, along with the first knots of looters—for some evidently aren't so shocked by the visitation of open war upon their home streets to seek some profit amongst the bodies of those now lying in them.
You set some of your men to driving off the human scavengers, and perhaps some of the birds too. Others, you set to finding and seeing to the wounded. A last group, you set to tallying and identifying the dead. It is this last detail who you shall expect to have the greatest difficulty. In the dimming light of the early evening, it's difficult to match a severed limb to its owner, or to tell the difference betwixt the body of an orange-coated Marine and an orange-coated Grenadier. The dead of the street militias, you suspect, may well never be sorted properly.
Some of the dead are far easier to identify: those in the grey-green and red of your own regiment, their broken bodies standing out amidst the carnage like welts on a flogged back. You can see a dozen or more from where you're standing, some wounded and some dead. You have little doubt that there are more elsewhere. Your regiment has suffered badly in the day's fighting, though not as badly as some: the majority of the men you started the day with are still on their feet—including a great number of your officers.
Yet for all of that, you cannot bring yourself to feel thankful for it. The better part of your regiment may have survived this day, but there's always the next, and the one after, and the one after that.
For men who are preserved in one battle may yet be slaughtered in the next—and there are many battles yet to come.
-
My Lord,
Some time ago, when I previously approached you regarding the necessity of taking precautions to forestall an attack upon the estate, you declared that such things were not common in Tierra, and that it would be a waste of time and resources to make preparations for an armed defence of your house and lands. 'We are not in Antar,' I believe were your exact words.
While I understand that it is not always politic to offer open contradiction to one's own lord, I feel that recent events have obliged me to conclude that your past assessment of such a risk might have been a little over-optimistic.
I am not well-versed in the politics of your land, but I cannot say I am much surprised to learn that you have declared for the Queen, after having fought so bravely and for so long for her brother. However, this leaves us in a very dangerous situation. Your lands are surrounded on all sides by the supporters of the Duke of Wulfram, and are not so very far from Wulfram's own seat of power. We must expect an attack from one or more of your neighbours, likely with some support from the main enemy force.
Against such cases, we are almost as well-prepared as we might be. I have taken the liberty of raising barricades across the approaches to the village and drilling the Houseguard you have embodied whenever possible. They are, many of them, insolent men who do not answer well to discipline, but I suspect they will stand if the situation requires it. I have also ordered the house prepared for a siege. In the worst case, we may withdraw behind the outer wall, which should be proof against anything short of artillery. There, we may hope to shelter until relieved.
I could not have ever envisioned writing such a letter when I first came to your country, but since then you have shown me many kindnesses, and I will admit that I have grown something of a fondness for your lands and those who live upon them. To think that such places and such people may soon be subject to the same destruction as that visited upon my own country is now very distressing to me. I will defend them until it is no longer needed, or I no longer have breath in my body. In this, you have my word of honour.
Karol, Armsman of House Reddingfield
Lords E.01
- Pronouns
- He/Him
EPILOGUE
In which the LORD OF THE CORTES receives DUE RECOMPENSE—and a warning of WHAT IS TO COME.
In which the LORD OF THE CORTES receives DUE RECOMPENSE—and a warning of WHAT IS TO COME.
"Sir Caius tells me that we shall have shot and powder enough to make up for our expenditures," Captain Sandoral reports as you and your senior officers pick over the remains of a working breakfast in the officers' mess. "The Northern Keep's magazines evidently had carbine ammunition to spare; though it is rather smaller in bore than what we are accustomed to, I suspect it will serve, at least for our immediate needs."
From the other end of the table, Blaylock answers with a look of withering sarcasm. "Why, that is excellent news Sandoral, save for the fact that ammunition is the least of our concerns, especially given…" He needs only wave his hand to encompass the room to prove his point, for aside from your table, the mess is almost entirely empty.
You may have managed to keep most of your regiment's officers on their feet through that first bloody day of Wulfram's coup, but many of those who suffered wounds are still out of action. Even after six weeks, those of the city's Banehealers who hadn't gone over to Wulfram are still overwhelmed by the vast influx of casualties. Your wounded are left with little assistance in healing, save clean dressings and bedrest.
As for the rest, they're stretched thin now. Between patrolling the streets, guarding the Southern Keep, and hunting down the last pockets of resistance, they're running almost on the verge of exhaustion. You need reinforcements, and you all know it.
"Only His Grace can release replacements to us," Sandoral points out for what feels like the hundredth time. "Until he sets his seal to the order, we can only make do with what we have in the capital."
"Assuming he ever does," Garret drawls out as she idly sips from a cup of coffee. "It's been weeks, and we've had naught but silence from Fernandescourt." She gives the entire table a look of flat but clear frustration. "If His Grace intends to abdicate his duties as commander of this regiment entirely, the least he could have done was tell us about it."
You almost hasten to leap to Cunaris' defence. While his present actions must be subject to some criticism, he's still your superior officer and your friend. Yet before you can speak, you're interrupted by the creak of the door opening.
The head of the corporal standing guard leans in.
"Sirs? A lady of the blood is here. She says that—"
"They know who I am," interjects a very familiar voice. Its owner steps through the doorway without an instant of further delay, leaving the Corporal stumbling away with a look of no small surprise.
"My Lord Reddingfield," Katarina d'al Cazarosta, Countess Leoniscourt declares, sweeping into the room with an earnest expression and that familiar scent of vanilla. "I am very pleased to see you well, and on the right side."
[ ] [KATARINA] "And I am very pleased to see you as well, my lady."
[ ] [KATARINA] "I trust you didn't come all this way for me?"
[ ] [KATARINA] "Saints above, what fresh calamity do you bring word of this time?"
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] [KATARINA] "And I am very pleased to see you as well, my lady."
Even if we've potentially ruined the romance, we did like talking with her, so let's be nice.
Even if we've potentially ruined the romance, we did like talking with her, so let's be nice.
[X] [KATARINA] "And I am very pleased to see you as well, my lady."
We can be polite, despite her ghosting us for 5 years.
The evacuation ended with the worst result barring outright failure. Had we succeeded at Grenadier Square and not wasted time on preparations, we could've done much better, but there's no point in crying over spilt milk. At least we didn't let them all get away, after all.
We can be polite, despite her ghosting us for 5 years.
The evacuation ended with the worst result barring outright failure. Had we succeeded at Grenadier Square and not wasted time on preparations, we could've done much better, but there's no point in crying over spilt milk. At least we didn't let them all get away, after all.
IamtooSleepy
I came here to be an ant
Karol forcing MC to eat his own words will never not be funny.
[X] [KATARINA] "And I am very pleased to see you as well, my lady."
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Any sequel will have a *mess* to deal with.
You have to:
1) Have a path for both Queen's Men and Wulframites. Presumably almost a 'mirror mode' situation where you have two different smaller games that flip you around, sorta?
2) Make it winnable. There would be nothing more disastrous than for it to be possible to fuck yourself beyond all recognition in Book 3 and not have a path to achieve at least something, even if you have to operate under constraints.
3) Follow-up on all the drama and good storytelling of the first three, obviously.
You have to:
1) Have a path for both Queen's Men and Wulframites. Presumably almost a 'mirror mode' situation where you have two different smaller games that flip you around, sorta?
2) Make it winnable. There would be nothing more disastrous than for it to be possible to fuck yourself beyond all recognition in Book 3 and not have a path to achieve at least something, even if you have to operate under constraints.
3) Follow-up on all the drama and good storytelling of the first three, obviously.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
It's a love triangle, my friend. What could possibly go wrong? Especially if we decide to go for Garret too?
If you want maximum awkwardness points, though, both Welles and Katarina will show up if an Aetorian Dragoon Officer choose to marry Lady Theresa d'al Monteferro in a genteel ceremony.
I believe that choice only pops up if your forces aren't enough to handle the remaining Wulframites.
Yes, that's correct.
This makes me think of how our mom blushes when Loch first greets her if we're close to her. Cue the community making jokes about how Loch is definitely getting with our mom while we're in Aetoria as revenge for ruining his life twice over.
Cataphrak will actually have to make four paths come Masters of Infinity: two for victorious partisans, and two more for those who end up on the losing side of a civil war.
Lords E.02
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] [KATARINA] "And I am very pleased to see you as well, my lady."
A pained look passes over the Countess' features, but only for an instant, to be replaced by that same impish grin. "I fear we shall not see much of each other quite yet, my lord. I am merely a messenger today. The Queen demands your presence at the Northern Keep, and I have been sent to fetch you."
"Now?" You spare a glance at the table before you. While your business is not immediately pressing, it cannot be put off indefinitely.
But the Countess' orders seem to have left little room for ambiguity. "Now, my lord. A coach is waiting for you at the gate. Best not to keep Her Majesty waiting."
Outside the walls of the Southern Keep, it's easy enough to see the scars which the Wulframite uprising has torn through the city. Even now, the streets are still filled with rubble, and there are places where the air is still thick with the stench of rotting blood. Even your own townhouse is still all but uninhabitable after the damage which was done to it in the chaos.
Your view from the coach as it rattles towards the Northern Keep is a grim procession of burned-out townhouses, smashed shopfronts, and the black smears which mark the last remnants of the great pyres which had burned day and night for a week after the fighting ended. Not even the city's great monuments are untouched: Victory Square is still strewn with debris, Saint Octavia's Park is all over with the remnants of looting and skirmishing, and Grenadier Square—with all of its valuable records and archives and trophies of battles past—is all but burned to the ground.
Aetoria—and the Royalist cause—is a wounded beast.
But it is a beast with its strength undimmed, for the streets may be choked with rubble, but they are choked also with new arrivals from the countryside. Wulfram might have professed his cause to be that of the Cortes, but no small number of your peers remain loyal to the Crown. Their Houseguards now join your Dragoons, the Grenadiers, and the street militias still under arms in the city—the foundation stones of a new army to restore peace to the realm.
The Countess, sitting at the other end of the coach, watches them go past with a grim satisfaction. "My sources tell me Wulfram is doing much the same in Tannersburg. He's gathering volunteers and men from his allies' Houseguards, as well as those of his men he was able to get out of Aetoria. They say he's getting support from the Takarans too, though those reports are yet to be confirmed. Yet we still have the advantage, at least for now."
She offers you a little sidelong grin. "Of course, we partly have you and Lord Palliser to thank for that, for seizing all of those Takaran arms right under Wulfram's nose."
Her smile fades. "But perhaps I ought not to congratulate you so readily. One ought not to court Takara's enmity lightly, and there's little doubt that your actions have brought you to their attention. I would take care, if I were you."
"I shall endeavour to be careful."
"I pray that you do, for your sake," the Countess replies with a grim and total earnestness. "Your actions have made you an obstacle to the objectives of the Takaran secret service, and they're not an institution to suffer slights easily, especially under the government that now commands them. Their retribution may come from any quarter, at any time."
Your eyes narrow. "Are they really so powerful?"
The Countess' gaze doesn't waver. "They are, and their power increases now that their former chief sits as Chancellor. That you have placed yourself in danger is not in question. All that remains to be known is the degree and the consequence."
What a comforting thought.
You continue in silence for a little while after, as your coach continues to make its way up towards the square before the gates of the Northern Keep where Wulfram's coup had come to grief—and to the sight of the now-familiar construction which presides over it.
Two years ago, when the Old City had rioted, the King had answered with an act of singular severity. He had taken two dozen of those among the baneless rioters which the Intendancy declared to be the ringleaders of the disorder, and had them hanged in a single gallows before the gates, then left them to rot for weeks after.
Now, once again, the Crown has raised a gallows before the Northern Keep, only this time, it isn't the bodies of former clerks and tradesmen who hang from its crossbeams. In the days after Wulfram's flight from the city, the Queen was almost gracious in her treatment of the commoners who had taken up arms against her: she proclaimed a general pardon and amnesty in a spirit of forgiveness and conciliation.
Instead, it was those of your own class which have bourne the brunt of the Queen's ire. You've heard rumours that some of your fellows within the Shipowners, who had allowed Wulfram's troops to occupy the Shipping Exchange so easily, have been brought in for rather severe questioning. Towards those gentlemen and ladies of the blood who perjured their oaths of fealty and yet foolishly remained in the city, the Crown has acted harsher still: those without title even now occupy some of the deepest and darkest cells in the Northern Keep.
And the remains of those with titles or fortune who acted against her now dangle from the gallows as your coach rattles past, their bodies half-rotten now—perhaps mercifully so. You knew some of those men, none of them well, but well enough for their dead faces to make for uneasy scenery.
As if the nature of the whole affair were not cause for unease enough.
Under normal circumstances, such a mass execution of the Cortes nobility would have been all but unthinkable. Only the approval of the Cortes can condemn one of its own number to death—yet with so many of the Crown's traditional enemies fled or arrested or themselves on trial, and those few remaining all too eager to prove their loyalty, the vote had only been a formality. So Wulfram's allies had hanged, and the commoners of the city—who had starved and shivered as those of your own class continued to feast and scheme and bicker—even came out to cheer, as for once in their lives, they saw the positions of the invulnerable lords and the much-suffering commons reversed.
You can see some of them are cheering still, even weeks later.
But the Countess' thoughts are clearly elsewhere.
Indeed, she barely spares a glance out the window at all, though you suspect that the grisly sight before the gates is more of a novelty to her than it is to you. If anything, she seems distracted; no, more than that, anxious, as if she were contemplating some great crisis in secret.
"Are you feeling quite all right?"
She answers with the briefest flash of a smile, so false that you would have thought it suspicious, even from an untrained dissembler. "I am quite well, I assure you. I am merely worried. My position provides me with a great deal of information regarding the current state of the realm, and you may be assured that such intelligence provides much cause for concern, and—" She pauses for a moment. "And I suppose there is Leoniscourt, as well. I suppose I worry about that too, now that my father isn't there to worry about it for me."
[ ] [QUESTION] "Has Leoniscourt declared for Wulfram?"
[ ] [QUESTION] "And how fares the rest of the realm?"
[ ] [QUESTION] "Have you any intelligence as to Wulfram's intentions?"
[ ] [QUESTION] "How have the Takarans and the Kian responded to Wulfram's uprising?"
A pained look passes over the Countess' features, but only for an instant, to be replaced by that same impish grin. "I fear we shall not see much of each other quite yet, my lord. I am merely a messenger today. The Queen demands your presence at the Northern Keep, and I have been sent to fetch you."
"Now?" You spare a glance at the table before you. While your business is not immediately pressing, it cannot be put off indefinitely.
But the Countess' orders seem to have left little room for ambiguity. "Now, my lord. A coach is waiting for you at the gate. Best not to keep Her Majesty waiting."
-
Outside the walls of the Southern Keep, it's easy enough to see the scars which the Wulframite uprising has torn through the city. Even now, the streets are still filled with rubble, and there are places where the air is still thick with the stench of rotting blood. Even your own townhouse is still all but uninhabitable after the damage which was done to it in the chaos.
Your view from the coach as it rattles towards the Northern Keep is a grim procession of burned-out townhouses, smashed shopfronts, and the black smears which mark the last remnants of the great pyres which had burned day and night for a week after the fighting ended. Not even the city's great monuments are untouched: Victory Square is still strewn with debris, Saint Octavia's Park is all over with the remnants of looting and skirmishing, and Grenadier Square—with all of its valuable records and archives and trophies of battles past—is all but burned to the ground.
Aetoria—and the Royalist cause—is a wounded beast.
But it is a beast with its strength undimmed, for the streets may be choked with rubble, but they are choked also with new arrivals from the countryside. Wulfram might have professed his cause to be that of the Cortes, but no small number of your peers remain loyal to the Crown. Their Houseguards now join your Dragoons, the Grenadiers, and the street militias still under arms in the city—the foundation stones of a new army to restore peace to the realm.
The Countess, sitting at the other end of the coach, watches them go past with a grim satisfaction. "My sources tell me Wulfram is doing much the same in Tannersburg. He's gathering volunteers and men from his allies' Houseguards, as well as those of his men he was able to get out of Aetoria. They say he's getting support from the Takarans too, though those reports are yet to be confirmed. Yet we still have the advantage, at least for now."
She offers you a little sidelong grin. "Of course, we partly have you and Lord Palliser to thank for that, for seizing all of those Takaran arms right under Wulfram's nose."
Her smile fades. "But perhaps I ought not to congratulate you so readily. One ought not to court Takara's enmity lightly, and there's little doubt that your actions have brought you to their attention. I would take care, if I were you."
"I shall endeavour to be careful."
"I pray that you do, for your sake," the Countess replies with a grim and total earnestness. "Your actions have made you an obstacle to the objectives of the Takaran secret service, and they're not an institution to suffer slights easily, especially under the government that now commands them. Their retribution may come from any quarter, at any time."
Your eyes narrow. "Are they really so powerful?"
The Countess' gaze doesn't waver. "They are, and their power increases now that their former chief sits as Chancellor. That you have placed yourself in danger is not in question. All that remains to be known is the degree and the consequence."
What a comforting thought.
You continue in silence for a little while after, as your coach continues to make its way up towards the square before the gates of the Northern Keep where Wulfram's coup had come to grief—and to the sight of the now-familiar construction which presides over it.
Two years ago, when the Old City had rioted, the King had answered with an act of singular severity. He had taken two dozen of those among the baneless rioters which the Intendancy declared to be the ringleaders of the disorder, and had them hanged in a single gallows before the gates, then left them to rot for weeks after.
Now, once again, the Crown has raised a gallows before the Northern Keep, only this time, it isn't the bodies of former clerks and tradesmen who hang from its crossbeams. In the days after Wulfram's flight from the city, the Queen was almost gracious in her treatment of the commoners who had taken up arms against her: she proclaimed a general pardon and amnesty in a spirit of forgiveness and conciliation.
Instead, it was those of your own class which have bourne the brunt of the Queen's ire. You've heard rumours that some of your fellows within the Shipowners, who had allowed Wulfram's troops to occupy the Shipping Exchange so easily, have been brought in for rather severe questioning. Towards those gentlemen and ladies of the blood who perjured their oaths of fealty and yet foolishly remained in the city, the Crown has acted harsher still: those without title even now occupy some of the deepest and darkest cells in the Northern Keep.
And the remains of those with titles or fortune who acted against her now dangle from the gallows as your coach rattles past, their bodies half-rotten now—perhaps mercifully so. You knew some of those men, none of them well, but well enough for their dead faces to make for uneasy scenery.
As if the nature of the whole affair were not cause for unease enough.
Under normal circumstances, such a mass execution of the Cortes nobility would have been all but unthinkable. Only the approval of the Cortes can condemn one of its own number to death—yet with so many of the Crown's traditional enemies fled or arrested or themselves on trial, and those few remaining all too eager to prove their loyalty, the vote had only been a formality. So Wulfram's allies had hanged, and the commoners of the city—who had starved and shivered as those of your own class continued to feast and scheme and bicker—even came out to cheer, as for once in their lives, they saw the positions of the invulnerable lords and the much-suffering commons reversed.
You can see some of them are cheering still, even weeks later.
But the Countess' thoughts are clearly elsewhere.
Indeed, she barely spares a glance out the window at all, though you suspect that the grisly sight before the gates is more of a novelty to her than it is to you. If anything, she seems distracted; no, more than that, anxious, as if she were contemplating some great crisis in secret.
"Are you feeling quite all right?"
She answers with the briefest flash of a smile, so false that you would have thought it suspicious, even from an untrained dissembler. "I am quite well, I assure you. I am merely worried. My position provides me with a great deal of information regarding the current state of the realm, and you may be assured that such intelligence provides much cause for concern, and—" She pauses for a moment. "And I suppose there is Leoniscourt, as well. I suppose I worry about that too, now that my father isn't there to worry about it for me."
[ ] [QUESTION] "Has Leoniscourt declared for Wulfram?"
[ ] [QUESTION] "And how fares the rest of the realm?"
[ ] [QUESTION] "Have you any intelligence as to Wulfram's intentions?"
[ ] [QUESTION] "How have the Takarans and the Kian responded to Wulfram's uprising?"
[X] [QUESTION] "Have you any intelligence as to Wulfram's intentions?"
[X] [QUESTION] "How have the Takarans and the Kian responded to Wulfram's uprising?"
[X] [QUESTION] "How have the Takarans and the Kian responded to Wulfram's uprising?"
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] [QUESTION] "Have you any intelligence as to Wulfram's intentions?"
[X] [QUESTION] "Has Leoniscourt declared for Wulfram?"
[X] [QUESTION] "Has Leoniscourt declared for Wulfram?"
IamtooSleepy
I came here to be an ant
Hey, it's not our fault his nation has terrible political and military organisation until the very end of the war.
Wait, is that actually confirmed? I haven't go on CoG forum for quite a long while.
...that sound really really ambitious, as in, it possibly have enough branching paths in it to be 4 separate games.
Also, wasn't he talk about possibility of sequel with MC's daughter as protagonist or something like that?
And so begin the undermining of tradition high aristocracy and it's replacement with popular legitimacy. We will see how the queen will ride this out.
[X] [QUESTION] "And how fares the rest of the realm?"
[X] [QUESTION] "How have the Takarans and the Kian responded to Wulfram's uprising?"
[X] [QUESTION] "How have the Takarans and the Kian responded to Wulfram's uprising?"
Now, that is just improper, her being our subordinate. Did the author said she'll be an option, or it's just speculation?