my dad posted:

The Antari are sneaky gits.

sullat posted:

Sigh, you guys have a lot to learn about dealing with a lady.

ShootaBoy posted:

Al totally knows how to deal with the ladies!

ShootaBoy posted:

Al totally knows how to deal with the ladies!

quote:

"Even so," Lady Katarina replies, "you should have engaged the enemy more closely, inflicted more losses."

You nod. "That is true. I could have done that; but only at the cost of my own men, and I should not have to remind you that our dead cost us more dearly to replace than theirs. Replacements for our losses must be mustered, drilled, equipped, paid, fed, and transported from Tierra at the expense of His Majesty's government. Their losses can be made good simply by recruiting some disaffected vagrant and giving him a musket."

Lady Katarina grimaces. "I suppose you are correct," she concedes, sounding as if she were pulling a hot splinter from under her fingernail. "Very well, I withdraw my objection."

For a moment, you ride on in silence, the young noblewoman's words hanging in the air between you.

It doesn't take you long to realise that Lady Katarina is merely waiting for you to change the topic of conversation.

quote:

"How do you fare, my lady?"

"Well enough, I suppose," Lady Katarina replies. "Why do you ask?"

"Well…" You pause, taking a second to word your next sentence as tactfully as possible. "It is merely that as a squadron in the field, we are obviously incapable of providing the comforts that a lady of your station would be accustomed to."

Lady Katarina's eyebrow rises. "A lady of my station? I am an agent of Royal Intelligence, sir, and my sort are hardly as fragile as men of your sort seem to think."

quote:

"What's your opinion of my men thus far?"

Lady Katarina looks back over her shoulder for a moment at the bulk of your men still riding in column behind you.

"They are unwashed," she replies as she turns back to you. "They are unschooled, they are vulgar in speech and deed, they are unspeakably unpleasant to those of gentler dispositions." She tilts her head and grins playfully. "That is to say, they are soldiers, and having had some experience with them in the past, one might say with confidence that they are very much what I expected them to be."

The Royal Intelligence agent glances back again for a moment. "Yes," she nods, satisfied. "Quite within the bounds of the ordinary, one would think."

quote:

"How do you find Antar, my lady?"

"Surprisingly dry," she replies. "Unpleasantly so, in fact."

"Surely, it is no drier than most parts of Tierra," you reply, somewhat puzzled. Southern Antar wasn't a steam house, but it was hardly a desert either.

Lady Katarina shakes her head and sighs. "When one is brought up on the Salt Coast, one's conception of proper climate becomes rather warped."

"Is the weather there pleasant?" you ask.

The noblewoman shakes her head, her laughter like the ringing of silver bells. "Hardly. It is rare enough to see three consecutive days of sun."

You shake your head. "That sort of weather hardly seems 'proper' to me."

Lady Katarina's smile turns sardonic. "I did not leave my family's estates until my début in Aetoria at sixteen," she replies drily. "I hardly had much in the way of comparison."

"Yet still it is the Salt Coast's climate which sets your standard?" you ask.

The noblewoman laughs again. "I suppose familiarity brings comfort to even the most miserable circumstances," she muses. "As wretched as the storms and salt spray were, I rather miss it."

quote:

"If there is nothing else, then I bid you good day, my lady."

"There is actually one more matter," Lady Katarina replies.

The Royal Intelligence agent rides up closer to you until her knee is almost touching yours. "Considering the situation and the value of our assignment, my mind would be set more at ease if we took additional measures to diminish the chances of another partisan attack."

"How would we manage that?" you ask.

Lady Katarina smiles sweetly. "Why, by moving faster, of course."

The dark-haired noblewoman pulls out a folded map from a hidden pocket within her riding habit. She turns it toward you so that you might see your route upon the paper, traced in grease pencil. "As you likely know, we are here," she points to a spot about a third of the way up the line. "Up here," her finger moves down the route, to a spot about three-quarters of the way to Kharangia, "is a bridge, the only crossing over the River Kharan for fifty kilometres in either direction. If the partisans are to ambush us again, it will be there."

You follow Lady Katarina's finger to the spot she is pointing at and nod. Even an idiot could recognise such a perfect point for an ambush, and the only way to stop a potential ambush from happening would be to cross the bridge before they got there.

"Well, I'm sure you can see the picture clearly enough," the young noblewoman concludes as she folds the map away. "I give you joy of the day, Sir Alaric.

You consider the possibilities as Lady Katarina pulls her horse away. While it is true that your column has been moving at a relatively leisurely pace, you have had good reason to do so; neither man nor rider can sustain a swift pace without an undue amount of strain, to say nothing of how the carts and their heavy cargoes would react.

Will you risk overstraining your men and order a faster pace, or will you maintain your current speed and allow the chance of a second partisan ambush?

quote:

I ask my Staff-sergeant for advice.

"Aye, we could speed this up a bit, probably move at double the speed if we had a need to," Lanzerel muses when you bring Lady Katarina's suggestion to him. "It might kill some horses, though. We'd probably break some waggons too."

The Staff-sergeant looks over his shoulder at the column behind you. "Of course, it'll be the men who'll really suffer. I can't guarantee you that this lot is hard enough to handle a quicker pace."

I drive the men and horses as hard as they will go.

I order the column to make moderate haste.

I maintain our normal pace.

I send a detachment to rush ahead and hold the bridge for me.

quote:

As of the Summer of the 609th year of the Old Imperial Era

Sir Alaric d'al Sancroix
Age: 37
Rank: Captain
Wealth: 605
Income: 15

Soldiering: 24%
Charisma: 50%
Intellect: 60%
Reputation: 25%
Health: 75%
Idealism: 43% Cynicism: 57%
Ruthlessness: 95% Mercy: 5%

You are a Knight of the Red, having the right to wear bane-hardened armour and wield a bane-runed sword.

You can speak, read, and write the Antari language.

Sixth Squadron, Royal Dragoons
Senior NCO: Staff-sergeant Lanzerel

Discipline: 48%
Morale: 51%
Loyalty: 48%
Strength: 100%

ShootaBoy posted:

We should send some men ahead to secure the bridge.

WarpedLichen posted:

I order the column to make moderate haste.

Never split the party.

I bought Sabres because of the first LP, is there a way to see the stat changes for each choice without going into the stats screen on the web version?

Lord Cyrahzax posted:

Not in game, but if you bought the Chrome store version, you can look at the files and see the stat changes listed there.

akulanization posted:

You can do this with steam as well, the game's files are in ~/Library/Application Support/Steam/SteamApps/common on a mac, and C:\Program Files (x86)\Steam\steamapps\common\ on pc. You can look at the text or .json files there. I've poked around a fair bit in these.

On that note, I could make a post about the hidden stats that the game tracks and what they do after we finish this run if you're interested Lord Cyrahzax. I don't want to spoil anything though, so if don't want that kind of mechanics stuff in the thread I'm happy to just stay shut up. I could also point out a few things that are kinda interesting in Sabres that we never saw if you want.

quote:

You try to think of another way to approach the problem. After a few moments, you think you may have a solution that lets you secure the bridge without tiring the majority of your men or straining the waggons.

"Lieutenant Findlay, how would you like a taste of independent command?"

Findlay looks puzzled as he brings his horse up next to yours. "Independent command, sir?"

"There's a bridge up ahead," you explain. "It's about a hundred kilometres down the road. Our lovely friend from Royal Intelligence considers it a likely spot for an ambush."

Findlay nods. "Yes, sir?"

"I need you to take your men and 2nd Troop on ahead with greatest possible haste. Secure that bridge, and await my arrival."

Your subordinate snaps you a quick salute. "Yes sir, right away sir."

With that, Findlay peels off to gather up his men. Within a few minutes, they are riding on ahead, leaving you and three fifths of your squadron behind with Lady Katarina, Master Garing, and the heavily laden carts.

quote:

For the next few days, you continue on your way at the same leisurely pace, barely faster than walking speed. Some of your men peer into the forests nervously as they ride, their eyes searching for any movement or flicker of a shadow which might reveal the location of a partisan ambush.

They never find one. After another week, you ride out of the forest to find yourself before the waters of the River Kharan.

quote:

The bridge proves to be a weathered series of granite arches holding up a road of plank-covered dirt. A ruined tollhouse stands upon your side of the crossing, its stout stone walls crumbling under the burden of long centuries of neglect.

You fought your first battle in Antar upon a bridge like that one, in the first autumn of the war. Your small group of dragoons had been on detached duty under the command of Captain Hunter then, a dashing Wulframite officer of the elite Aetorian Grenadier Guards.

That battle had been an ambush against an Antari supply column. That time it had been Tierran foot in burnt orange who skulked in the woods, while you and your dragoons waited in hiding inside the ruins of a tollhouse much like the one before you.

That action had ended well; the enemy supplies in your hands, its escort beaten off or killed. You had won no small amount of esteem for your part in the battle.

That was a long time ago, though. Most of the men who fought in that action are long dead, including Hunter, who had been promoted to lieutenant-colonel only to be killed leading his grenadiers at Blogia. Little remains of that battle but your memories of that bridge, so much like this one.

Still, that had been a different time and a different bridge; over a hundred kilometres further upstream, if you remember your geography right. There are other subtle differences too: the arches are more shallow, the river swifter, the roadway narrower, and of course, there is the fact that it is guarded by the men you sent on ahead.

quote:

It is not long before you and the rest of the column are recognised by the sentries at the end of the bridge and given leave to approach.

Almost immediately, you notice the high spirits evident. While the camp may not be the most organised, its occupants go about their duties with evident good cheer, never a bad sign.

While all seems well now, you note that the stonework of the bridge is newly pitted with the sort of craters left by musket balls, and the smouldering remains of what appears to be a pyre, the sort used for cremating the dead, sits like an ashen blemish upon the far bank.

"They came out the woods yesterday, maybe an hour before noon," Lord Renard reports. "Sentries gave up the hullabaloo, and I put the men into line. Gave 'em a volley when th' Antari got close, cut 'em down like grass, et 'em for lunch, you could say. Ain't fighting stuff in 'em after that I daresay, sir. Fine show for all."

The young lordling pauses for a moment. "Well, except for the sentries, they got it in the neck, all four of 'em. Burned 'em over there," he says, gesturing at the remains of the pyre with a languid wave of his hand. "Burned the enemy dead too, they're for that sort of thing too, the Antari, ain't they?"

It only takes an hour or two to pull down the camp and continue onwards.

While there still remains the lingering danger of a partisan attack, the news of Lieutenant Findlay's victory the previous day does much to settle nerves. The constant air of tension which characterised so much of your past week seems almost gone, something which is much helped when, at around midday, the forest begins to thin.

By nightfall, the men are sitting easy in their saddles once more.

quote:

The next day, your column continues onward. The forest, which had presented itself as a solid mass of stout wood and darkness just the day before, continues to thin until an hour before midday, when it gives way entirely to rolling green hills overgrown with shaggy summer grass.

For the first time since you have arrived in Antar, you and your men are surrounded by open ground, truly open ground, not the patchwork clearings of forest hamlets or the cleared hinterlands around Noringia, for unlike those pockets of grassland in the sea of trees which forms the southern forests, this is a different sort of region entirely.

Now, you ride into Antar's central plains and towards Kharangia, that mighty fortress city which guards the approach to central Antari proper, that city which must fall if the King's Army is truly to break into the League's rich grain-producing regions.

It is an almost alien sight to you now, the thought of looking to your left or right and not seeing trees but an immense openness, where there is naught but a horizon between green earth and blue sky. It cannot help but fill you with a feeling of…

Vulnerability; open ground means we're open to attack.

Freedom; we're finally liberated from the confines of forest roads.

Disappointment; mostly at the fact that this land moves me little at all.

ButtDoktor posted:

Freedom. Partisans got nowhere to hide now.

Leif. posted:

Also, is anyone else bewildered by the disconnect of Lord Renard being apparently the high charisma lieutenant, but simultaneously talking like a redneck hick?

Paul Wang posted:

It is. I tried to recreate the dialect of a Regency fop, mostly by taking a few authentic turns of phrase, placing them in what would be considered "posh" modern english exaggerated almost to the point of parody, and adding a few "wot?"s at strategic points.

If it helps, imagine him speaking with the voice of Hugh Laurie's Prince Regent from Blackadder the Third.

Leif. posted:

Freedom. We're cavalrymen. We don't answer to anyone in an open field.


Also, is anyone else bewildered by the disconnect of Lord Renard being apparently the high charisma lieutenant, but simultaneously talking like a redneck hick?

quote:

Your heart swells and your spirit lifts at the sight of nothing but open ground around you. After the oppressively narrow roads and cramped clearings of the Great Forest, you feel almost like a songbird newly released from a dark cage.

It is a glorious feeling, and at moments when your self-possession begins to wane, it seems as if only your self-control stops you from simply riding out of the column and into the open plain, to run at full gallop across its endless face with the sun forever warm in your face.

quote:

Your column makes good progress that day, forging forward until it is too dark to do anything except set up camp.

The next morning, you spot a grey haze above the horizon before you, the sort that only comes from smoke rising in vast quantities. By midday, that haze has become a cloud, and you begin to see the low, dark shapes from which the blackest and heaviest of the smoke rises.

By mid-afternoon, the sky grows dark from the smoke, which now begins to blot out the summer sun above you. Finally, you and your men crest the top of one last ridge, and you breathe a most involuntary sigh of relief when you finally have a clear view of what is before you.

Not three or four kilometers ahead of you lies an expanse of canvas tents, staked out and arranged neatly in rows around a large pavilion. Beyond that, there is a hellish expanse of trenches, earthworks, and fighting positions, boiling over with men in the burnt-orange coats of Tierran Line Infantry…

…and not a few hundred paces beyond them, scarred, battered, scorched, but still standing proud and unbreached, are the defiant walls of Kharangia.

quote:

The young red-haired man opposite you fixes you with a piercing stare. His expression is intent as his fingers dance around the unbroken wall of his defences, the glow of the candles throwing his grim, hard-featured face into an infernal contrast of light and shadow.

In a single fluid motion, he makes his move. His green eyes flashing, he sets two playing cards of lacquered paper upon the polished wooden table, alongside the two already there, a confident smirk on his lips.

"Sroc-hjunkuswerd," he declares, his voice soft and thunderous in the same breath. "Would any of you gentlemen care to answer?" he asks, louder this time, loud enough for you to hear the light Kentauri burr in his voice.

The two other men at the table withdraw behind the defensive barriers of their own hands, hiding their expressions behind lacquered paper as they consider their next moves.

One of them, like you, wears a jacket of green-grey and blood red, his thin face matched by a perpetually tired expression: Lieutenant-colonel Roland d'al Keane, commanding officer of First Squadron, and with the Duke of Cunaris no longer fit for action, the de facto field commander of the regiment. He looks down at his hand one last time before folding it and shaking his head.

The other man also wears the rank insignia of a lieutenant-colonel, but he wears the burnt orange of the Line Infantry: Winthrop d'al Hartigan, the newly ascended Viscount of Hugh, commander of the First Battalion of the 5th Regiment of Foot. He too backs down.

It had been Keane who extended you an invitation to the evening's game. After all, there could have been no other way for a mere captain to be invited to this particular table, in this particular tent, belonging to the red-haired, green-eyed young man opposite you; for he is Lord Marcus d'al Havenport, the Duke of Havenport's younger brother and Lieutenant-colonel of the Kentauri Highlanders at barely the age of twenty-one.

Lord Marcus looks to you. "Do you seek to face me, Sir Alaric, or will you come to your senses and back down as these gentlemen have? After all, you could still walk away with some bit of coin."

Your winnings for the night sit to your left: a meagre pile of silver and copper. If you back down now, you could almost break even, but if you were to force a showdown, you would need to risk even that bare consolation. However, if you were to prevail, the pot would be yours, and you'd make a tidy profit instead of a slim loss.

You eye the cards before the Kentauri warily. There are few combinations better than Sroc-hjunku in Tassenswerd, and your own hand certainly could not match it. However, all you have to go on is the young nobleman's word, and while Lord Marcus seems confident, it seems far more likely to you that he is merely bluffing.

How will you act?

Call his bluff.

Back down.

I try to turn the tables with a bluff of my own.

Fuzzy Mammal posted:

I think we're missing a paragraph or two in the middle there, LC.

quote:

You shake your head. "Forgive me, my lord, but I do believe you are making sport of us."

Lord Marcus's grin grows wider. "Aye, and you would stake your winnings on it?"

You push the small pile of coins forward onto the pot at the centre of the polished oaken table and play your own cards, the best combination you can muster. "I would, sir."

The Kentauri nobleman chuckles. "You're a brave man, Sancroix, and I'm sure that such courage would have won you the day today…"

Lord Marcus flips over his cards one by one, and your expression falters as each is revealed: a six, a five, a two, and a ten.

Hroc-hjunkuswerd.

"…had I been bluffing."

You watch with a sombre expression as the younger man sweeps his spoils over to his side of the table. Thankfully, the Kentauri does not gloat as some more uncouth men do.

"I think that's enough of Tassenswerd for one evening, gentlemen," he declares. "Shall we move on?"

Without any more money to wager, you cannot help but agree.

quote:

It only takes a few moments for Lord Marcus's personal attendant to clear away the cards and replace them with glasses of Cunarian red claret, tumblers of Kentauri whisky, and bowls of Kian Baiejioue. The air fills with the aroma of the tabac smoke from Lord Marcus's cigar and Keane's pipe. The tension of your last round of Tassenswerd fades, and the table turns quickly to conversation.

You don't have much of a chance to speak. Whatever parity you possessed with these three men as players in a game of cards has now been subsumed by your customary roles. Once again, regardless of the informality of the circumstances, you have become a mere captain in a room with three lieutenant-colonels, and in such august company, you try your best to keep your contributions to a tasteful minimum.

Within minutes, the topic inevitably turns to the business of the army and the ongoing siege.

"I shall hope that this damnable waiting does not last much longer," Hartigan remarks at one point. "Called up my men for inspection this morning, nearly a third had some sort of fever or runs. Almost feels like my battalion's rotting from the inside out, just sitting here, wallowing in our own filth, with nothing to do except drink and let their drill grow dull."

Hartigan has a point. A siege camp does little for the health of its occupants. In the month and a half since you've arrived at the siege camp, your own men have suffered from illness and inaction as well.

"Keeping the men ready would be easier if those Saints-be-damned partisans didn't make off with half of our supplies," Keane grouses. "We'd at least have enough powder and shot to do musket drill then."

"Doesn't your brother have his Experimental Corps working chastising those rascals?" Hartigan asks Lord Marcus as the Line Infantry officer idly swirls around the last bit of claret in his glass.

"The King's Experimental Corps," the Kentauri corrects. "Arthur insists it was His Majesty's idea. I don't see the point of it myself. The reports say they're making progress, but I certainly haven't seen any improvement."

With that there is a momentary lull in the conversation as Keane refills his pipe and Hartigan refills his glass. If you have any questions, now would probably be the best time to ask them.

quote:

Ask about the Experimental Corps.

"If I might ask," you begin, "what exactly is this Experimental Corps?"

Hartigan makes a dismissive gesture with his pipe. "Never you mind that, Sancroix. Some major in the 8th of Foot thought up some silly ideas about deploying some sort of special infantry force armed with rifled muskets. Somehow His Majesty got wind and ordered a unit together to test it out. It's all nonsense, of course."

"I'd hardly say that," Keane replies pensively. "Such a unit could be applied to great effect."

"Great effect doing what?" the Line Infantry officer retorts. "Stealing crops and burning villages? Skulking through forests like poachers?" He turns aside to you. "That is what those men are, you know: poachers, bandits, ruffians. Their officers too, some of them even commissioned from the ranks, if you could believe such a thing."

"Let's just say," Lord Marcus says with a wry grin, "that the Experimental Corps is a contentious subject, and leave it at that."

quote:

Ask about the progress of the siege.

"How is the siege progressing?" you ask. "Will we be seeing the new guns in action soon?"

Lord Marcus nods. "I spoke to Major Diaz of the Engineers yesterday eve. He says he is confident the new guns will be in action by tomorrow morning and that we shall have a practicable breach in Kharangia's walls within a month."

Keane shakes his head. "You would take the word of an officer of the Engineers at face value?"

The Kentauri nobleman's eyes narrow. "You would call Major Diaz a liar, sir?"

The senior Dragoon officer shrugs. "I would call him an engineer, sir."

quote:

Ask Keane what he has against the Royal Engineers.

You turn to Keane. "If I may ask, sir, why do you revile our army's Engineers so?"

Lord Marcus nods. "I too would wonder as to the cause of your dislike, sir."

Keane replies with a bitter smile. "I do not suppose that either of you have had much experience with His Majesty's vaunted regiment of Sappers and Engineers?" he asks, the final words of his question dripping with sarcasm.

The Kentauri shakes his head. Your own sole experience with the Engineers had been a short period after your first winter in Antar, when a small group had helped fortify the outpost you had been posted to. You had not even exchanged words with any of them. You too shake your head.

"Then allow me to explain," Keane replies. "The Engineers require their enlisted men to be literate, physically fit, and capable in mathematics. For this, they are paid twice the wage of an infantryman—almost as much as a dragoon, in fact—and generally go about their duties in some comfort and safety."

You nod; that doesn't sound too bad.

"The problem is," your superior continues, "that for an officer of Engineers, there is little chance of advancement, and as their men already know their business, they have little to do but dissipate themselves. They are some of His Majesty's finest men, led by some of his worst officers."

Lord Marcus nods, as do you. That makes sense. With little chance for promotion or glory, only the most dissolute, indolent man would thrive as an officer of Engineers.

quote:

Inquire about the partisans and the supply situation.

"Are the raiders on the roads still bedevilling our supply columns?" you ask.

Keane nods, his expression bitter. "They are."

The Kentauri nods. "Aye. My brother has broached the topic of asking your dragoons to assist the Experimental Corps, as your men are already accustomed to the skirmish."

The Dragoon Colonel nods back. "Indeed. I received word to that effect this morning. You may assure His Grace that I have already drafted the necessary orders."

You try to keep your expression neutral. Has Keane ordered your men to hunt the partisans in the forest? For an instant, you consider asking, but you wave that thought away quickly enough. Now is not the time, and besides, you will know soon enough if and when the orders arrive.

quote:

Say nothing.

The next few minutes pass in desultory conversation but nothing of real note. There is a scattered discussion of recent Cortes politics, the obligatory complaints regarding the bureaucratic pigheadedness of Grenadier Square, and the final, obligatory toast: "To His Most Tierran Majesty, Miguel of the House of Rendower, long may he reign."

After that, there is nothing left but to bid your fellow officers good health and a good evening. You and Keane retrieve your crested Dragoon helmets as Hartigan puts on his officer's bicorne from the pair of straight-backed footmen standing all but invisible by the tent's entrance.

Then the three of you step out into the darkness of the camp.

quote:

The night is still warm when you step out of Lord Marcus Havenport's pavilion, despite the fact that by your reckoning, it must be no more than an hour before midnight.

Despite the late hour, it seems you are not the only one up and about. Low fires dot the camp around you, and from them radiate the sounds of an army at rest: the low burble of quiet conversation, the rattle of dice, the rough sounds of masculine voices in song, and the quiet but omnipresent bubbling of kettles.

For some time, you walk in silence, a step behind Colonel Keane as the two of you head for the part of the camp where your regiment now makes its home. There is really little to say. You had known him only tenuously before the Battle of Blogia and had little chance to speak with him after he was made lieutenant-colonel and effective regimental commanding officer. In fact, it might be possible that this evening has been the longest you have spent in his company outside the field of battle.

Besides, you tell yourself, it would hardly be proper for a junior officer to demand conversation of a superior. So, for a few minutes at least, you follow your regiment's second-in-command as he makes his way through the rows of orderly tents, his expression lost in thought.

quote:

Finally, your superior officer speaks.

"Sancroix," he begins as he stops and turns to face you.

"Yes, sir?" you reply.

"Now that you have been with us for the better part of two months, I would request your opinion regarding the enterprise in which this army is currently engaged," he says, his hand gesturing airily to his left.

You do not need to follow Keane's hand to know exactly what he is gesturing at, for to your left, beyond the field fortifications, the sappers' trenches, and the six hundred paces of dead ground stands the solid, defiant bulk of the walls of Kharangia, still unbroken after five months of siege.

"You want my thoughts on the siege, sir?"

Keane shakes his head. "No. I want your opinion of the war, of which this siege is merely one small part."

"I trust the King's plan to bring us victory soon, sir."

"I believe that we shall have victory but at a great cost."

"With all due respect, I believe this whole conflict to be pointless."

ButtDoktor posted:

Victory at great cost.

Hey Cyrahzax, is there a map showing where different countries are in relation to each other? I'm curious if those jerk German elves are nearby Antar and could steamroll in once Tierra and Antar kill each other off.

Lord Cyrahzax posted:

Xander77 posted:

Haha, are we going to meet a Not!Sharpe promoted from ranks running around with his Experimental Rifles unit, who may be undisciplined but sure do get things done by the Saints?

quote:

"I…" Keane begins to say, only for his voice to trail off.

"I see," he says, this time more quietly, his voice more hollow. "Then it shall be more men into the inferno, then? More empty seats at tables, more toasts to fallen friends, more familiar faces to be snatched away?"

You nod. It seems your superior officer's bitterness is contagious. "It would seem so, sir."

Keane breathes a long, drawn-out sigh, his eyes seeming to sink into the night. "So it would, Sancroix."

With that, he turns again and continues onward.

You walk the rest of the way in silence.

quote:

Corporal Marion is waiting for you when you step inside your tent, a mug of tea already in hand.

"Letters came for you while you were out, sir," he says as he hands you the heavy pewter mug of piping liquid and begins stripping off your greatcoat and helmet. "They are on your desk."

You nod as you take your first tentative sip of tea. You make a mental note to finish it all before you go to bed. After all, you have had nothing to drink since sunset save claret, whisky, and Kian spirits. You can already feel the beginnings of what is likely to be tomorrow's hangover.

"Will that be all, sir?" Marion asks in an attempt to remind you that he is still there in the most unobtrusive way possible.

"Yes, that will be all," you reply. "Good night, Marion."

The Corporal gives you a light bow as he steps out of your tent to return to his own bedroll. "Good night, sir."

quote:

Your tent is hardly as large or well-appointed as that of a more senior officer like Lord Marcus Havenport. Still, as an officer's lodging, however temporary, it is by far superior to the quarters of your enlisted men. Where your regular dragoons, corporals, and even your sergeants must share a small rectangular construction with two or three others, your own tent boasts twice the space of their cramped residences. While they must sleep upon thin bedrolls, as an officer you have been provided a narrow cot drawn from stores, a small cast-iron stove, as well as a battered chair and a small, weathered desk.

It is this last set of furnishings which you turn your attention to now, for as your bat-man had promised, a pile of letters sits atop the scratched and battered surface, barely visible in the faint light given off by the embers of the still-hot stove. You take a few moments to settle in your chair and get the small brass oil lamp on your desk burning bright enough, then you turn your attention to the letters.

The first comes sea-stained and slightly crumpled. It doesn't take long to spot your family's seal pressed into the red wax holding the letter closed.

The second letter also comes weathered and discoloured by some long voyage. It bears a different seal, one you could swear you have seen before. You stop for a moment to take a closer look at the familiar-looking sigil in the flickering lamplight.

Then you come to a realisation: you have, in fact, seen its like before, stamped in silver-and-gold relief on the signet ring of a man now nearly three years dead. The letter is from the Hunters of Wolfswood.

So, which letter will you read first?

I read the letter from my family.

I read the letter from Wolfswood.

quote:

You pull open the sealed letter with a combination of trepidation and anticipation. As good as it is to hear from your lord father, you are still apprehensive of his good opinion of you. Your eyes dart to the first words of the page.

My Beloved Son,

I pray this letter finds you healthy and whole. There have been the most wild speculations here at home regarding the situation of the army currently besieging Kharangia, and I can only hope the worst of them are entirely unfounded.

I must apologise for not writing more frequently. The estate is in much uproar as of late. The Cortes (in spite, I must add, of vigorous opposition, including my own) has levied some new tax on the use of publick markets to fund the war, a measure which has driven our tenants to no small extremity of deprivation. I have seen fit to lower the rents again, though I know it is the opposite of what you would urge me to do. As a result, our revenues are sadly much curtailed, and I have had great trouble in finding new economies to maintain ourselves.

The money which you are sending us has come with the most heartening regularity and has done great things in helping ease our late troubles. Though your shouldering of a part of our house's financial burdens is not something which is expected or required of you, it is proof to one and all of your fine character.

Your mother is well and sends her love, as do your brother and sister.

I await your reply, and I am proud to remain,

Your Father

You set the letter back down and think to your family's finances. It seems clear from your father's words that the money you are sending back will not go very far in clearing your house's debts, but can you really afford to send more?

No. In fact, I cannot afford to send any at all now.

No, I cannot.

Yes, I can and I will; I commit my entire income to clearing my family's debts.

quote:

As of the Summer of the 609th year of the Old Imperial Era

Sir Alaric d'al Sancroix
Age: 37
Rank: Captain
Wealth: 618
Income: 15

Soldiering: 24%
Charisma: 50%
Intellect: 60%
Reputation: 25%
Health: 75%
Idealism: 45% Cynicism: 55%
Ruthlessness: 95% Mercy: 5%

You are a Knight of the Red, having the right to wear bane-hardened armour and wield a bane-runed sword.

You can speak, read, and write the Antari language.

Sixth Squadron, Royal Dragoons
Senior NCO: Staff-sergeant Lanzerel

Discipline: 46%
Morale: 53%
Loyalty: 48%
Strength: 98%