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Garing breaks out into a bright grin. "Oh, that is marvellous, sir!" For a moment, it would seem as if he were about to throw all propriety into the air and embrace you bodily. Instead, he simply snatches up a fresh sheet of paper. "Shall we draw up an agreement now, sir?"
The next few minutes pass quickly. Garing is all but frantic with excitement as he draws up the terms of your investment. Before long, all that remains is the amount which you are to commit to the arms merchant's project.
As far as you know, your current available funds stand at 968 crown. You've still a healthy income, enough to replenish your reserves steadily.
Garing's face lights up even brighter when you declare the princely sum you are willing to commit to his new project. "I shall still need other investors, of course," he replies, "but I highly doubt any would be as generous as you."
It only takes a few minutes for Garing to draw up a second copy of the agreement for your own records. Then, with both documents signed, you make your goodbyes and head back for your own tent.
You can only imagine what fruit might be borne from Garing's ambitious project. Perhaps it will revolutionise warfare and make you fabulously wealthy in the process. Then again, perhaps not.For the moment, you've other things to occupy your mind.
-
As the days wear on, the heavy guns continue their deadly work, pounding away at Kharangia's defences, raining hammerblows of fire and iron upon a thin section of its walls. A gaping wound of rubble and pulverised dust now marks the formerly unbroken line of the city's stone armour. It is only a matter of time before the last of the wall gives way entirely and is made wide enough for troops to assault it.
There are other preparations for the imminent assault, as well; trenches begin reaching out from the camp's forward earthworks, scars etched deep into the cleared earth. Day by day, they advance haphazardly towards the forming breach, twisting and turning in geometric patterns to better protect the sappers advancing each trench from the defensive fire of the walls.
Soon, those trenches shall be full of the fighting men of the King's Army, ready to storm the walls of Kharangia.
Until then, there is still some scant time to see to other business. What shall you do?
1) I would like to see how Lady Katarina is faring. 2) I think I shall begin writing my recollections on my military service.
As of the Summer of the 609th year of the Old Imperial Era
Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 21
Rank: Captain
Wealth: 368
Income: 15
Soldiering: 75%
Charisma: 43%
Intellect: 5%
Reputation: 24%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 78% Cynicism: 22%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You are a Knight of the Red, having the right to wear bane-hardened armour and wield a bane-runed sword.
Remember that the only way to become a bane caster is to forego the company of the lesser sex until the age of 30 at the very least, lest the cooties assault your underdeveloped banesense.
You spend the next fortnight or so working on the first few chapters of your work, a comprehensive recounting of your years at war.
What you have so far tells a tale of eager service and honour through battle. You write of noble compatriots, glorious clashes, and the spectacle of combat. You write every man's death as meaningful, every defeat as nothing more than a setback. With little to disturb you, save the occasional fresh memorandum from the Duke of Havenport's headquarters and the background noise of the army's siege guns, you make swift progress. It is not unheard of for you to write twelve, even fifteen pages a day.
Indeed, you write so fast that your pen outruns your mind. After the second week of churning out line after line, you grow sick and tired of it. You find yourself filled with a vague feeling of ennui even at the mere thought of picking up a pen.
-
It is clear to anyone now that the months-long course of the siege is coming to an end.
Within the siege camp, almost all is in readiness. Scouting parties range out into the dangerous open ground before the city, dodging fire from the walls and marking the safe passages through the banefire traps which are sure to have been laid before the walls. At one point, you even see the Duke of Havenport himself, clad in the conspicuously inconspicuous patchwork cloak of a Kentauri Highlander, as he leads a group of officers almost up to the head of the assault trenches to see for himself the ground which he must order his army to cross.
The trenches themselves have been extended to their limits. Though it is some distance from the head of the jagged neck-deep ditches to the foot of Kharangia's glacis, the sappers can safely progress no further. The men tasked to storming the breach shall have to cross the three hundred paces from the ends of the trenches to the foot of the walls in the open.
As for the city itself, Garing's heavy cannon have done their work; a breach has been opened, a man-made chasm of rubble carved out of a man-made wall by man-made cannon, wide enough to march through eight men abreast and growing wider with every hour.
The way into Kharangia is open for any man courageous enough, or fool enough, to brave the defiant resistance of its defenders.
Tension rises within the siege camp, for everyone from the humblest camp follower and common soldier to the Duke of Havenport himself knows that time is running out. The heat of summer wanes by the day. Grey clouds gather on the western horizon, looming closer with each morning. With them comes the promise of autumn rain, of mud, of biting wind, of the cold fury of the Antari winter.
Kharangia must fall, and soon.
-
The next morning, Marion greets you with fresh news: an announcement from the Duke of Havenport's headquarters.
In six days, the Duke of Havenport's army is to assault the walls of Kharangia. To serve as an advance party, His Grace requires volunteers for a small force to lead the first wave and secure the breach in the walls before the main force of the assault can arrive: a Forlorn Hope.
As far as you can tell given your knowledge of warfare, there is no role in any siege or battle quite as risky, quite as glorious, and quite as almost invariably fatal as that of a Forlorn Hope.
The term itself refers to a small party of men, usually led by an officer. To fulfil their task of leading the assault on a fortified city, they must brave the brunt of the defensive fire from the walls, charge up into the breach, and then guard that precarious fingerhold in the face of the assembled fury of the enemy's defences.
Though such a party would only have to hold their position for a few minutes at most, they would have to do so outnumbered and nearly surrounded, and they would face every cunning trap and obstacle the enemy could throw at them. The history of warfare is replete with tales of such parties, annihilated to the man.
As a result of this, the Forlorn Hope itself is composed entirely of volunteers, and the rewards for prevailing as a part of such a force are commensurate with the risk; Havenport promises massive cash bonuses for each man, and better yet, a free promotion for the officer commanding.
You could not think of a greater reward. Not only would you be saved from paying for the cost of a promotion, but the normal seniority requirement would be waived as well. This, alongside the great harvest of glory which would come with a successful action, would be more than enough to give your career a substantial boost—if you survive.
So, will you step forward? Or would you prefer to assault the city with the main force alongside the rest of your regiment?
1) I'll volunteer for the Forlorn Hope; glory calls to me! 2) I volunteer to lead the Forlorn Hope, for the reward, of course. 3) I'll stay with the main force; rather safer that way. 4) I'll not volunteer; give some other man a chance to win his glory.
As of the Summer of the 609th year of the Old Imperial Era
Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 21
Rank: Captain
Wealth: 383
Income: 15
Soldiering: 75%
Charisma: 43%
Intellect: 5%
Reputation: 24%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 78% Cynicism: 22%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You are a Knight of the Red, having the right to wear bane-hardened armour and wield a bane-runed sword.
Sorry for wonky update times. Got a new rig together, dealing with the (un)usual windows/driver updating bullshit and tuning. New Torment stuffies hopefully within the next few weeks or month at most. Hopefully.
On second thought, how could you pass up such a chance? By definition, sieges are long and boring, awarding accolades only to dour artillerists and weak-eyed engineers for their prodigies of mere mathematics. The only part with any real glory comes at the end: the taking of the city by storm. How could you even think about denying yourself a chance at the most glorious part of that endeavour?
With as much haste as you can muster, you put on your dress uniform, belt on your sabre, and head for the Duke of Havenport's pavilion, intent upon seizing your next shot at glory.
-
You step into the Duke of Havenport's command tent to find yourself before the sight of an argument between two nearly identical men. Both wear the burnt-orange coats of the Line Infantry, both have the parti-coloured cloaks of the Kentauri Highlanders draped over their shoulders, and both have officers' swords hanging from their belts.
Recognition comes quickly: it is the Duke of Havenport and his younger brother, Lord Marcus, though there seems to be little brotherly love betwixt them at the moment.
"Do you doubt my ability, sir?" growls the younger man, his eyes glowering like coals beneath a mop of auburn hair. "Or is it my bravery you question? I'm just as good a swordsman and shot as any man here, you'd know that better than any, brother."
"Damn your eagerness, sir," the Duke replies, his Kentauri burr sharpened to icy steel. "I have already turned away three eager lieutenants who had no idea what they were getting into, and I expected more prudence from a lieutenant-colonel. I'll not have such a senior officer throw away his life to prove his courage."
"Then how am I to do it, brother?" Lord Marcus replies, his voice rising in anger. "I have not heard a single shot fired in anger in the five months I have been at war. You should know well enough that is no fact worthy of boast for a man of Clan Havenport."
"The Highlanders will lead the main assault," the Duke replies, his tone soothing but his patience quite clearly wearing thin. "There shall be plenty of opportunity to show your mettle then, at the head of our ancestral regiment. They shall require your leadership and example to inspire them, and it would be easier for you to provide those things alive than with your guts strewn across the bloody walls." Havenport's voice hardens once more. "Your request to lead the Forlorn Hope is denied, Lieutenant-colonel," he declares, emphasising his brother's rank, both too high and too low for the task at hand. "I shall accept no further objection."
Lord Marcus makes a disgusted grunt. "I'll not fight you then, brother," he replies, veins bulging from the effort of keeping his frustration in check. "Might I go, sir?"
The younger Kentauri turns and leaves, almost before his elder brother can dismiss him. He all but pushes you aside as he makes his way out of the tent, defeated.
-
A silence fills the tent. The Duke is clearly lost in his own thoughts now. It would hardly be politic for you to interrupt.
"That rather simplifies the predicament," says a cold, even voice to your side, "wouldn't you say, Ortiga?"
You turn to find yourself face to face with Sir Caius d'al Cazarosta. So enthralled had you been with the drama taking place before you that it seems you did not notice the deathborn officer standing to your side.
1) "How do you mean? What predicament?" 2) "It is good to see you, Sir Caius." 3) "How have you been, Cazarosta?"
As of the Summer of the 609th year of the Old Imperial Era
Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 21
Rank: Captain
Wealth: 383
Income: 15
Soldiering: 75%
Charisma: 43%
Intellect: 5%
Reputation: 24%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 80% Cynicism: 20%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You are a Knight of the Red, having the right to wear bane-hardened armour and wield a bane-runed sword.
