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Completed [LP] Enlist in the Royal Dragoons! Codex plays Sabres of Infinity
- Thread starter Lithium Flower
- Start date
3 > 2
Frack it our people are scum so lets build nice barricade to to at-least slow the Antari charge down. 2.
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
There are many ways to ready the stretch of ground between the two towers of castle Blogia for an attack by mounted troops. Although you are no military engineer, you can still recall a few of the more rudimentary measures you might be able to manage in a short amount of
time.
1) I will dig holes in the ground before my position to trip up charging horses.
2) Perhaps there are better ways to prepare. I've not much time, and I can't afford to waste any of it.
Ok, wait, this doesn't work well for this CYOA format. Give me a minute men, I will restructure the choices.
Last edited:
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
(Alright, so the way this works is picking either 2 (construct barricade) or 3 (prepare ground) leads to a list of possible constructions as well as an option to go back to previous choice. There is only 1 construction in either of list, because we are stupid. I am just going to condense this into one choice like so)
1) Rally the men with a speech; they will fight better if their spirits are high.
2) I should find a way to make my defensive position more formidable. A barricade, perhaps. > A straight barricade between the two castle towers will suffice well enough.
3) I shall prepare the ground around my position to help stop up any Antari charge > I will dig holes in the ground before my position to trip up charging horses.
4) I cannot think of anything I could do.
(Please post another set of votes.)
1) Rally the men with a speech; they will fight better if their spirits are high.
2) I should find a way to make my defensive position more formidable. A barricade, perhaps. > A straight barricade between the two castle towers will suffice well enough.
3) I shall prepare the ground around my position to help stop up any Antari charge > I will dig holes in the ground before my position to trip up charging horses.
4) I cannot think of anything I could do.
(Please post another set of votes.)
3
2
I dislike the idea of standing in the open against a cavalry charge.
I dislike the idea of standing in the open against a cavalry charge.
- Joined
- Sep 25, 2012
- Messages
- 28,349
On foot, press X to couch your Lance against incoming cavalry.
Reinhardt
Arcane
- Joined
- Sep 4, 2015
- Messages
- 29,621
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
While more dramatic preparations might serve for those blessed with more knowledge of military engineering or defensive tactics, you decide to resort to a simple and time-tested trick.
Horses, as any idiot would know, require firm, flat ground to maintain a charge without sustaining injury. It is simply your terrible luck that the ground which your men must defend is just that: dry, firm sod perfect for cavalry.
Thankfully, you have both the time and the men to make it less so.
As cavalry, your men were not issued with entrenching tools, a shortcoming which they are no doubt cursing right now. However, it still only takes a few minutes of frantic work with improvised digging tools to pockmark the ground before your defensive line with pits, each the size of a man's head. Though small enough to be hidden from a distance, each is large enough to break a horse's leg or throw its rider, should the animal be unfortunate enough to put a hoof into one.
-
You feel the oncoming Antari horse before you see or even hear them. The ground in the shadow of castle Blogia trembles with the approach of the great tide of horse and soldiery which you know is bearing down on you with speed beyond that of any man. Clumps of sod rattle along the ground as the enemy cavalry ride ever closer. The masonry to each side of your flimsy defensive line begins to shake and rumble. The distant cries of your multitudinous attackers grow until they become a thunderous, throatless roar. For a moment, you feel as if you are a stone witnessing the world's ending.
Your men seem fewer than before. Perhaps they slipped away some time in the past few minutes; perhaps they too, felt that the world was ending, and the best way to survive it was to get as far away from their private apocalypse as possible.
Then, out of the powderfog, the enemy materialize like an army of ghosts, their blades and helms and scraps of chainmail glittering in the dying sun as they rush towards you, into the narrow, fifty-pace gap which you and your Dragoons must hold.
-
The first wave of the Antari cavalry are great in number, formidable in skill and all but invincible in their courage.
It is their lack of organization which dooms them.
Perhaps they had not been told of the narrowness of the passage they would have to force, perhaps the sheer mass of their vanguard simply made it impossible to do anything other than try to force a four hundred men into a space which could, at best, fit half that number. Either way, the first ranks of Antari cavalry fall into confusion as their mounts and men grind into each other, smashing into each other's flanks. Their charge devolves into a packed, constricted mass, pushed forward only by the momentum of those behind them.
Cazarosta's Dragoons could not have possibly missed.
The stone walls around you bury themselves in powder smoke, as the concussive crack of a single carbine volley pierces the sound of confused horses and screaming men. The Antari are in even more confusion now, as men fall by the dozens, struck down by the hidden gunmen firing upon their flanks.
The Antari press onwards, towards your men, thrown forward either by sheer blind courage, or the confused eagerness of the men behind them, rendered ignorant of the carnage awaiting them by the powdersmoke and sounds of battle.
There is perhaps forty paces between your men and the leading edge of the enemy horse when you see the first of their horses tumble forward with a hoof trapped in one of the holes your men had dug. A sharp crack, much like a gunshot, echoes out, and is instantly joined by the sharp scream of a lamed horse. The unfortunate beast's rider goes flying, thrown from his saddle by the panic of his mount's sudden halt. More cracks sound as other horses and riders fall to the same deception. Their fellows pay them no heed. Lamed horses and thrown riders alike are swallowed and trampled under the boiling edge of the Antari horde as they surge forwards towards your positions.
You gird yourself for battle, pistol in one hand, sabre in the other, as the Antari horsemen charge into your beleaguered Dragoons and begin the struggle in earnest.
-
The first of the Antari horse comes roaring at you like a dumb beast, a throaty battlecry on his lips and a sabre held high over his head. It is almost as if he does not even expect to meet any resistance.
You meet the onrushing rider with blade in hand. You parry as he lunges forward, before swinging your pistol up with your other hand. A moment later, your would-be killer tumbles from his still-galloping mount like a sack of potatoes, his coat stained red from your pistol shot.
The next few Antari you face fare no better. Confused by the sudden resistance of your stalwart men, assailed from both flanks by a hail of carbine balls, those that make it to your line are quickly cut down. Despite their losses, the Antari keep pressing forwards, courage or raw stupidity overwhelming sense or caution. Each enemy horseman seems more dangerous than the last, and soon, you can feel your arms beginning to strain from the fatigue of combat.
More Antari surge forward, their iron-shod horses riding over the bodies of their slain predecessors. There is nothing of the stuff of confusion or pause in them. They ride right for you, sabres flashing, their horses at full gallop.
A thunderous volley erupts from above you. Billows of powder smoke obscure the narrow passage. The Antari horsemen before you, so leonine in their fury and invincibility not an instant before, are brought down like so many bottles of glass, shattering as they fall.
To your surprise, the Antari do not try to rush forward again. Instead, they reel, turn and retreat.
Your men watch the Antari withdraw in silence, too ragged to even essay a cheer.
-
What follows is an interminable series of raids and probes by the Antari horse. Having failed to force your passage through brute force, the Antari begin sending parties of a dozen or so to dash in on their fleet horses and harass your troops, perhaps to draw them out into the open where they could be more easily dealt with. Other parties fire pot-shots at your supporting Dragoons in the castle towers. You give your men standing orders to hold their position against the obvious Antari baiting, A particularly fierce harassing attack almost reaches your line. However, when one of your men springs forward to chase the retreating raiders, staff sergeant Hernandes hauls him back into line by the back of the collar.
The next time the Antari send in a raiding force you take no chances; you order your men to fire a volley at the enemy. Your troop's fire brings down half the enemy party and sends the survivors into headlong flight. The next few Antari probes are driven back with similarly vigorous fire from all three troops.
-
As you watch another Antari raiding party flee back into the smoke, your staff sergeant pulls you aside. It appears that, as futile as the Antari attacks have been, they have done your defenders some harm: your men are out of ammunition. Runners sent to your fellow officers report that their situation is just as dire. Between the three of your troops, you've not even enough powder and shot remaining to fire off a single volley.
When the men hear of this, they grumble and look nervously over their shoulders. "We've fought ourselves dry. They can't bloody well 'ang us for runnin' now," you hear one of them say. While retreat without orders would still theoretically be desertion, perhaps anybody judging your actions would do so with more leniency, knowing that you had done all that you reasonably could to slow the enemy.
Hernandes turns to you, his expression pitched as if to say, 'what now sir?'
What now, indeed?
1) We have been ordered to defend this position, and we will do so until the ending of the world if need be!
2) We do not need ammunition to use our sabres. If the Antari break through here, the entire army is in danger. That cannot be allowed.
3) I cannot leave, but I can allow my men to. I shall let every one not willing to fight to the death escape with their lives.
4) I'm not going to die here on the order of a man who is likely already dead! I'll simply walk into a cloud of powdersmoke and slip away.
Horses, as any idiot would know, require firm, flat ground to maintain a charge without sustaining injury. It is simply your terrible luck that the ground which your men must defend is just that: dry, firm sod perfect for cavalry.
Thankfully, you have both the time and the men to make it less so.
As cavalry, your men were not issued with entrenching tools, a shortcoming which they are no doubt cursing right now. However, it still only takes a few minutes of frantic work with improvised digging tools to pockmark the ground before your defensive line with pits, each the size of a man's head. Though small enough to be hidden from a distance, each is large enough to break a horse's leg or throw its rider, should the animal be unfortunate enough to put a hoof into one.
-
You feel the oncoming Antari horse before you see or even hear them. The ground in the shadow of castle Blogia trembles with the approach of the great tide of horse and soldiery which you know is bearing down on you with speed beyond that of any man. Clumps of sod rattle along the ground as the enemy cavalry ride ever closer. The masonry to each side of your flimsy defensive line begins to shake and rumble. The distant cries of your multitudinous attackers grow until they become a thunderous, throatless roar. For a moment, you feel as if you are a stone witnessing the world's ending.
Your men seem fewer than before. Perhaps they slipped away some time in the past few minutes; perhaps they too, felt that the world was ending, and the best way to survive it was to get as far away from their private apocalypse as possible.
Then, out of the powderfog, the enemy materialize like an army of ghosts, their blades and helms and scraps of chainmail glittering in the dying sun as they rush towards you, into the narrow, fifty-pace gap which you and your Dragoons must hold.
-
The first wave of the Antari cavalry are great in number, formidable in skill and all but invincible in their courage.
It is their lack of organization which dooms them.
Perhaps they had not been told of the narrowness of the passage they would have to force, perhaps the sheer mass of their vanguard simply made it impossible to do anything other than try to force a four hundred men into a space which could, at best, fit half that number. Either way, the first ranks of Antari cavalry fall into confusion as their mounts and men grind into each other, smashing into each other's flanks. Their charge devolves into a packed, constricted mass, pushed forward only by the momentum of those behind them.
Cazarosta's Dragoons could not have possibly missed.
The stone walls around you bury themselves in powder smoke, as the concussive crack of a single carbine volley pierces the sound of confused horses and screaming men. The Antari are in even more confusion now, as men fall by the dozens, struck down by the hidden gunmen firing upon their flanks.
The Antari press onwards, towards your men, thrown forward either by sheer blind courage, or the confused eagerness of the men behind them, rendered ignorant of the carnage awaiting them by the powdersmoke and sounds of battle.
There is perhaps forty paces between your men and the leading edge of the enemy horse when you see the first of their horses tumble forward with a hoof trapped in one of the holes your men had dug. A sharp crack, much like a gunshot, echoes out, and is instantly joined by the sharp scream of a lamed horse. The unfortunate beast's rider goes flying, thrown from his saddle by the panic of his mount's sudden halt. More cracks sound as other horses and riders fall to the same deception. Their fellows pay them no heed. Lamed horses and thrown riders alike are swallowed and trampled under the boiling edge of the Antari horde as they surge forwards towards your positions.
You gird yourself for battle, pistol in one hand, sabre in the other, as the Antari horsemen charge into your beleaguered Dragoons and begin the struggle in earnest.
-
The first of the Antari horse comes roaring at you like a dumb beast, a throaty battlecry on his lips and a sabre held high over his head. It is almost as if he does not even expect to meet any resistance.
You meet the onrushing rider with blade in hand. You parry as he lunges forward, before swinging your pistol up with your other hand. A moment later, your would-be killer tumbles from his still-galloping mount like a sack of potatoes, his coat stained red from your pistol shot.
The next few Antari you face fare no better. Confused by the sudden resistance of your stalwart men, assailed from both flanks by a hail of carbine balls, those that make it to your line are quickly cut down. Despite their losses, the Antari keep pressing forwards, courage or raw stupidity overwhelming sense or caution. Each enemy horseman seems more dangerous than the last, and soon, you can feel your arms beginning to strain from the fatigue of combat.
More Antari surge forward, their iron-shod horses riding over the bodies of their slain predecessors. There is nothing of the stuff of confusion or pause in them. They ride right for you, sabres flashing, their horses at full gallop.
A thunderous volley erupts from above you. Billows of powder smoke obscure the narrow passage. The Antari horsemen before you, so leonine in their fury and invincibility not an instant before, are brought down like so many bottles of glass, shattering as they fall.
To your surprise, the Antari do not try to rush forward again. Instead, they reel, turn and retreat.
Your men watch the Antari withdraw in silence, too ragged to even essay a cheer.
-
What follows is an interminable series of raids and probes by the Antari horse. Having failed to force your passage through brute force, the Antari begin sending parties of a dozen or so to dash in on their fleet horses and harass your troops, perhaps to draw them out into the open where they could be more easily dealt with. Other parties fire pot-shots at your supporting Dragoons in the castle towers. You give your men standing orders to hold their position against the obvious Antari baiting, A particularly fierce harassing attack almost reaches your line. However, when one of your men springs forward to chase the retreating raiders, staff sergeant Hernandes hauls him back into line by the back of the collar.
The next time the Antari send in a raiding force you take no chances; you order your men to fire a volley at the enemy. Your troop's fire brings down half the enemy party and sends the survivors into headlong flight. The next few Antari probes are driven back with similarly vigorous fire from all three troops.
-
As you watch another Antari raiding party flee back into the smoke, your staff sergeant pulls you aside. It appears that, as futile as the Antari attacks have been, they have done your defenders some harm: your men are out of ammunition. Runners sent to your fellow officers report that their situation is just as dire. Between the three of your troops, you've not even enough powder and shot remaining to fire off a single volley.
When the men hear of this, they grumble and look nervously over their shoulders. "We've fought ourselves dry. They can't bloody well 'ang us for runnin' now," you hear one of them say. While retreat without orders would still theoretically be desertion, perhaps anybody judging your actions would do so with more leniency, knowing that you had done all that you reasonably could to slow the enemy.
Hernandes turns to you, his expression pitched as if to say, 'what now sir?'
What now, indeed?
1) We have been ordered to defend this position, and we will do so until the ending of the world if need be!
2) We do not need ammunition to use our sabres. If the Antari break through here, the entire army is in danger. That cannot be allowed.
3) I cannot leave, but I can allow my men to. I shall let every one not willing to fight to the death escape with their lives.
4) I'm not going to die here on the order of a man who is likely already dead! I'll simply walk into a cloud of powdersmoke and slip away.
As of the Summer of the 607th year of the Old Imperial Era
Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 19
Rank: Lieutenant
Wealth: 550
Income: 10
Soldiering: 74%
Charisma: 40%
Intellect: 0%
Reputation: 49%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 89% Cynicism: 11%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You have no decorations as of yet.
YOU HAVE SEEN YOUR PATH'S END.
YOu Have tHE lauGhIng god's atTeNtION.
Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 19
Rank: Lieutenant
Wealth: 550
Income: 10
Soldiering: 74%
Charisma: 40%
Intellect: 0%
Reputation: 49%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 89% Cynicism: 11%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You have no decorations as of yet.
YOU HAVE SEEN YOUR PATH'S END.
YOu Have tHE lauGhIng god's atTeNtION.
Sixth Troop, Third Squadron, Royal Dragoons
Senior NCO: Staff- Sergeant Hernandes
Discipline: 30%
Morale: 24%
Loyalty: 32%
Senior NCO: Staff- Sergeant Hernandes
Discipline: 30%
Morale: 24%
Loyalty: 32%
2! We're not thin-blooded peasants fleeing at the first sign of danger!
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
You return your staff sergeant's gaze and shake your head.
"Retreat is out of the question. We must hold this position, whatever the cost."
Hernandes nods with the unmistakeable lethargy of fatalism.
-
Without ammunition, your carbines become no more than glorified clubs. You order your men to take them to the rear so that they do not get in the way of the next assault. No sooner do your men settle back into position than the ground begins rumbling again.
This time, however, you hear another, higher sound layered over the now-familiar cacophony of hoofbeats and warcries: a low, deep whistling moan, louder and higher with every passing second, until it becomes a mad shriek.
When the enemy finally emerges from the powder fog, a tremor of fear and shock ripples through your men, for the shapes before you are the outlines of massively armoured riders and gigantic warhorses, forms blazing with the blue glow of banefire. The great spectres solidify and dark shapes become steel and flesh and lance and blade. At long last, you see the angel wings strapped to each rider's back, their feathers shrieking as the air passes over them.
Church Hussars.
-
Shining mountains of steel and banefire, the Antari Hussars charge ever closer, long lances blazing blue in the darkening sun. They are not many, these terrifying riders, a dozen at most; but they would be more than a match for an entire squadron of Dragoons, let alone the few dozen men standing with you. The world shatters as the Dragoons in the castle towers fire their last, carefully hoarded reserves of powder and shot in a final volley.
The enemy cavalry ride through before the smoke even clears. For an instant, you wonder if none of the Hussars had been hit at all. It is only when they are three dozen paces from your position that you see the dents and splashes of shattered lead on their shining splint mail. Gunpowder will do no good against these monsters in men's bodies.
Your sabre is tight in your hand as the Hussars gallop ever closer. Time seems to slow, and the world falls away, leaving only you, your men and your terrible, unstoppable enemies in their bane-wrought armour and their long, vicious lances.
Time stops, the instant is frozen as the Antari hit your line. All you know is that the lead Hussar is before you, that his horse is riding at full gallop, and that the tip of his lance has just swept by your head with only a few centimetres to spare.
Here is your chance, your dance upon the razor's edge between death and glory. You take a quick breath and:
1) Face the enemy head on: Lunge forward and get close enough to use my sabre.
2) Be clever: Find a way to unhorse the Hussar and gut him before he can recover.
3) Rally some of my men to me, and and attack the enemy from all sides
"Retreat is out of the question. We must hold this position, whatever the cost."
Hernandes nods with the unmistakeable lethargy of fatalism.
-
Without ammunition, your carbines become no more than glorified clubs. You order your men to take them to the rear so that they do not get in the way of the next assault. No sooner do your men settle back into position than the ground begins rumbling again.
This time, however, you hear another, higher sound layered over the now-familiar cacophony of hoofbeats and warcries: a low, deep whistling moan, louder and higher with every passing second, until it becomes a mad shriek.
When the enemy finally emerges from the powder fog, a tremor of fear and shock ripples through your men, for the shapes before you are the outlines of massively armoured riders and gigantic warhorses, forms blazing with the blue glow of banefire. The great spectres solidify and dark shapes become steel and flesh and lance and blade. At long last, you see the angel wings strapped to each rider's back, their feathers shrieking as the air passes over them.
Church Hussars.
-
Shining mountains of steel and banefire, the Antari Hussars charge ever closer, long lances blazing blue in the darkening sun. They are not many, these terrifying riders, a dozen at most; but they would be more than a match for an entire squadron of Dragoons, let alone the few dozen men standing with you. The world shatters as the Dragoons in the castle towers fire their last, carefully hoarded reserves of powder and shot in a final volley.
The enemy cavalry ride through before the smoke even clears. For an instant, you wonder if none of the Hussars had been hit at all. It is only when they are three dozen paces from your position that you see the dents and splashes of shattered lead on their shining splint mail. Gunpowder will do no good against these monsters in men's bodies.
Your sabre is tight in your hand as the Hussars gallop ever closer. Time seems to slow, and the world falls away, leaving only you, your men and your terrible, unstoppable enemies in their bane-wrought armour and their long, vicious lances.
Time stops, the instant is frozen as the Antari hit your line. All you know is that the lead Hussar is before you, that his horse is riding at full gallop, and that the tip of his lance has just swept by your head with only a few centimetres to spare.
Here is your chance, your dance upon the razor's edge between death and glory. You take a quick breath and:
1) Face the enemy head on: Lunge forward and get close enough to use my sabre.
2) Be clever: Find a way to unhorse the Hussar and gut him before he can recover.
3) Rally some of my men to me, and and attack the enemy from all sides
As of the Summer of the 607th year of the Old Imperial Era
Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 19
Rank: Lieutenant
Wealth: 550
Income: 10
Soldiering: 74%
Charisma: 40%
Intellect: 0%
Reputation: 49%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 84% Cynicism: 16%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You have no decorations as of yet.
YOU HAVE SEEN YOUR PATH'S END.
YOu Have tHE lauGhIng god's atTeNtION.
Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 19
Rank: Lieutenant
Wealth: 550
Income: 10
Soldiering: 74%
Charisma: 40%
Intellect: 0%
Reputation: 49%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 84% Cynicism: 16%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You have no decorations as of yet.
YOU HAVE SEEN YOUR PATH'S END.
YOu Have tHE lauGhIng god's atTeNtION.
Sixth Troop, Third Squadron, Royal Dragoons
Senior NCO: Staff- Sergeant Hernandes
Discipline: 30%
Morale: 24%
Loyalty: 32%
Senior NCO: Staff- Sergeant Hernandes
Discipline: 30%
Morale: 24%
Loyalty: 32%
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
You spring forward, sabre flashing in your hand. The Hussar reacts quickly, discarding his lance as his mount rears in response to your unexpected sally. Your opponent draws a broad-bladed longsword, its blade burning with banefire glow as he twirls it over his head and swings at you.
The burning blade passes a hair's breadth from your shoulder as you duck out of the way, searing your tunic and the skin under it with its heat as it passes. You do not try to block the Antari sword: your own sabre would likely as not shatter against the bane-hardened steel of the terrifying weapon now darting towards you once again. You side-step the thrust and spring forward, having found your opening.
Leaping toward him, you grip the wings trapped to the back of the Hussar's saddle. Praying that the steel frame of the ornamental contraptions will support your weight, you swing yourself upwards.
Thankfully, they do. The Hussar turns in his saddle to find you precariously dangling from his now-panicking mount. As quick as lightning, your free hand releases the steel wing frame and wraps itself around the Hussar's sword belt. With a mighty heave, you hurl your opponent from the saddle and slam him into the hard ground. Quick as you can, you leap atop your downed foe, bringing your hobnailed boot down upon his sword arm as forcefully as you can.
With the battle still raging around you, there is no time for you to demand a surrender: you must kill, and so you do. You snap the Antari nobleman's head upwards with a swift kick, exposing his unarmoured throat. Your sabre comes down upon it and you feel the shock travel up your arms as your blade cuts through skin, muscle and cartilage.
-
You stagger forwards into the fight as you look around you with bleary and powder-stung eyes,Your men fight on against the foe, their knowledge that no help is coming adding the desperate strength of self-preservation to their struggles.
Your men fight on frantically, but exhaustion and the emotional trauma of the battle have taken their toll. Though they make some effort of attacking their powerful foes as teams, their efforts fail as often as they succeed. Soon, you begin to see piles of limp bodies in Dragoon green-grey where knots of your men had tried and failed to take down one of their noble-born enemies.
You try to help where you can, to prevent the battle from becoming a massacre. Occasionally, a Hussar falls, either by accident, or pulled from his saddle by an exceptionally brave Tierran. The ones that do rarely last long; as long as they are prone on the ground, they are helpless, and the razor edges of Dragoon sabres do not take long to find unarmoured throats, armpits and groins.
Within minutes, only a handful of Hussars remain ahorse and fighting. One of them reaches for a horn at his belt with one hand as he fends off your Dragoons with a lightning-clad battle-axe in the other. The Hussar puts the horn to his lips as his weapon is knocked out of his other hand. A low, mournful note sounds through the bloody and corpse-strewn passage which has cost you so much to hold. The melancholy sound seems to last forever, even as the horn blower tumbles from his bloodied and dying mount. You watch as one of your men seizes the horn-blower's great ax and hefts it over his head, bringing it down upon its former owner's chest with both hands.
The horn's sound terminates with a sharp, distorted shriek. Those few Hussars still ahorse pull their mounts away from your exhausted and bloodied Dragoons, and ride away.
-
You breathe deep, trying your best not to gag at the acrid stench of death and powder as the rancid air fills your lungs. You stagger to one of the tower walls and slump against it, feeling your racing heart slow as you hear the sound of retreating hooves diminish to silence.
So great is your exhaustion that it takes you what must have been an embarrassingly long time to realize that you no longer hear the distant thunder of cannon, or the crackle of musketry. The only sounds that still reach your ears are the moans of the wounded and dying, the shallow breaths of those still lucky enough to be on their feet and the low, quiet whistling of the blackening wind.
A lanky, bloodied form settles against the wall beside you: Cazarosta, a bruised hand clamped over the left side of his face, his sabre belt torn and dangling from his waist, his tunic torn in a dozen places. For a moment, you both slump against the ancient stones, then he reaches for his neck and unties the smeared and soiled silk cravat about his neck one-handed.
He pulls his hand away for his face for a second: just long enough for you to see the bloody ruin of his face: cheek seared with banefire, scraps of skin fluttering obscenely in the dirty air, runnels of steaming fluid dripping from the empty, horrible hole where his eye had once been. You take in all of these things in the moment it takes your fellow officer to tie the silk about his head to cover his wound.
"Well then, Lieutenant Ortiga," he says, as if half his face were not swathed in white cloth slowly staining red and sick yellow. "We should best prepare for their next attack."
Anxiety and sheer incredulity overtake your sense as you stare blankly into the charnelhouse before you, now composed of more dead than living. "Next attack?" you whisper, as if the concept were as alien to you as a bull in skirts.
Cazarosta nods, wincing as he does. "Yes. It would be best if we augmented our defensive position somehow. We might pile the bodies into walls and obstacles. I dare say we have enough of them, is that not so?"
You goggle in shock at your fellow officer's cold, toneless words as a furious response bubbles up your throat.
-
Before you have a chance to utter it, you hear the sound of hoofbeats once again.
Your men hear it too. They tense perceptibly. Immediately, you reach for your sabre, only to find it missing. You must have discarded it at some point near the end of the last engagement. After a moment's panic, you calm yourself: the sound is no more than that of a single horse, and it comes from the direction of your own army, not the Antari.
The shape of a man and rider coalesces out of the thinning powder smoke: it is Major Keane, his tunic bloodied, his helmet scored with cuts, a large swath of particoloured Kentauri cloak wrapped around his blood-soaked middle. With practiced but laboured grace, he dismounts. You muster as much of your strength as you can you bring your hand up to a salute, but the Major shakes his head. You let your hand drop.
"Lieutenant Ortiga, Lieutenant Cazarosta, His Grace the Duke of Havenport sends his compliments."
Cazarosta nods. "Does he require us to hold this position for much longer?" he asks, with a chilling nonchalance.
Keane looks at the charnel-house about you. From a starting strength of nearly eighty men, you doubt that half are still alive. Of your own men, you can only pick out a pitiful handful of survivors, though you hope that there are others merely wounded, and not dead. Those that do stand seem on the verge of complete exhaustion. The Major shakes his head.
"No, thank the Saints. Our army has retreated into the forest. The line infantry have begun forming into column for the march back south. You are to effect your withdrawal immediately. The army is safe: you have done your duty."
You slump back against the wall, Keane's words echoing in your mind. A voice screams at you from some place deep inside. You have work to do: the horses must be saddled, the men must be formed up, your dead must be burned. The voice fades as your knees buckle under you and you feel tears run down your face. Finally, the voice quiets entirely, as you let the black edges of your unconsciousness engulf you entirely.
EPILOGUE
Wherein the CAVALRY OFFICER is awarded JUST RECOMPENSE for his actions.
Six days after the battle of Blogia, the battered but defiant remnants of the Royal Army marched through the gates of Noringia.
Five days after that, a party of scouts returned jubilant with the news that the Antari are retreating back north, too weary to risk a second clash against an army which they had left too intact to ensure victory.
One morning, three weeks after the battle, you pull open the curtains and behold in Noringia's harbour a giant ship-of-the-line. From your window facing the sea, you are just close enough to see the name gilded onto the warship's heavily ornamented stern.
She is HMS Rendower, a warship of 98 guns, the flagship of the Royal Tierran Navy. Your heart catches in your throat as you see the massive banner flying from her mainmast, bearing the golden gryphons and silver towers of the royal standard.
The King has come to Antar.
-
That afternoon, you receive a knock on your door: it is Major Keane, now temporary commanding officer of your Regiment.
"Good day, Lieutenant," he says, his sombre expression completely at odds with his friendly greeting.
You sketch a salute as the Major hands you a small envelope of thick vellum.
"You are summoned before the King's Majesty," he says, without trace of emotion.
The two of you leave without delay. You have no intention of disobeying an order from your King.
-
The day is a beautiful one, with the heat of the early afternoon sun swept away by the cooling breezes of the sea. Keane seems to care little for it. The Dragoon Major's eyes are dull and lifeless as he walks alongside you down the street. You fully understand why. Your regiment's desperate fight on the left flank may have helped save the entire army, but it also exacted a heavy toll: out of the seven hundred men that rode into battle that morning, only half that number came back out alive.
Captain Elson was not among them. Nor was Lieutenant Colonel Marras, or a dozen other officers whom you could name. Even those that survived did not do so without scars: the Duke of Cunaris will never be able to walk again. The healers were able to grow back Cazarosta's eye, but the skin on the left side of his face will be forever blackened and cracked where the banefire charred it. The regiment is a shadow of its former self.
Every so often, Keane will make a sidelong glance at you, hoping perhaps, that you might disrupt the monotony of your bootheels against the cobbles with some sort of conversation.
Ask why the Antari withdrew.
The Major shrugs.
"The prevailing opinion among the senior staff is that Prince Khorobirit had expected to annihilate us at Blogia. By being able to extract the majority of our forces intact, we have put paid to that plan. Once the Antari realized that we held too strong a position to take by storm, they withdrew."
You raise an eyebrow. "Surely the Antari had enough men to simply besiege the town."
Keane shakes his head. "Enough men, but not enough time. They cannot starve us out, since the town can be supplied from the sea with ease. The only way would be to sap the walls. Such a process would likely take months. By harvest time, Khorobirit's men would be deserting en masse simply to have enough grain cut to feed their families."
You nod, finding nothing in Keane's explanation to dispute.
Ask about the King's visit.
The Major's face hardens when you inquire after His Majesty's presence.
"We can be certain that he is here to go through the motions: honours, speeches, that lot. He knighted that Deathborn, Cazarosta this morning, and gave him a captain's commission besides, for his actions during the battle."
You try not to make your surprise too obvious. You have never met your King before, but if he is the sort of man to bestow such high honour upon a man not even born of baneblood, you cannot help but wonder what he wants with you.
Taking advantage of your pause, the Major continues. "There is also the possibility that His Majesty is here to take personal command, though I cannot see how he will be much of an improvement over his illustrious predecessor, as untested as he is."
You nod non-committally. You know for a fact that King Miguel has never seen battle before. You can only hope that, if he does plan to take command, he will prove a quick study.
Ask about the condition of the Army as a whole.
Major Keane shakes his head, his features laden with sadness.
"This army has lost a great deal, many of its finest leaders. The greater part of the infantry and artillery have come out of the battle intact, but who will lead them now that so many of our brother officers are dead on the field?"
You nod in agreement. You have seen the list of officers slain at Blogia: a long and depressing list. It was a list of some of the army's finest soldiers:
The Duke of Wulfram, struck down by an Antari Hussar's burning longsword.
The Baron of Tourbridge, cut down as his brigade routed around him.
Lord Lieutenant Colonel Sir Enrique Hunter, and the battalion of Grenadiers he rallied around him, dead almost to a man.
The Major takes a deep, shuddering breath, as if he were almost on the verge of tears. "The Antari have hurt us deeper than they likely know."
-
You continue onwards, uncomfortably silent, until finally the Major ushers you into the building which had, not so long ago, served as the Duke of Wulfram's headquarters.
A pair of Grenadiers greet you and Keane at the door. Both wear the enameled badges of House Rendower: they are members of the King's personal guards. His task complete, the Major leaves you under the watchful eye of your orange-jacketed ushers.
The two infantrymen lead you down the hallway into the great hall which had played host to the Duke of Wulfram's reception not a month ago. A single look through the open door tells you all you need to know about the importance of the situation: lined up on each side of the hall stand lieutenant colonels, colonels and generals of brigade, standing as stock still as a gallery of footmen.
The entirety of their attention is focused upon the two conversing men at the far end of the hall. One of them, standing officiously, is the Duke of Havenport, newly promoted to lieutenant general in place of the late Duke of Wulfram. The other sits next to Havenport in a high-backed wooden chair: a wiry, handsome man of about twenty, his auburn hair cut short in the latest fashion.
Your King.
-
As the two Grenadiers at your sides escort to the threshold of the hall, the conversation between your King and his newly-appointed general becomes loud enough for you to hear.
"Your Majesty," you hear Havenport say, in his urbane tenor, "it is my opinion that a favourable conclusion to the war through this expeditionary force is no longer viable."
"Our army is battered, not broken, Havenport," the King replies, his voice seasoned with reproach. "We may yet see it reforged into the instrument we desire, under our personal command."
You see Havenport wince with every emphasis of the majestic plural. The nobleman's soothing tone begins to crack as he voices his reply. "Your Majesty, we have lost nearly three thousand men, and another thousand shall be in no condition to fight ever again."
The King waves away Havenport's objection as if it were a noxious cloud of smoke. "We are well aware of the losses our armies have sustained, and we will see them made good, even if we must will half the ships of the Northern Fleet stripped of their marines and fill the rest of the gaps with the conscripted poor."
To this, Havenport attempts a different tack: "Even so, your majesty, it would take months for the army to be made whole once again. To risk the royal personnage whilst the ranks remain depleted is a most dangerous course of action."
Your sovereign's response is a most un-Kingly snort of derision. "Is that what you mean to say? Surely you could not be dancing around the fact that we are untested in battle, and thus, unsuited for personal command."
-
The Kentauri general's desperate attempt to muster a reply is cut short by the sound of your two escorts pounding the butts of their muskets against the wooden floor.
"Lord Lieutenant Ortiga of the Royal Dragoons requests permission to approach the King's Majesty," announces the taller of the two, as if he were a court herald.
The young redheaded King nods as his face takes on the courtly mask of a stern warrior-prince. "You may approach us, Lieutenant."
You feel your palms turn damp and your face turn pale as you step forward.
-
You try your hardest to remember all of the courtly graces taught you in your childhood as you step forward into the presence of your King and sovereign. With your helmet tucked under one shoulder, you approach no closer than ten paces from where your King sits, carefully keeping your eyes averted as you do.
"Lord Lieutenant Alaric d'al Ortiga of the Royal Dragoon Regiment," the King begins, his tone a cold and mechanical contrast to the animated voice which you had overheard just a few moments ago. "For your heroic conduct during the military action at the field of Blogia during the summer of this, the seventh year of our reign, as an officer in our service, it is our pleasure that you be awarded the commission of captain and given command of Sixth Squadron, Royal Dragoons. In addition, we have determined your actions of the aforementioned battle to have played a critical part in the preservation of our armies. Thus, it is our pleasure to bestow upon you an annuity of 180 gold crowns, to be paid from our personal accounts, as a small token of our thanks."
As nervous as you are, you manage to speak the appropriate words of gratitude without making an ass of yourself, a great relief. However, the King does not dismiss you. "There is one more thing."
The entire world seems to take a breath as you do your best not to meet your sovereign's gaze.
"Kneel," he says.
-
You kneel, still confused as to exactly what is going on.
The King leaps to his feet, his sceptre clutched in one hand.
"We have lost a great deal over the past few weeks. We have lost the initiative and we have lost much pride, but worst of all, we have lost some of the finest soldiers in our service. Our army shall be as a jewel without lustre with the mournful absence of those great men."
The room is enraptured now. You can feel the gazes of men infinitely your senior upon your bent back. The King continues on.
"However, we are not without joy. This faithful soldier who kneels before us has proven himself worthy successor to the illustrious names so cruelly taken from us. We bear much hope for the future of this promising officer and those like him, who have distinguished themselves as heroes in a moment of defeat."
Your King extends a hand, two fingers outstretched. He lifts your chin up, and for the first time, you see him eye to eye. "By the power vested in me by Heavenly Mandate, and as Grandmaster of the Red, I name you, Lord Alaric d'al Ortiga, Knight-Companion of the Order of Saint Joshua."
You tense yourself for the blow an instant before it comes: a short, sharp strike of the royal sceptre against your chest. Enough to knock the wind out of you, or perhaps leave a bruise, but little else. "Let that be the last insult you will ever allow to pass unanswered."
The King steps back, the ritual almost complete. You hold your breath, waiting for the last words that will make you a knight of the Orders-Militant.
"Arise, Sir Alaric, and find glory through battle!"
-
You emerge into the afternoon sun with a head full of thoughts, pulling your mind in half a dozen different directions. You will need to have your uniforms altered, first of all. You have no doubt that there will be a great deal of paperwork for the provision of your new command, not to mention the reinforcement of that new command to begin with. New officers and NCOs will need to be selected. There would, of course, also be the business of ordering the bane-hardened weapon and armour of a Knight of the Orders-Militant, and the golden spurs of your new title besides.
You take a deep breath, for those tasks would only be the beginning of your labours.
After all, there is still a war to win.
The burning blade passes a hair's breadth from your shoulder as you duck out of the way, searing your tunic and the skin under it with its heat as it passes. You do not try to block the Antari sword: your own sabre would likely as not shatter against the bane-hardened steel of the terrifying weapon now darting towards you once again. You side-step the thrust and spring forward, having found your opening.
Leaping toward him, you grip the wings trapped to the back of the Hussar's saddle. Praying that the steel frame of the ornamental contraptions will support your weight, you swing yourself upwards.
Thankfully, they do. The Hussar turns in his saddle to find you precariously dangling from his now-panicking mount. As quick as lightning, your free hand releases the steel wing frame and wraps itself around the Hussar's sword belt. With a mighty heave, you hurl your opponent from the saddle and slam him into the hard ground. Quick as you can, you leap atop your downed foe, bringing your hobnailed boot down upon his sword arm as forcefully as you can.
With the battle still raging around you, there is no time for you to demand a surrender: you must kill, and so you do. You snap the Antari nobleman's head upwards with a swift kick, exposing his unarmoured throat. Your sabre comes down upon it and you feel the shock travel up your arms as your blade cuts through skin, muscle and cartilage.
-
You stagger forwards into the fight as you look around you with bleary and powder-stung eyes,Your men fight on against the foe, their knowledge that no help is coming adding the desperate strength of self-preservation to their struggles.
Your men fight on frantically, but exhaustion and the emotional trauma of the battle have taken their toll. Though they make some effort of attacking their powerful foes as teams, their efforts fail as often as they succeed. Soon, you begin to see piles of limp bodies in Dragoon green-grey where knots of your men had tried and failed to take down one of their noble-born enemies.
You try to help where you can, to prevent the battle from becoming a massacre. Occasionally, a Hussar falls, either by accident, or pulled from his saddle by an exceptionally brave Tierran. The ones that do rarely last long; as long as they are prone on the ground, they are helpless, and the razor edges of Dragoon sabres do not take long to find unarmoured throats, armpits and groins.
Within minutes, only a handful of Hussars remain ahorse and fighting. One of them reaches for a horn at his belt with one hand as he fends off your Dragoons with a lightning-clad battle-axe in the other. The Hussar puts the horn to his lips as his weapon is knocked out of his other hand. A low, mournful note sounds through the bloody and corpse-strewn passage which has cost you so much to hold. The melancholy sound seems to last forever, even as the horn blower tumbles from his bloodied and dying mount. You watch as one of your men seizes the horn-blower's great ax and hefts it over his head, bringing it down upon its former owner's chest with both hands.
The horn's sound terminates with a sharp, distorted shriek. Those few Hussars still ahorse pull their mounts away from your exhausted and bloodied Dragoons, and ride away.
-
You breathe deep, trying your best not to gag at the acrid stench of death and powder as the rancid air fills your lungs. You stagger to one of the tower walls and slump against it, feeling your racing heart slow as you hear the sound of retreating hooves diminish to silence.
So great is your exhaustion that it takes you what must have been an embarrassingly long time to realize that you no longer hear the distant thunder of cannon, or the crackle of musketry. The only sounds that still reach your ears are the moans of the wounded and dying, the shallow breaths of those still lucky enough to be on their feet and the low, quiet whistling of the blackening wind.
A lanky, bloodied form settles against the wall beside you: Cazarosta, a bruised hand clamped over the left side of his face, his sabre belt torn and dangling from his waist, his tunic torn in a dozen places. For a moment, you both slump against the ancient stones, then he reaches for his neck and unties the smeared and soiled silk cravat about his neck one-handed.
He pulls his hand away for his face for a second: just long enough for you to see the bloody ruin of his face: cheek seared with banefire, scraps of skin fluttering obscenely in the dirty air, runnels of steaming fluid dripping from the empty, horrible hole where his eye had once been. You take in all of these things in the moment it takes your fellow officer to tie the silk about his head to cover his wound.
"Well then, Lieutenant Ortiga," he says, as if half his face were not swathed in white cloth slowly staining red and sick yellow. "We should best prepare for their next attack."
Anxiety and sheer incredulity overtake your sense as you stare blankly into the charnelhouse before you, now composed of more dead than living. "Next attack?" you whisper, as if the concept were as alien to you as a bull in skirts.
Cazarosta nods, wincing as he does. "Yes. It would be best if we augmented our defensive position somehow. We might pile the bodies into walls and obstacles. I dare say we have enough of them, is that not so?"
You goggle in shock at your fellow officer's cold, toneless words as a furious response bubbles up your throat.
-
Before you have a chance to utter it, you hear the sound of hoofbeats once again.
Your men hear it too. They tense perceptibly. Immediately, you reach for your sabre, only to find it missing. You must have discarded it at some point near the end of the last engagement. After a moment's panic, you calm yourself: the sound is no more than that of a single horse, and it comes from the direction of your own army, not the Antari.
The shape of a man and rider coalesces out of the thinning powder smoke: it is Major Keane, his tunic bloodied, his helmet scored with cuts, a large swath of particoloured Kentauri cloak wrapped around his blood-soaked middle. With practiced but laboured grace, he dismounts. You muster as much of your strength as you can you bring your hand up to a salute, but the Major shakes his head. You let your hand drop.
"Lieutenant Ortiga, Lieutenant Cazarosta, His Grace the Duke of Havenport sends his compliments."
Cazarosta nods. "Does he require us to hold this position for much longer?" he asks, with a chilling nonchalance.
Keane looks at the charnel-house about you. From a starting strength of nearly eighty men, you doubt that half are still alive. Of your own men, you can only pick out a pitiful handful of survivors, though you hope that there are others merely wounded, and not dead. Those that do stand seem on the verge of complete exhaustion. The Major shakes his head.
"No, thank the Saints. Our army has retreated into the forest. The line infantry have begun forming into column for the march back south. You are to effect your withdrawal immediately. The army is safe: you have done your duty."
You slump back against the wall, Keane's words echoing in your mind. A voice screams at you from some place deep inside. You have work to do: the horses must be saddled, the men must be formed up, your dead must be burned. The voice fades as your knees buckle under you and you feel tears run down your face. Finally, the voice quiets entirely, as you let the black edges of your unconsciousness engulf you entirely.
EPILOGUE
Wherein the CAVALRY OFFICER is awarded JUST RECOMPENSE for his actions.
Five days after that, a party of scouts returned jubilant with the news that the Antari are retreating back north, too weary to risk a second clash against an army which they had left too intact to ensure victory.
One morning, three weeks after the battle, you pull open the curtains and behold in Noringia's harbour a giant ship-of-the-line. From your window facing the sea, you are just close enough to see the name gilded onto the warship's heavily ornamented stern.
She is HMS Rendower, a warship of 98 guns, the flagship of the Royal Tierran Navy. Your heart catches in your throat as you see the massive banner flying from her mainmast, bearing the golden gryphons and silver towers of the royal standard.
The King has come to Antar.
-
That afternoon, you receive a knock on your door: it is Major Keane, now temporary commanding officer of your Regiment.
"Good day, Lieutenant," he says, his sombre expression completely at odds with his friendly greeting.
You sketch a salute as the Major hands you a small envelope of thick vellum.
"You are summoned before the King's Majesty," he says, without trace of emotion.
The two of you leave without delay. You have no intention of disobeying an order from your King.
-
The day is a beautiful one, with the heat of the early afternoon sun swept away by the cooling breezes of the sea. Keane seems to care little for it. The Dragoon Major's eyes are dull and lifeless as he walks alongside you down the street. You fully understand why. Your regiment's desperate fight on the left flank may have helped save the entire army, but it also exacted a heavy toll: out of the seven hundred men that rode into battle that morning, only half that number came back out alive.
Captain Elson was not among them. Nor was Lieutenant Colonel Marras, or a dozen other officers whom you could name. Even those that survived did not do so without scars: the Duke of Cunaris will never be able to walk again. The healers were able to grow back Cazarosta's eye, but the skin on the left side of his face will be forever blackened and cracked where the banefire charred it. The regiment is a shadow of its former self.
Every so often, Keane will make a sidelong glance at you, hoping perhaps, that you might disrupt the monotony of your bootheels against the cobbles with some sort of conversation.
Ask why the Antari withdrew.
The Major shrugs.
"The prevailing opinion among the senior staff is that Prince Khorobirit had expected to annihilate us at Blogia. By being able to extract the majority of our forces intact, we have put paid to that plan. Once the Antari realized that we held too strong a position to take by storm, they withdrew."
You raise an eyebrow. "Surely the Antari had enough men to simply besiege the town."
Keane shakes his head. "Enough men, but not enough time. They cannot starve us out, since the town can be supplied from the sea with ease. The only way would be to sap the walls. Such a process would likely take months. By harvest time, Khorobirit's men would be deserting en masse simply to have enough grain cut to feed their families."
You nod, finding nothing in Keane's explanation to dispute.
Ask about the King's visit.
The Major's face hardens when you inquire after His Majesty's presence.
"We can be certain that he is here to go through the motions: honours, speeches, that lot. He knighted that Deathborn, Cazarosta this morning, and gave him a captain's commission besides, for his actions during the battle."
You try not to make your surprise too obvious. You have never met your King before, but if he is the sort of man to bestow such high honour upon a man not even born of baneblood, you cannot help but wonder what he wants with you.
Taking advantage of your pause, the Major continues. "There is also the possibility that His Majesty is here to take personal command, though I cannot see how he will be much of an improvement over his illustrious predecessor, as untested as he is."
You nod non-committally. You know for a fact that King Miguel has never seen battle before. You can only hope that, if he does plan to take command, he will prove a quick study.
Ask about the condition of the Army as a whole.
Major Keane shakes his head, his features laden with sadness.
"This army has lost a great deal, many of its finest leaders. The greater part of the infantry and artillery have come out of the battle intact, but who will lead them now that so many of our brother officers are dead on the field?"
You nod in agreement. You have seen the list of officers slain at Blogia: a long and depressing list. It was a list of some of the army's finest soldiers:
The Duke of Wulfram, struck down by an Antari Hussar's burning longsword.
The Baron of Tourbridge, cut down as his brigade routed around him.
Lord Lieutenant Colonel Sir Enrique Hunter, and the battalion of Grenadiers he rallied around him, dead almost to a man.
The Major takes a deep, shuddering breath, as if he were almost on the verge of tears. "The Antari have hurt us deeper than they likely know."
-
You continue onwards, uncomfortably silent, until finally the Major ushers you into the building which had, not so long ago, served as the Duke of Wulfram's headquarters.
A pair of Grenadiers greet you and Keane at the door. Both wear the enameled badges of House Rendower: they are members of the King's personal guards. His task complete, the Major leaves you under the watchful eye of your orange-jacketed ushers.
The two infantrymen lead you down the hallway into the great hall which had played host to the Duke of Wulfram's reception not a month ago. A single look through the open door tells you all you need to know about the importance of the situation: lined up on each side of the hall stand lieutenant colonels, colonels and generals of brigade, standing as stock still as a gallery of footmen.
The entirety of their attention is focused upon the two conversing men at the far end of the hall. One of them, standing officiously, is the Duke of Havenport, newly promoted to lieutenant general in place of the late Duke of Wulfram. The other sits next to Havenport in a high-backed wooden chair: a wiry, handsome man of about twenty, his auburn hair cut short in the latest fashion.
Your King.
-
As the two Grenadiers at your sides escort to the threshold of the hall, the conversation between your King and his newly-appointed general becomes loud enough for you to hear.
"Your Majesty," you hear Havenport say, in his urbane tenor, "it is my opinion that a favourable conclusion to the war through this expeditionary force is no longer viable."
"Our army is battered, not broken, Havenport," the King replies, his voice seasoned with reproach. "We may yet see it reforged into the instrument we desire, under our personal command."
You see Havenport wince with every emphasis of the majestic plural. The nobleman's soothing tone begins to crack as he voices his reply. "Your Majesty, we have lost nearly three thousand men, and another thousand shall be in no condition to fight ever again."
The King waves away Havenport's objection as if it were a noxious cloud of smoke. "We are well aware of the losses our armies have sustained, and we will see them made good, even if we must will half the ships of the Northern Fleet stripped of their marines and fill the rest of the gaps with the conscripted poor."
To this, Havenport attempts a different tack: "Even so, your majesty, it would take months for the army to be made whole once again. To risk the royal personnage whilst the ranks remain depleted is a most dangerous course of action."
Your sovereign's response is a most un-Kingly snort of derision. "Is that what you mean to say? Surely you could not be dancing around the fact that we are untested in battle, and thus, unsuited for personal command."
-
The Kentauri general's desperate attempt to muster a reply is cut short by the sound of your two escorts pounding the butts of their muskets against the wooden floor.
"Lord Lieutenant Ortiga of the Royal Dragoons requests permission to approach the King's Majesty," announces the taller of the two, as if he were a court herald.
The young redheaded King nods as his face takes on the courtly mask of a stern warrior-prince. "You may approach us, Lieutenant."
You feel your palms turn damp and your face turn pale as you step forward.
-
You try your hardest to remember all of the courtly graces taught you in your childhood as you step forward into the presence of your King and sovereign. With your helmet tucked under one shoulder, you approach no closer than ten paces from where your King sits, carefully keeping your eyes averted as you do.
"Lord Lieutenant Alaric d'al Ortiga of the Royal Dragoon Regiment," the King begins, his tone a cold and mechanical contrast to the animated voice which you had overheard just a few moments ago. "For your heroic conduct during the military action at the field of Blogia during the summer of this, the seventh year of our reign, as an officer in our service, it is our pleasure that you be awarded the commission of captain and given command of Sixth Squadron, Royal Dragoons. In addition, we have determined your actions of the aforementioned battle to have played a critical part in the preservation of our armies. Thus, it is our pleasure to bestow upon you an annuity of 180 gold crowns, to be paid from our personal accounts, as a small token of our thanks."
As nervous as you are, you manage to speak the appropriate words of gratitude without making an ass of yourself, a great relief. However, the King does not dismiss you. "There is one more thing."
The entire world seems to take a breath as you do your best not to meet your sovereign's gaze.
"Kneel," he says.
-
You kneel, still confused as to exactly what is going on.
The King leaps to his feet, his sceptre clutched in one hand.
"We have lost a great deal over the past few weeks. We have lost the initiative and we have lost much pride, but worst of all, we have lost some of the finest soldiers in our service. Our army shall be as a jewel without lustre with the mournful absence of those great men."
The room is enraptured now. You can feel the gazes of men infinitely your senior upon your bent back. The King continues on.
"However, we are not without joy. This faithful soldier who kneels before us has proven himself worthy successor to the illustrious names so cruelly taken from us. We bear much hope for the future of this promising officer and those like him, who have distinguished themselves as heroes in a moment of defeat."
Your King extends a hand, two fingers outstretched. He lifts your chin up, and for the first time, you see him eye to eye. "By the power vested in me by Heavenly Mandate, and as Grandmaster of the Red, I name you, Lord Alaric d'al Ortiga, Knight-Companion of the Order of Saint Joshua."
You tense yourself for the blow an instant before it comes: a short, sharp strike of the royal sceptre against your chest. Enough to knock the wind out of you, or perhaps leave a bruise, but little else. "Let that be the last insult you will ever allow to pass unanswered."
The King steps back, the ritual almost complete. You hold your breath, waiting for the last words that will make you a knight of the Orders-Militant.
"Arise, Sir Alaric, and find glory through battle!"
-
You emerge into the afternoon sun with a head full of thoughts, pulling your mind in half a dozen different directions. You will need to have your uniforms altered, first of all. You have no doubt that there will be a great deal of paperwork for the provision of your new command, not to mention the reinforcement of that new command to begin with. New officers and NCOs will need to be selected. There would, of course, also be the business of ordering the bane-hardened weapon and armour of a Knight of the Orders-Militant, and the golden spurs of your new title besides.
You take a deep breath, for those tasks would only be the beginning of your labours.
After all, there is still a war to win.
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Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
The second thread, dedicated to book 2, will be up within the next few hours. Now I will come clean and explain the Argon Stone segment.
It was my intention that the inexplicably bold text, change in writing style, and weird (stupid) tone would be enough to communicate that the section was not written by Paul Wang. I was a bit surprised by people thinking that it was, so I played along a little, but before we start on Book 2 I would like to clarify that that segment was entirely my insertion so as not to misrepresent Mr. Wang's work.
I try to facilitate the tricky endeavor which is many people playing a game designed for one. This means that sometimes I automatically pick filler choices for you (ask x about y) or condense multiple choices into one, so as not to waste too much time, as it takes roughly one day to proceed to the next vote. The Argon Stone segment was there to deal with issue of player death. The game has checkpoints so that whenever you die, you go back to the beginning of the chapter. Of course, this is completely inappropriate for our format as we wouldn't want to repeat weeks' or months' worth of choices to get back to where we were when we died. I never intended this to be an ironman LP either, although I realize my response to tsuke was poorly worded and may have suggested otherwise - what I tried to say is that we will continue to book 2 and beyond unless we are somehow in a no-win situation, where every single choice would lead us to death.
So, I decided to create 3 ways to deal with death: revert choice and choose again, bruteforce the choice (to skip the tedium of waiting day(s) before finding a path that works), or resign and die, ending the LP. I wrapped this whole decision into an obnoxious piece of metanarrative from my hit forum CYOA Age of DICKadence: Codexian Romance CYOA (to be published periodically in the New Yorker starting the 1st of July). Argon Stone was a play on Lithium Flower, he referred to Alaric being a puppet, etc.
However, when option 3 (ie kill Alaric, end the LP) started getting the majority of votes, I realized - perhaps losing my Codexian edge - that giving the ability to terminate the LP of this book and all future ones in the series to the majority vote was unfair to the (apparent) minority of voters who did want to see further content. What's worse is that, understanding some people took that segment to be a part of the book, I am not sure that they understood what option 3 really meant. So I decided to remove the option and go with 1 instead, as it was second in popularity. Laughing God breaks the rules to uphold the covenant running the show, which is what I effectively did. Now, I did break the trust of the vote - and had this been a CYOA ran by me, and not a pre-written one with a single segment of mine, this would have been an incredibly grave breach of player etiquette - however, in this circumstance I think the means were justified by the ends of withdrawing a choice that did much more to damage player etiquette and thus should never have been offered. Quitting this LP should be an organic process. If you believe Alaric's story should end at the suicidal cavalry charge, feel free to make that the "canon ending" in your head. If enough people feel like the LP no longer needs to continue, they will stop posting, and the LP will effectively be over at that point. I am ok with these outcomes but leaving it up to just another vote does not seem sensible or fair to the players.
Hope that clears things up. I am up to answering any questions about the game or LP in this thread while I set up the next one.
It was my intention that the inexplicably bold text, change in writing style, and weird (stupid) tone would be enough to communicate that the section was not written by Paul Wang. I was a bit surprised by people thinking that it was, so I played along a little, but before we start on Book 2 I would like to clarify that that segment was entirely my insertion so as not to misrepresent Mr. Wang's work.
I try to facilitate the tricky endeavor which is many people playing a game designed for one. This means that sometimes I automatically pick filler choices for you (ask x about y) or condense multiple choices into one, so as not to waste too much time, as it takes roughly one day to proceed to the next vote. The Argon Stone segment was there to deal with issue of player death. The game has checkpoints so that whenever you die, you go back to the beginning of the chapter. Of course, this is completely inappropriate for our format as we wouldn't want to repeat weeks' or months' worth of choices to get back to where we were when we died. I never intended this to be an ironman LP either, although I realize my response to tsuke was poorly worded and may have suggested otherwise - what I tried to say is that we will continue to book 2 and beyond unless we are somehow in a no-win situation, where every single choice would lead us to death.
So, I decided to create 3 ways to deal with death: revert choice and choose again, bruteforce the choice (to skip the tedium of waiting day(s) before finding a path that works), or resign and die, ending the LP. I wrapped this whole decision into an obnoxious piece of metanarrative from my hit forum CYOA Age of DICKadence: Codexian Romance CYOA (to be published periodically in the New Yorker starting the 1st of July). Argon Stone was a play on Lithium Flower, he referred to Alaric being a puppet, etc.
However, when option 3 (ie kill Alaric, end the LP) started getting the majority of votes, I realized - perhaps losing my Codexian edge - that giving the ability to terminate the LP of this book and all future ones in the series to the majority vote was unfair to the (apparent) minority of voters who did want to see further content. What's worse is that, understanding some people took that segment to be a part of the book, I am not sure that they understood what option 3 really meant. So I decided to remove the option and go with 1 instead, as it was second in popularity. Laughing God breaks the rules to uphold the covenant running the show, which is what I effectively did. Now, I did break the trust of the vote - and had this been a CYOA ran by me, and not a pre-written one with a single segment of mine, this would have been an incredibly grave breach of player etiquette - however, in this circumstance I think the means were justified by the ends of withdrawing a choice that did much more to damage player etiquette and thus should never have been offered. Quitting this LP should be an organic process. If you believe Alaric's story should end at the suicidal cavalry charge, feel free to make that the "canon ending" in your head. If enough people feel like the LP no longer needs to continue, they will stop posting, and the LP will effectively be over at that point. I am ok with these outcomes but leaving it up to just another vote does not seem sensible or fair to the players.
Hope that clears things up. I am up to answering any questions about the game or LP in this thread while I set up the next one.
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