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Completed [LP] Enlist in the Royal Dragoons! Codex plays Sabres of Infinity
- Thread starter Lithium Flower
- Start date
1. Elves.
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
Christ, I might actually have early onset dementia. No idea why I keep forgetting to update.
A frightening notion actually: if the Takarans are unprincipled enough to expose their women to battle, who knows what they might be capable of?
Indeed. The thought of the women in your life - your mother, for instance - facing musket fire or a bayonet charge is a terrifying one. You wonder how the women in Takaran uniform manage to keep their minds.
-
On the street below, the Takaran soldiers continue.
"Grauden dan Naberi kagerim Dane!" the officer bellows. Immediately, the Takaran formation tightens around its flag, their boots echoing off the cobbles in perfect unison, the result of what could only be long decades of drilling.
A second figure appears alongside the officer, another woman: taller and longer of hair, but slimmer. You hear the two converse for a moment, too quietly for you to hear. Then, the officer shouts again:
"En Banfeil vakomim!"
The words mean nothing to you, but the Takaran soldiers respond to them instantly. They "ground" their muskets: slamming the end of the brass-plated wooden butts into the ground in a perfect, steady beat.
"Takara aun Tau'zenkai!" they chant. "Takara aun Tau'zenkai! Takara aun Tau'zenkai!"
At the third repetition, the Takarans once again shoulder their arms. The officer takes her position in the centre of the first rank. The other Takaran, obviously not a soldier, takes her place in front of her. You see her give another order to the officer, obviously her subordinate.
"Irucim lindxre kete'wen Dane!" the officer shouts. At that, the soldiers begin marching once again, with all the ominous precision of a stalking wolverine.
Before long, the Takaran soldiers are gone, and you find yourself looking out your window, seeing nothing but the empty space where they had once stood.
-
The sun is low in the sky as you finish your preparations. As you make your way across the darkening town, you notice that while officers head for the reception in a steady stream, the common soldiers are pulling double duty as sentries and torchbearers. After all, it would not do for a foreign delegate or staff officer to be lost or worse on such an important evening.
The reception is being housed in the cavernous town hall, turned into Wulfram's staff headquarters in recent days. As you reach the courtyard, you find the windows ablaze with light and the sound of soft string music wafting towards you. A dozen orange-jacketed infantrymen keep guard over the entrance with fixed bayonets; the honour guards of a dozen foreign delegations loiter outside, awaiting their masters' return.
The guards allow you to pass without pause or comment. Perhaps the uniform of the Royal Dragoons has become more familiar in recent days, or maybe the sentries simply took you for a foreign attache and let you in on the basis of your current state of overdress. Regardless, you soon find your way to the entrance of the main hall. A line has formed before the doors, with each new arrival waiting patiently to be announced by the herald. Quickly enough, you queue up behind an ensign of one of the foot regiments and a major of the Kentauri Highlanders.
"Ortiga? By the Saints sir! So it is!"
The familiar voice turns you around on your heel, and you find yourself face to face with a tall, handsome Wulframite in his early thirties, wearing the burnt-orange dress coat of a Grenadier officer.
Sir Enrique Hunter - Lieutenant Colonel Hunter now, by the insignia on his shoulders and collar - greets you with a warm handshake. Your former commanding officer does not seem to have changed at all, save for a few fresh creases along his face and the very light line of a scar across his temples.
"Ortiga, or rather, Lieutenant Ortiga, fresh off your newest victory then? You'll make captain soon, I suppose?"
Before you can respond, you hear the sound of a throat politely clearing behind your back. It is the herald, trying to remind you as decorously as possible that you are now at the head of the queue, and must be announced.
There is, of course, the question of how it should be done: Heroes of the moment often try to make as big a splash as possible, so that it becomes difficult to forget them. More questionable figures of society would likely prefer to keep their profile low, should they wish to avoid accusations of presumption.
1) Rank, last name and regiment will be fine, thank you.
2) Have them give my full name as well as my regiment and rank, let them remember me.
3) Name, rank, regiment, titles, decorations: everything. I want to make as big an impression as possible.
A frightening notion actually: if the Takarans are unprincipled enough to expose their women to battle, who knows what they might be capable of?
Indeed. The thought of the women in your life - your mother, for instance - facing musket fire or a bayonet charge is a terrifying one. You wonder how the women in Takaran uniform manage to keep their minds.
-
On the street below, the Takaran soldiers continue.
"Grauden dan Naberi kagerim Dane!" the officer bellows. Immediately, the Takaran formation tightens around its flag, their boots echoing off the cobbles in perfect unison, the result of what could only be long decades of drilling.
A second figure appears alongside the officer, another woman: taller and longer of hair, but slimmer. You hear the two converse for a moment, too quietly for you to hear. Then, the officer shouts again:
"En Banfeil vakomim!"
The words mean nothing to you, but the Takaran soldiers respond to them instantly. They "ground" their muskets: slamming the end of the brass-plated wooden butts into the ground in a perfect, steady beat.
"Takara aun Tau'zenkai!" they chant. "Takara aun Tau'zenkai! Takara aun Tau'zenkai!"
At the third repetition, the Takarans once again shoulder their arms. The officer takes her position in the centre of the first rank. The other Takaran, obviously not a soldier, takes her place in front of her. You see her give another order to the officer, obviously her subordinate.
"Irucim lindxre kete'wen Dane!" the officer shouts. At that, the soldiers begin marching once again, with all the ominous precision of a stalking wolverine.
Before long, the Takaran soldiers are gone, and you find yourself looking out your window, seeing nothing but the empty space where they had once stood.
-
The sun is low in the sky as you finish your preparations. As you make your way across the darkening town, you notice that while officers head for the reception in a steady stream, the common soldiers are pulling double duty as sentries and torchbearers. After all, it would not do for a foreign delegate or staff officer to be lost or worse on such an important evening.
The reception is being housed in the cavernous town hall, turned into Wulfram's staff headquarters in recent days. As you reach the courtyard, you find the windows ablaze with light and the sound of soft string music wafting towards you. A dozen orange-jacketed infantrymen keep guard over the entrance with fixed bayonets; the honour guards of a dozen foreign delegations loiter outside, awaiting their masters' return.
The guards allow you to pass without pause or comment. Perhaps the uniform of the Royal Dragoons has become more familiar in recent days, or maybe the sentries simply took you for a foreign attache and let you in on the basis of your current state of overdress. Regardless, you soon find your way to the entrance of the main hall. A line has formed before the doors, with each new arrival waiting patiently to be announced by the herald. Quickly enough, you queue up behind an ensign of one of the foot regiments and a major of the Kentauri Highlanders.
"Ortiga? By the Saints sir! So it is!"
The familiar voice turns you around on your heel, and you find yourself face to face with a tall, handsome Wulframite in his early thirties, wearing the burnt-orange dress coat of a Grenadier officer.
Sir Enrique Hunter - Lieutenant Colonel Hunter now, by the insignia on his shoulders and collar - greets you with a warm handshake. Your former commanding officer does not seem to have changed at all, save for a few fresh creases along his face and the very light line of a scar across his temples.
"Ortiga, or rather, Lieutenant Ortiga, fresh off your newest victory then? You'll make captain soon, I suppose?"
Before you can respond, you hear the sound of a throat politely clearing behind your back. It is the herald, trying to remind you as decorously as possible that you are now at the head of the queue, and must be announced.
There is, of course, the question of how it should be done: Heroes of the moment often try to make as big a splash as possible, so that it becomes difficult to forget them. More questionable figures of society would likely prefer to keep their profile low, should they wish to avoid accusations of presumption.
1) Rank, last name and regiment will be fine, thank you.
2) Have them give my full name as well as my regiment and rank, let them remember me.
3) Name, rank, regiment, titles, decorations: everything. I want to make as big an impression as possible.
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: 47%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 83% Cynicism: 17%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You have no decorations as of yet.
Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 19
Rank: Lieutenant
Wealth: 550
Income: 10
Soldiering: 74%
Charisma: 40%
Intellect: 0%
Reputation: 47%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 83% Cynicism: 17%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You have no decorations as of yet.
Sixth Troop, Third Squadron, Royal Dragoons
Senior NCO: Staff- Sergeant Hernandes
Discipline: 30%
Morale: 29%
Loyalty: 32%
Senior NCO: Staff- Sergeant Hernandes
Discipline: 30%
Morale: 29%
Loyalty: 32%
3
I feel that essentially singlehandedly charging in to thrash an outpost while our men all froze up should count, right? We’ve made some missteps but nothing is that bad rep-wise I think since we were able to get that promotion for nothing and all that. Hardly a questionable character.
I feel that essentially singlehandedly charging in to thrash an outpost while our men all froze up should count, right? We’ve made some missteps but nothing is that bad rep-wise I think since we were able to get that promotion for nothing and all that. Hardly a questionable character.
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
Wait when did that happen
May be misremembering, wasn’t that what we did just recently before our guys got themselves shot in our own ambush?
On second thought, after that maybe we shouldn’t toot our own horn too much.
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
Nah, it was a chaotic melee in the middle of an enemy camp. Your men were fighting, its just that your escorts didn't stay as close to you as they should have (on the account of low loyalty).
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
"Lieutenant Alaric d'al Ortiga, of the Royal Dragoons!"
You hear a few low voices muttering in your wake as you step onwards. There are a few admiring glances as well. Perhaps it was wise to make such an entrance.
The main hall is a garden of bright uniforms glittering under the bright candlelight. Decorations shine and sparkle on the tunics of soldiers from what seems like every Regiment in the King's Army, and a few from kingdoms overseas as well.
However, before you and Hunter even take a dozen steps, you are accosted by a familiar face.
"Ortiga! Come to the festivities at last then, dear fellow?"
Captain Elson is his usual friendly self. Beside him is a slim, well-groomed man a few years older than your Squadron commander, in the coat of a major of one of the Regiments of Foot, his hair cut curly and short in the latest fashion.
1) Introduce Hunter to Elson.
2) Wait for Elson to introduce himself.
You hear a few low voices muttering in your wake as you step onwards. There are a few admiring glances as well. Perhaps it was wise to make such an entrance.
The main hall is a garden of bright uniforms glittering under the bright candlelight. Decorations shine and sparkle on the tunics of soldiers from what seems like every Regiment in the King's Army, and a few from kingdoms overseas as well.
However, before you and Hunter even take a dozen steps, you are accosted by a familiar face.
"Ortiga! Come to the festivities at last then, dear fellow?"
Captain Elson is his usual friendly self. Beside him is a slim, well-groomed man a few years older than your Squadron commander, in the coat of a major of one of the Regiments of Foot, his hair cut curly and short in the latest fashion.
1) Introduce Hunter to Elson.
2) Wait for Elson to introduce himself.
1
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
"Sirs, may I introduce Lord Lieutenant Colonel Enrique d'al Hunter, of the Grenadier Guards. Colonel, Lord Captain Davis d'al Elson, my commanding officer and—"
Hunter steps forward to greet Major Hartigan, a broad smile on his face.
"Well, it has been an age, has it not, Lord Hartigan?"
"Indeed so, Lord Wolfswood," the infantryman replies, using your former commander's court title. "Sir Enrique and his brother squired for my father before the war — and how is Felipe doing?"
Hunter shakes his head softly. "Dead, I'm afraid. Two years ago, whilst attempting to take an Antari position. A field piece caught him in the chest. I was told it was very quick."
Very quick indeed, but far from clean. A bane-hardened breastplate might turn a bayonet or shake off a musket ball, but a two kilogram ball of iron would make a mess of an armoured Knight of the Red as easily as it would an unprotected infantryman.
Hartigan's expression is a sad one. "I'm quite sorry," he says, the decorum required of him in the formal setting preventing him from saying or doing more.
"Don't be," Hunter replies. "He died in the saddle with his sword in his hand and his front toward the enemy. Very few men are lucky enough to be picked by the Saints in such a manner."
-
The genteel commiseration of your two seniors fades out as you take another look at the room around you.
The biggest knot of coversation is, of course, centered around the Duke of Wulfram himself: a tall, gaunt figure in a powdered wig thirty years out-of-date and the richly braided uniform of his House Guard regiment, the Wolf's Head Cuirassiers. With him stand his senior staff and subordinates: The Earl of Castermaine, the Duke of Havenport, the Baron of Tourbridge, powerful men of old and distinguished families all.
Not far away, there is another focus of attention: the two stern-looking women in black and silver Takaran uniform, long curved broadswords belted to their hips. Though many seem keen to talk to the emissaries from the finest land army in the world at first, their interaction seems to be no more than short, sharp exchanges which end as abruptly as a burst of musket fire.
Hunter and Hartigan are, of course, still chatting away, though seemingly about more happy matters. Elson stands rather out of place beside them.
Lastly, you spy a slim figure in green-grey standing in the shadowed corner of the great hall: Cazarosta. The others in the room seem to avoid him on purpose, though his unwelcoming stance and expression certainly do not help matters.
You decide to:
1) Listen to the Duke of Wulfram's conversation with his senior staff.
2) Speak with the Takaran envoys.
3) Join Hunter and Hartigan in their conversation.
4) Speak with Cazarosta.
Hunter steps forward to greet Major Hartigan, a broad smile on his face.
"Well, it has been an age, has it not, Lord Hartigan?"
"Indeed so, Lord Wolfswood," the infantryman replies, using your former commander's court title. "Sir Enrique and his brother squired for my father before the war — and how is Felipe doing?"
Hunter shakes his head softly. "Dead, I'm afraid. Two years ago, whilst attempting to take an Antari position. A field piece caught him in the chest. I was told it was very quick."
Very quick indeed, but far from clean. A bane-hardened breastplate might turn a bayonet or shake off a musket ball, but a two kilogram ball of iron would make a mess of an armoured Knight of the Red as easily as it would an unprotected infantryman.
Hartigan's expression is a sad one. "I'm quite sorry," he says, the decorum required of him in the formal setting preventing him from saying or doing more.
"Don't be," Hunter replies. "He died in the saddle with his sword in his hand and his front toward the enemy. Very few men are lucky enough to be picked by the Saints in such a manner."
-
The genteel commiseration of your two seniors fades out as you take another look at the room around you.
The biggest knot of coversation is, of course, centered around the Duke of Wulfram himself: a tall, gaunt figure in a powdered wig thirty years out-of-date and the richly braided uniform of his House Guard regiment, the Wolf's Head Cuirassiers. With him stand his senior staff and subordinates: The Earl of Castermaine, the Duke of Havenport, the Baron of Tourbridge, powerful men of old and distinguished families all.
Not far away, there is another focus of attention: the two stern-looking women in black and silver Takaran uniform, long curved broadswords belted to their hips. Though many seem keen to talk to the emissaries from the finest land army in the world at first, their interaction seems to be no more than short, sharp exchanges which end as abruptly as a burst of musket fire.
Hunter and Hartigan are, of course, still chatting away, though seemingly about more happy matters. Elson stands rather out of place beside them.
Lastly, you spy a slim figure in green-grey standing in the shadowed corner of the great hall: Cazarosta. The others in the room seem to avoid him on purpose, though his unwelcoming stance and expression certainly do not help matters.
You decide to:
1) Listen to the Duke of Wulfram's conversation with his senior staff.
2) Speak with the Takaran envoys.
3) Join Hunter and Hartigan in their conversation.
4) Speak with Cazarosta.
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: 47%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 83% Cynicism: 17%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You have no decorations as of yet.
Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 19
Rank: Lieutenant
Wealth: 550
Income: 10
Soldiering: 74%
Charisma: 40%
Intellect: 0%
Reputation: 47%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 83% Cynicism: 17%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You have no decorations as of yet.
Sixth Troop, Third Squadron, Royal Dragoons
Senior NCO: Staff- Sergeant Hernandes
Discipline: 30%
Morale: 29%
Loyalty: 32%
Senior NCO: Staff- Sergeant Hernandes
Discipline: 30%
Morale: 29%
Loyalty: 32%
3
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
These are not your standard Tokien-esque elves. These are Holy Roman Elves.
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