In Progress [LP] Lord Captain, you've served your time in Hell! Codex plays Lords of Infinity, a text RPG of Politics and Warfare

[ERYFKRAD]

1 Finally the Barbarian route is open.

 

[Kalarion]

1) I will take the lead and make them follow!

It's possible - barely possible - that our middling Charisma will allow us to firm the men up. A drill sergeant would have been useful here too. But I'd prefer we rely on our greatest strength, and hope that our sterling example will encourage our men and fortify their resolve.

Besides, none of the trash sitting behind that barricade is worth 1/10 of a Baneblooded lord of Tierra. They will feel the sting of our shot and the edge of our sword before this day is done.

Let the reaping begin.

 

[Storyfag]

1b We is what we be.
2b Finally a payoff for our soldiering.

BLOOD AND FIRE!

VICTORY AT THE SEA!

Will there be rum? And lashings? And... the third thing?

 

[Storyfag]

Voting 1.

 

[Lithium Flower]

Btw I had a RULES OF NATURE moment in the shower a few hours back. Black house spider was crawling on the curtain right next to my facehole and, upon recognized that fact, I instantly teleported across the room. Granted I may have actually leapt out of the tub while screaming. Also the funniest thing is that I proceeded to flick the light switch on and off like 6 times in a couple of seconds because my fight-or-flight addled brain thought that was supposed to "turn off the water" l m a o

 

[Endemic]

1) I will take the lead and make them follow!

 

[ERYFKRAD]

1) I will take the lead and make them follow!

It's possible - barely possible - that our middling Charisma will allow us to firm the men up. A drill sergeant would have been useful here too. But I'd prefer we rely on our greatest strength, and hope that our sterling example will encourage our men and fortify their resolve.

Besides, none of the trash sitting behind that barricade is worth 1/10 of a Baneblooded lord of Tierra. They will feel the sting of our shot and the edge of our sword before this day is done.

Let the reaping begin.

If nothing else our ferocity will scare the life out of our subjects so they won't grouse so much when we raise the rent next.

 

[Optimist]

1) We might not be too responsible financially, but boy, can we slay

 

[Lithium Flower]

I will take the lead and make them follow!
If your men will not advance, then you shall have to drag them with you.

"Houseguard!" you cry, tearing your sabre from its scabbard and raising it high over your head. "With me!"

you drop into a run, the silvery steel of your sabre glimmering in the summer sun, that familiar sound of blood pounding in your ears. A musket ball cracks past your head. You pay it no mind. You don't even turn to see if it hit anyone, or if your men are still following. No, to turn now would be to slow, to slow would be to stop, and to stop would only lead to disaster.

"Tierra and Victory! Charge!" The words come almost unbidden from your lips as you pound up the last few paces of open road into the shade of the forest.

Suddenly, three slim figures pop out of the underbrush, clad in ragged broadcloth and the remnants of what might be line infantry jackets. Soldiers? Former King's soldiers? Turned to brigandage? Why—

No, you have no time to consider that. One of them is already raising a cry of alarm as he clumsily levels his musket.

You spring forward before he can squeeze the trigger, knocking the long barrel aside as it discharges harmlessly into the air. Ears ringing, eyes stinging with powder fog, you press in without fear, the brass guard of your sabre driving into the first roadsman's face with a meaty crack.

The others are reaching for their weapons now. You don't give them the time to use them. With a lunge, you drive your shoulder into your first attacker, sending him reeling backwards into one of his fellows. The other stumbles away in shock, staring wide-eyed not at some soft country lordling, but one of the Duke of Cunaris' vaunted Royal Dragoons.

"Forward!" you bellow as you press on and your men follow. "Forward, and with me!"

---

The sound of musketry rattles out afresh from ahead, not a single shot but a full, ragged volley. Balls buzz through the air around you and slam into the trees beside you with splintery thuds. Someone behind you lets out a cry and tumbles to the hard roadbed. But your men are already moving forward. The skirmish by the treeline has steeled their resolve, and where one shot might have sent them scattering, they're not even dissuaded by a dozen. Instead, they bellow defiance as they advance from the cover of one tree to the next, firing and loading and firing again as they go.

Ahead, you can see the outline of the brigand camp, astride the road like a fallen log. Smoke rises from behind the formidable-looking barricade and abates as your foes continue to fire back, even as the range closes.

Yet no matter how furious the fire comes, your men do not falter. They press the attack ever closer, even as some of their number fall wounded or perhaps even dead. You can be no more than a hundred paces from the enemy camp now. You see the shapes of heads and shoulders huddled behind fallen logs, the long, slim shapes of their muskets shuffling and bucking as they try in vain to hold your men back.

Seventy-five paces. One of the shapes behind the barricade jerks and falls, his musket tumbling out of numb hands and clattering over the side of the log wall. You could end it now. One rush, and you could take the camp by storm.

It would be a close-run thing. The roadsmen knew what they were doing when they built their little base. It's practically a fortress by itself. To succeed would mean to end this whole affair in a moment, instead of letting it drag out into a long, costly firefight. To fail…

You'd rather not consider what might happen if you were to fail.


1) Now's the time to end it! I take the roadsmen camp by storm!

2) I cannot risk an assault; I will wear them down with musketry.

3) The situation is untenable. I must try to withdraw in good order.

Personal Information

As of the Summer of the 615 of the Old Imperial Era:

Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga, Baron Ezinbrooke
Captain, Royal Dragoons (half-pay)
Age: 27

Current Funds: 51 Crown
Debts: 10660 Crown

Bi-Annual Income (Personal): 135 Crown
Bi-Annual Estate Revenues: 266 Crown

Bi-Annual Estate Expenses: 350 Crown
Bi-Annual Interest Payments: 107 Crown

Total Net Income (Next Six Months): -56 Crown


Soldiering: 70%

Charisma: 41%

Intellect: 9%


Reputation: 37%

Health: 62%


Idealism: 60% ; Cynicism: 40%

Ruthlessness: 42% ; Mercy: 58%

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

Friends and Enemies

Friends and Associates

Javier Campos: Colour Sergeant, the Royal Dragoons.
(Born 583 OIE)

Victor d'al Reyes: Eldest son of Baron Reyes. Major, the 8th Regiment of Foot. Formerly Commander, the Experimental Corps of Riflemen. ~Lost arm at Blogia~
(Born: 583 OIE)

James d'al Sandoral: Captain (half-pay), the Royal Dragoons.
(Born 592 OIE)

Efraim Saundersley: Solicitor-on-Retainer to the House of Ortiga.
(Born 570 OIE)

Octave d'al Touravon: Baron Touravon, Father of Alisanne d'al Touravon.
(Born 556 OIE)

Enemies

Hiir Cassius vam Holt: Takaran Ambassador to Tierra. Eldest son to Richsgraav vam Holt.
(Born 527 OIE)

Eleanora d'al Welles: Countess Welles. Proponent of Military Reform. Friend to Isobel, the Princess-Royal. ~Died at Blogia~
(Born 587 OIE)

Barony Overview

Ezinbrooke, a barony within the Duchy of Cunaris, possessed of 133 rent-paying households.

Respectability: 29%

Prosperity: 43%

Contentment: 34%

Manor...

…Being a country house of middling size in very poor condition. encompassed by a low stone fence in a state of much disrepair. Outbuildings include stables, coach house, and guard house, all in exceptionally poor condition.

Interior consists of eighteen rooms, including six bedrooms, a kitchen, a library, a small ballroom, a dovecote and a gun room.

Estate and Grounds...

…Being a barony of middling size, composed of a manor house, market village, and surrounding fields and hinterlands. It is located a week's ride west from the city of Fernandescourt, a journey rendered easier by the fine state of local roads.

The village of Ezinbrooke is a small hamlet, possessed of a traveller's inn, a publick house, a somewhat worn shrine to the major Saints, and an open market square. The surrounding cottages are few in number but of excellent condition, having recently been repaired and refurbished. Fields bound the village on all sides, and all available land is under cultivation.

Bi-Annual Estate Revenues
Rents: 266 Crown

Bi-Annual Expenditures
Estate Wages: 150 Crown
Food and Necessities: 75 Crown
Luxuries and Allowances: 75 Crown
Groundskeeping and Maintenance: 50 Crown
Other Expenses: 0 Crown

Total Balance: -84 Crown

 

[Lithium Flower]

 

[Endemic]

1) Now's the time to end it! I take the roadsmen camp by storm!

 

[ERYFKRAD]

11111111111111

 

[Optimist]

1

BLOOD AND THUNDER

 

[Kalarion]

1) Now's the time to end it! I take the roadsmen camp by storm!

Soldiers? Turned to brigandry?! They could have come hat in hand and I would gladly have voted to beggar our estates and drain our fortunes dry in giving aid and succor! Instead they turn their rifles and their training, the gifts of Tierra (deadly gifts and bitter, it is true), upon their own? Beatings, robbery, and murder. For what?!

 

[Storyfag]

1

 

[Kipeci]

TIERRA AND VICTORY!1!1!11

 

[Lithium Flower]

Now's the time to end it! I take the roadsmen camp by storm!

You wait for the right moment, counting the seconds as you watch the roadsmen prepare and fire off another volley.

Now! While they're reloading! You step out into the open, sabre held high. "Houseguard!" you cry. "Charge!"

Your men follow you as you rush forward, roaring at the top of their lungs as they tear across road and brush like a single enraged creature.

The next thing you know, you're at the abatis, hacking furiously at the barrier of branches and brush with the blade of your sabre. Your men are with you, some chopping at the obstruction with axes, others prying loose sections with the butts of their muskets or simply ripping out boughs of dead wood with their bare hands. They know as well as you do that you must get through before the enemy reload, and so do they. You can hear them shouting frantically as they work their ramrods, just half a dozen paces away. Some of your men fire back as they can, but their volley has little visible effect. Your enemies are behind stout cover, whereas you and your men are out in the relative open. If you're caught by a volley here…

But there's no chance of that now! You're through. You push the last stubborn branch out of the way as you shoulder past the abatis, three of your tenants following you. There are others too, breaking through just a moment after you do, crashing through the remnants of the barrier until it is no more than a broken levee being toppled by a tide of furious, screaming men.

After the branches and brambles of the abatis, the waist-high log barricade is almost child's play. With two steps, you're past it, and face to face with a knot of scruffy roadsmen, their eyes wide with fear as you lead your men over. Some try to resist, swinging the butts of their yet-unloaded muskets like clubs. Others reach for knives or pistols. But there are too many of you through now. Those who resist are quickly beaten down with pistol butts and boots and bare fists. You see one raise a blunderbuss, only to be neatly transfixed by a wild-eyed tenant armed with no more than a pitchfork.

It is only when you hear the stricken roadsman's death rattle that you notice the absence of any other sound save the pounding of blood in your ears and the rhythm of your own heavy breathing. Those brigands still on their feet have their hands up in surrender, their weapons lying at their feet.

It's over.

---

There's little time to celebrate your victory. Much still remains to be done.

The surviving roadsmen are a ragged, ill-favoured lot. There are only maybe a dozen in all. Without their weapons, they're almost pathetic figures, scrawny to the point of starvation, with unkempt beards and dressed in a ragged motley of yeoman's broadcloth and the patched remnants of soldiers' uniforms. It seems almost ludicrous that this knot of hungry ruffians has held your entire barony in terror for almost the whole of the summer.

But the acts they have committed are very real. They have robbed, they have murdered, and it is quite likely that the King's justice will deliver them to a hanging for what they've done.

But before the royal courts can deliver judgement, you must deliver your prisoners to them. You assign Saundersley to the task and ask for volunteers to act as escort. You get no shortage of eager replies. It would seem that after this morning, more than a few of your men would rather get as far away as possible from the sight of trees and the smell of powder.

And you have no doubt they have other reasons for wanting to leave the village behind for a while…

---

Your total losses come to six wounded and three dead. For a battalion of foot or a squadron of cavalry in Antar, that would have been a light price to pay for a victorious skirmish.

For many of those in your fief, who haven't seen war or plague or famine for nearly a hundred years, it is the worst tragedy they've seen in a generation. The whole village is in grief over the cost of your victory, and although they do not say it, you can see well enough that more than a few place the blame on your shoulders. After all, it was you who embodied the Houseguard, who led them out to fight, who led them out to die.

Maybe you could have done something differently, but it's too late to consider that now.

Men will praise you outside your fief, of course. At least there, matters will be placed in a proper perspective. "Brave Lord Ezinbrooke!" folk in Aetoria will say when they hear about what happened here. "Didn't cry for help. When he saw the problem, he handled it himself! Damned good fellow!" The tenants of your fief may wail and weep and sling blame, but such things are of little concern to you.

They are simply the price of victory.

---

With the roadsmen gone, your Houseguard disbanded, and the roads open once more, things return almost to normal with a surprising rapidity. Your tenants throw themselves into the work of the harvest with a focus and intensity which do them remarkable credit, especially considering all they've gone through this past season—or perhaps because of it. They set out with their produce, bound for market with a look of fierce, quiet pride on their faces. It is a countenance the likes of which you've seen before, on the faces of soldiers who have faced the worst the foe had to offer and survived, a mask of defiance not just towards the vanquished foe, but to the whole of creation. A boast that one has survived the worst, and no further hardship might ever faze them again.

You do not begrudge them the privilege; they have earned it.

That year's High Harvest proves to be a memorable one. Its decorations and accoutrements are no less grandiose than the last, and there is no great increase in attendance, and no famous guest of honour, either. Yet your tenants seem to throw themselves into dancing and feasting and drinking with a raw-edged ferocity. Even the music sounds more brazen and aggressive than usual. Perhaps it too is a look of defiance pointed at the world, a show that your people have endured despite all the tribulations of the past few months. A show that they're ready for whatever comes next…

…and that they will not be broken.

---

The opening of the roads brings something else with it, too.

A few days after the High Harvest, the Intendancy courier arrives, laden as usual with his pouch of letters, reports, bills, and back copies of the Gazette.

It is this last part of his burden which you seize upon most eagerly. You've heard little of the wide world outside your fief these past few months. The roadsmen cut you off from the flow of information just as thoroughly and violently as they cut you off from passage of commerce. Only the barest and vaguest rumours and innuendo managed to slip through, and those could obviously not be credited as reliable.

So, it is with some anticipation that you set the stack of back copies on your desk and begin to go through them.

They do not make for comforting reading.

The news from Aetoria is none of it good.

The harsh winter which struck your own lands at the end of the year previous had done far worse to the city of Aetoria. Many, made destitute by the war taxes and thrown out of their homes, had little with which to shelter themselves when the greatest winter storms in a generation bore down upon them. It was said that the dead choked the streets, as if after the aftermath of a battle, too many to be moved before they were covered by the snow. It was only when spring came that they could be dug out, recovered, and tallied.

In a back issues of the Gazette, you find an accounting of the dead. It's higher than the number of men lost at Noringia, Blogia, and the Second Battle of Kharangia combined.

It is in the wake of such great mortality that the year's Cortes opened, with the whole of city still stinking of the funeral pyres. With such a reminder, the Duke of Wulfram and his supporters had pushed for the adoption of his budget with a renewed vigour, calling once again for an end to the war taxes. For the whole of the summer, the city had been in a tumult, with those in support of the King doing their utmost to maintain their primacy while supporters of the Duke of Wulfram's party did all in their power to persuade those lords still undecided to join them. It wasn't until nearly the very last session that Wulfram took the floor and presented his budget for a vote once again.

Only this time, he won.

It was by the very narrowest of margins, barely half a dozen votes, but the majority decision was clear. Wulfram's budget had passed—

Until the King ordered it vetoed.


---

CHAPTER IV
In which the LORD OF THE CORTES
considers the FORTUNES of his HOUSE
and of the UNIFIED KINGDOM.

​

The news from Aetoria is none of it good.

The harsh winter which struck your own lands at the end of the year previous had done far worse to the city of Aetoria. Many, made destitute by the war taxes and thrown out of their homes, had little with which to shelter themselves when the greatest winter storms in a generation bore down upon them. It was said that the dead choked the streets, as if after the aftermath of a battle, too many to be moved before they were covered by the snow. It was only when spring came that they could be dug out, recovered, and tallied.

In a back issues of the Gazette, you find an accounting of the dead. It's higher than the number of men lost at Noringia, Blogia, and the Second Battle of Kharangia combined.

It is in the wake of such great mortality that the year's Cortes opened, with the whole of city still stinking of the funeral pyres. With such a reminder, the Duke of Wulfram and his supporters had pushed for the adoption of his budget with a renewed vigour, calling once again for an end to the war taxes. For the whole of the summer, the city had been in a tumult, with those in support of the King doing their utmost to maintain their primacy while supporters of the Duke of Wulfram's party did all in their power to persuade those lords still undecided to join them. It wasn't until nearly the very last session that Wulfram took the floor and presented his budget for a vote once again.

Only this time, he won.

It was by the very narrowest of margins, barely half a dozen votes, but the majority decision was clear. Wulfram's budget had passed—

Until the King ordered it vetoed.

---

The royal veto is supposed to be an emergency power, one only used in a time of greatest crisis, a time when the majority of the Cortes might have proved subverted by some outside force, or mutiny, or something otherwise understood to be against the interests of the Unified Kingdom. Edmund II had used it once, to great controversy. Alaric Spitfire had done the same. At the height of the war in Antar, the current King had done so, to give the Duke of Havenport the time he needed to secure victory against Prince Khorobirit.

No king has used it twice in his reign. Not until now.

It is a blatant overreach of royal power, a violation of the very covenant betwixt King and Cortes—says one commentator in a paper you know to favour the Duke of Wulfram. It's a necessity to preserve the dignity and rights of the Crown—says another, in the staunchly Royalist Aetoria Gazette—for only the King through his Chancellor of the Exchequer ought to have the power to present a budget.

Neither side seems to have any will to admit the merits of the other's arguments. Words like "traitor" and "tyrant" and "enemy of the Crown" flow off the pages like water. Aetoria is divided into two camps, and those who do not choose one side or the other seem only to attract the scorn of both.


1) One can only hope that cooler heads will prevail.

2) With the realm in such dire crisis, how can I remain here?

3) Perhaps one could find a way to profit from such events?

4) I chose wisely to avoid that viper's pit.

[This is a choice of sentiment, not action - you will not immediatelly fuck off to Aetoria if you pick option 2

Anyway, note the changes to our reputation and the Barony's stats now that the roadsman crisis has been successfully dealt with.]

Personal Information

As of the Autumn of the 615 of the Old Imperial Era:

Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga, Baron Ezinbrooke
Captain, Royal Dragoons (half-pay)
Age: 27

Current Funds: 51 Crown
Debts: 10660 Crown

Bi-Annual Income (Personal): 135 Crown
Bi-Annual Estate Revenues: 260 Crown

Bi-Annual Estate Expenses: 350 Crown
Bi-Annual Interest Payments: 107 Crown

Total Net Income (Next Six Months): -62 Crown


Soldiering: 70%

Charisma: 41%

Intellect: 9%


Reputation: 46%

Health: 62%


Idealism: 60% ; Cynicism: 40%

Ruthlessness: 42% ; Mercy: 58%

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

Friends and Enemies

Friends and Associates

Javier Campos: Colour Sergeant, the Royal Dragoons.
(Born 583 OIE)

Victor d'al Reyes: Eldest son of Baron Reyes. Major, the 8th Regiment of Foot. Formerly Commander, the Experimental Corps of Riflemen. ~Lost arm at Blogia~
(Born: 583 OIE)

James d'al Sandoral: Captain (half-pay), the Royal Dragoons.
(Born 592 OIE)

Efraim Saundersley: Solicitor-on-Retainer to the House of Ortiga.
(Born 570 OIE)

Octave d'al Touravon: Baron Touravon, Father of Alisanne d'al Touravon.
(Born 556 OIE)

Enemies

Hiir Cassius vam Holt: Takaran Ambassador to Tierra. Eldest son to Richsgraav vam Holt.
(Born 527 OIE)

Eleanora d'al Welles: Countess Welles. Proponent of Military Reform. Friend to Isobel, the Princess-Royal. ~Died at Blogia~
(Born 587 OIE)

Barony Overview

Ezinbrooke, a barony within the Duchy of Cunaris, possessed of 130 rent-paying households.

Respectability: 39%

Prosperity: 48%

Contentment: 37%

Manor...

…Being a country house of middling size in very poor condition. encompassed by a low stone fence in a state of much disrepair. Outbuildings include stables, coach house, and guard house, all in exceptionally poor condition.

Interior consists of eighteen rooms, including six bedrooms, a kitchen, a library, a small ballroom, a dovecote and a gun room.

Estate and Grounds...

…Being a barony of middling size, composed of a manor house, market village, and surrounding fields and hinterlands. It is located a week's ride west from the city of Fernandescourt, a journey rendered easier by the fine state of local roads.

The village of Ezinbrooke is a small hamlet, possessed of a traveller's inn, a publick house, a somewhat worn shrine to the major Saints, and an open market square. The surrounding cottages are few in number but of excellent condition, having recently been repaired and refurbished. Fields bound the village on all sides, and all available land is under cultivation.

Bi-Annual Estate Revenues
Rents: 260 Crown

Bi-Annual Expenditures
Estate Wages: 150 Crown
Food and Necessities: 75 Crown
Luxuries and Allowances: 75 Crown
Groundskeeping and Maintenance: 50 Crown
Other Expenses: 0 Crown

Total Balance: -90 Crown

 

[Lithium Flower]

I'm glad the crisis is over. I was running out of apropos RULES OF NATURE meme animal videos to post. But its good to see our boy finally do something right, and to such an effect (quite sure that we got the highest success variation of resolving the roadsman scenario with force.)

And I think we can all agree that Alaric has demonstrated both the steadfast spirit of a rabies-ridden raccoon, and the fearsome ferocity of a gallant goose goon.

 

[Kalarion]

1) One can only hope that cooler heads will prevail.

A war of a dozen years, and now the prospect of brother shedding the blood of brother looming on the horizon? Tierran patriots and brave soldiers, turned to mere brigandry, murder and destitution? Dark times indeed.

Yet... our Homeguard did us - and themselves - proud. They rightly hold their heads high. We, at least, will do our best to remain a small holdfast of quiet, security, pride and humble strength.

 

[Endemic]

Seems our barony fared much better than the rest of the kingdom...

1) One can only hope that cooler heads will prevail.

 

[Kipeci]

3

That’s a lotta dead people.

 

[Optimist]

4, politics is for babies.

 

[ERYFKRAD]

4

 

[Storyfag]

1

 

[Grimgravy]

4