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Completed [LP] Bleed for your Kingdom, officer! Codex plays Guns of Infinity
- Thread starter Lithium Flower
- Start date
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
You find the Experimental Corps' tents exactly where you expected to. However, you also find what seems to be the whole of the Experimental Corps itself there as well, a strange enough thing; while the King's regiments do have something of an insular quality during normal times, such distinctions rarely hold any substance in times such as these. Tonight, Highlanders drink with line infantry, and lancers dice with artillerymen. Even your own dragoons have scattered to the winds, seeking old friends among the men of other regiments.
Yet here you see no Line Infantry orange or Lancer blue, only solid masses of dark green, broken up only by the light blouses and woollen jackets of the camp followers among them.
"What do you want?" an enlisted man calls out, his words taut and hostile, perhaps a result of the contents of the half-empty bottle he sloshes about in one hand.
"I'm here on Major Reyes's invitation," you reply.
The drunken Experimental seems less than impressed. "Yeah, and me mum's Saint Stanislaus. Piss off," he replies with an egregious lack of respect. Perhaps he does not see the lieutenant-colonel's insignia on your collar and shoulders.
"Now then, Maitland, is that any way to speak to an officer?" enters a vaguely familiar voice, whimsically lilting with a Warburtonian accent. "This is none other than the good Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga, who saved Mister Lewes and I last year." The speaker steps out of the shadows, a big sergeant with a head of curly hair and the most impressive set of sideburns you have ever seen.
"Don't mind Maitland, sir," the Sergeant mutters to you under his breath. "He's a fine rifleman but loses his manners at the bottom of a bottle, so he does. I'll knock his teeth out and have him recite you an apology later," he says with a grin. "The Major and Mister Lewes are this way, if you'd follow me."
-
The Sergeant leads you to a large fire-lit clearing in the centre of the Experimentals' camp, where Major Reyes and Lieutenant Lewes sit surrounded by perhaps two or three dozen officers and men in green. Almost every one of them has some sort of bottle or flask in their hands. The only exception sits at the edge upon a camp stool, plucking the strings of a Takaran shamisen and accompanying the carousing of his comrades with the words to The Last Grenadier in a well-worn voice.
"Good evening, sir!" Reyes calls out as he spots your approach. "Gentlemen! A seat for Colonel Ortiga! Quickly now!" he calls out.
At once, some of the men in the circle shift, and one fellow produces another camp stool and places it next to where the green-jacketed Major lounges upon the packed earth.
"More comfortable than a saddle, ain't it?" he remarks as you sit down, his breath smelling sharply of alcohol. With one hand, he offers you the open silvered flask in his hand, its surface still emblazoned with the regimental crest of the 8th of Foot. "Have a drink, sir?"
With a nod of thanks, you tip a little of the flask's contents into your mouth, doing your best not to cough as it burns and pillages its way down your throat and proceeds to lay siege to your gut.
"Strong stuff, ain't it?" Reyes says with a grin. "Nothing like what the lads are drinking though, and most of them can't even stomach what Lewes is pouring down his misbegotten gullet."
"It's an acquired taste, sir," Lewes replies, his sullen tone made joking by his crooked grin.
Reyes snorts derisively. "Perhaps in the sense that only one with no taste could acquire it," he retorts as he returns his subordinate's grin, sharing between them what must be a much familiar joke.
"Is there a reason why your men keep to themselves like this?"
"I beg pardon, sir?" Reyes replies, trading question for question.
"You could go to the camp of any other regiment tonight and find visitors from other units sharing drinks and stories," you clarify. "Yet there are no such visitors here. In fact, judging by the demeanour of the man whom first greeted me, I could almost say that your men don't care much for the soldiers of other regiments."
"They don't care much for us, either," Lewes answers bitterly. "Putting on the green coat means making yourself a target for the army's contempt."
"Lewes has the right of it," Reyes adds sourly. "I suppose it must be different for you—after all, you dragoons do skirmish work yourselves—but the officers of the Line Infantry hold us in very low esteem. They do not like how we fight; they think it dirty, beneath them. The fact that we operate under the personal sanction of the King does not better their mood, either."
"I don't understand," you reply. "Are you not all recruited from the Line Infantry? Even if the officers show their contempt, why would their men display so much antipathy to their former comrades?"
Lewes shakes his head. "It's more simple than that. Those of us who're born common, we're brought up to follow," he answers, the bitterness in his voice growing by the moment. "When a man who speaks the right way and carries himself just so, his orders are to be obeyed, his claims to be accepted as fact. After a while, you start doing it without thinking."
"Mind you," Reyes interjects, "they're right, those officers; there's a difference between facing a man in battle and slitting his throat as he sleeps, or shooting him from a bush as he eats his supper." He shakes his head. "Perhaps one day, all our wars will be fought in such a manner. Some part of me would rather be ashes in the wind before that."
"Is it a good idea to get this drunk the night before a battle?"
Lewes responds with a bitter chuckle. "No. I'll be waking up with my head rattling like a drum; most of us will."
"Then why do it?" you ask. "Would it not be better to fight a battle unencumbered by roiling guts and a headache?"
The green-jacketed Lieutenant shakes his head. "Headache or no, they'll fight just as hard and shoot just as well," Lewes proclaims, his words halfway between boast and statement of fact. "Besides, there's little time for fires and gin when you're trying to stay hidden. The men don't often have a chance to spend a whole evening sitting on their arses, getting tattered. For a lot of them, it's going to be their last."
Your eyebrow rises of its own accord. "You expect heavy losses tomorrow?"
"There are many ways for a skirmisher to die in an open battle," Reyes answers. "We could be trapped in a crossfire, caught by a rush of enemy infantry, but there is no death that a rifleman fears more than being run down by cavalry. We don't have close-order drill or bayonets to fight them off with, and we can't flee from them without horses of our own."
The Major shakes his head sadly. "I would rate my men the best of their kind in creation; they fear neither heaven nor earth. What they do fear are cavalrymen, and Khorobirit's army has tens of thousands of them."
Reyes offers you a thin, meaningless smile. "So, I let them drink; this time tomorrow night, most of them may well be dead."
"I don't suppose either of you have any advice?"
"Coming to us for advice?" Lewes asks, as lips curling into a crooked grin. "The mighty cavalryman? Knight of the Red and all that brasswork? I wouldn't have believed it if I'd not just heard it with me own ears."
You smile back, perhaps a little sheepishly. You suppose it is rather odd for a cavalry officer to be asking infantrymen for advice. "I could use all the wisdom I can get," you reply. "I'm not so discriminating as to turn away practical knowledge, no matter where it comes from."
"All right, how about this?" the green-jacketed Lieutenant replies with an amused chuckle. "Never trust any man above the rank of colour-sergeant!" he shouts out, loud enough for every man in sight to hear, and loud enough to elicit barks of laughter from every single one of them, officers and men.
Reyes is quick to reply. "On the contrary, that would mean ignoring a bit of advice that has served me quite well over the years." He reaches out with his free hand, flicking the lieutenant's pips on Lewes's collar. "Never take advice from scruffy, unshaven lieutenants jumped up from the ranks!"
A fresh wave of laughter washes over the clearing, just as loud as the last. Reyes leans back and takes a deep slug from his flask.
"In all earnestness though, sir," he continues, this time directing his words to you alone. "I do have advice: never lose sight of your men. Keep your graces about you when you are with them, knock a few heads about when needed, that will remind them that you are their officer. Yet if they see that you are willing to drink with them, they will be more easily convinced that you are willing to die for them."
For a moment, Reyes looks away, at the carousing shapes of his own men. A fond smile forms itself on his lips. "Convince them of that, and they will never fail you."
"I should be going. Good night, gentlemen."
"Already, sir?" Lewes asks. "You've just got here."
"I am sure the good Lieutenant-colonel has more important things to do, more exalted people to see," Reyes replies easily. "After all, he is not pariah-among-regiments, like us."
The more junior man nods, both in reply to his own commanding officer and to you in farewell. "Watch yourself out there tomorrow; there's bloody few proper officers in this army without their heads stuck up their arses. We can't afford to lose any of you."
"Saints go with you, sir," Reyes adds, a more traditional goodbye to see you off as you leave the Experimentals behind you.
1) I shall seek out Cazarosta; no doubt he could use the company.
2) Perhaps Lord Marcus is up for one last game of Tassenswerd.
3) No, tonight I would have no company, save my thoughts.
Yet here you see no Line Infantry orange or Lancer blue, only solid masses of dark green, broken up only by the light blouses and woollen jackets of the camp followers among them.
"What do you want?" an enlisted man calls out, his words taut and hostile, perhaps a result of the contents of the half-empty bottle he sloshes about in one hand.
"I'm here on Major Reyes's invitation," you reply.
The drunken Experimental seems less than impressed. "Yeah, and me mum's Saint Stanislaus. Piss off," he replies with an egregious lack of respect. Perhaps he does not see the lieutenant-colonel's insignia on your collar and shoulders.
"Now then, Maitland, is that any way to speak to an officer?" enters a vaguely familiar voice, whimsically lilting with a Warburtonian accent. "This is none other than the good Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga, who saved Mister Lewes and I last year." The speaker steps out of the shadows, a big sergeant with a head of curly hair and the most impressive set of sideburns you have ever seen.
"Don't mind Maitland, sir," the Sergeant mutters to you under his breath. "He's a fine rifleman but loses his manners at the bottom of a bottle, so he does. I'll knock his teeth out and have him recite you an apology later," he says with a grin. "The Major and Mister Lewes are this way, if you'd follow me."
-
The Sergeant leads you to a large fire-lit clearing in the centre of the Experimentals' camp, where Major Reyes and Lieutenant Lewes sit surrounded by perhaps two or three dozen officers and men in green. Almost every one of them has some sort of bottle or flask in their hands. The only exception sits at the edge upon a camp stool, plucking the strings of a Takaran shamisen and accompanying the carousing of his comrades with the words to The Last Grenadier in a well-worn voice.
"Good evening, sir!" Reyes calls out as he spots your approach. "Gentlemen! A seat for Colonel Ortiga! Quickly now!" he calls out.
At once, some of the men in the circle shift, and one fellow produces another camp stool and places it next to where the green-jacketed Major lounges upon the packed earth.
"More comfortable than a saddle, ain't it?" he remarks as you sit down, his breath smelling sharply of alcohol. With one hand, he offers you the open silvered flask in his hand, its surface still emblazoned with the regimental crest of the 8th of Foot. "Have a drink, sir?"
With a nod of thanks, you tip a little of the flask's contents into your mouth, doing your best not to cough as it burns and pillages its way down your throat and proceeds to lay siege to your gut.
"Strong stuff, ain't it?" Reyes says with a grin. "Nothing like what the lads are drinking though, and most of them can't even stomach what Lewes is pouring down his misbegotten gullet."
"It's an acquired taste, sir," Lewes replies, his sullen tone made joking by his crooked grin.
Reyes snorts derisively. "Perhaps in the sense that only one with no taste could acquire it," he retorts as he returns his subordinate's grin, sharing between them what must be a much familiar joke.
"Is there a reason why your men keep to themselves like this?"
"I beg pardon, sir?" Reyes replies, trading question for question.
"You could go to the camp of any other regiment tonight and find visitors from other units sharing drinks and stories," you clarify. "Yet there are no such visitors here. In fact, judging by the demeanour of the man whom first greeted me, I could almost say that your men don't care much for the soldiers of other regiments."
"They don't care much for us, either," Lewes answers bitterly. "Putting on the green coat means making yourself a target for the army's contempt."
"Lewes has the right of it," Reyes adds sourly. "I suppose it must be different for you—after all, you dragoons do skirmish work yourselves—but the officers of the Line Infantry hold us in very low esteem. They do not like how we fight; they think it dirty, beneath them. The fact that we operate under the personal sanction of the King does not better their mood, either."
"I don't understand," you reply. "Are you not all recruited from the Line Infantry? Even if the officers show their contempt, why would their men display so much antipathy to their former comrades?"
Lewes shakes his head. "It's more simple than that. Those of us who're born common, we're brought up to follow," he answers, the bitterness in his voice growing by the moment. "When a man who speaks the right way and carries himself just so, his orders are to be obeyed, his claims to be accepted as fact. After a while, you start doing it without thinking."
"Mind you," Reyes interjects, "they're right, those officers; there's a difference between facing a man in battle and slitting his throat as he sleeps, or shooting him from a bush as he eats his supper." He shakes his head. "Perhaps one day, all our wars will be fought in such a manner. Some part of me would rather be ashes in the wind before that."
"Is it a good idea to get this drunk the night before a battle?"
Lewes responds with a bitter chuckle. "No. I'll be waking up with my head rattling like a drum; most of us will."
"Then why do it?" you ask. "Would it not be better to fight a battle unencumbered by roiling guts and a headache?"
The green-jacketed Lieutenant shakes his head. "Headache or no, they'll fight just as hard and shoot just as well," Lewes proclaims, his words halfway between boast and statement of fact. "Besides, there's little time for fires and gin when you're trying to stay hidden. The men don't often have a chance to spend a whole evening sitting on their arses, getting tattered. For a lot of them, it's going to be their last."
Your eyebrow rises of its own accord. "You expect heavy losses tomorrow?"
"There are many ways for a skirmisher to die in an open battle," Reyes answers. "We could be trapped in a crossfire, caught by a rush of enemy infantry, but there is no death that a rifleman fears more than being run down by cavalry. We don't have close-order drill or bayonets to fight them off with, and we can't flee from them without horses of our own."
The Major shakes his head sadly. "I would rate my men the best of their kind in creation; they fear neither heaven nor earth. What they do fear are cavalrymen, and Khorobirit's army has tens of thousands of them."
Reyes offers you a thin, meaningless smile. "So, I let them drink; this time tomorrow night, most of them may well be dead."
"I don't suppose either of you have any advice?"
"Coming to us for advice?" Lewes asks, as lips curling into a crooked grin. "The mighty cavalryman? Knight of the Red and all that brasswork? I wouldn't have believed it if I'd not just heard it with me own ears."
You smile back, perhaps a little sheepishly. You suppose it is rather odd for a cavalry officer to be asking infantrymen for advice. "I could use all the wisdom I can get," you reply. "I'm not so discriminating as to turn away practical knowledge, no matter where it comes from."
"All right, how about this?" the green-jacketed Lieutenant replies with an amused chuckle. "Never trust any man above the rank of colour-sergeant!" he shouts out, loud enough for every man in sight to hear, and loud enough to elicit barks of laughter from every single one of them, officers and men.
Reyes is quick to reply. "On the contrary, that would mean ignoring a bit of advice that has served me quite well over the years." He reaches out with his free hand, flicking the lieutenant's pips on Lewes's collar. "Never take advice from scruffy, unshaven lieutenants jumped up from the ranks!"
A fresh wave of laughter washes over the clearing, just as loud as the last. Reyes leans back and takes a deep slug from his flask.
"In all earnestness though, sir," he continues, this time directing his words to you alone. "I do have advice: never lose sight of your men. Keep your graces about you when you are with them, knock a few heads about when needed, that will remind them that you are their officer. Yet if they see that you are willing to drink with them, they will be more easily convinced that you are willing to die for them."
For a moment, Reyes looks away, at the carousing shapes of his own men. A fond smile forms itself on his lips. "Convince them of that, and they will never fail you."
"I should be going. Good night, gentlemen."
"Already, sir?" Lewes asks. "You've just got here."
"I am sure the good Lieutenant-colonel has more important things to do, more exalted people to see," Reyes replies easily. "After all, he is not pariah-among-regiments, like us."
The more junior man nods, both in reply to his own commanding officer and to you in farewell. "Watch yourself out there tomorrow; there's bloody few proper officers in this army without their heads stuck up their arses. We can't afford to lose any of you."
"Saints go with you, sir," Reyes adds, a more traditional goodbye to see you off as you leave the Experimentals behind you.
1) I shall seek out Cazarosta; no doubt he could use the company.
2) Perhaps Lord Marcus is up for one last game of Tassenswerd.
3) No, tonight I would have no company, save my thoughts.
1.
1
Wasn't Cazarosta supposed to have moved in rank, following the siege?
Wasn't Cazarosta supposed to have moved in rank, following the siege?
Lithium Flower
Arcane
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- Nov 29, 2016
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- 1,832
IIRC his promotion never materialized.
Thanks. So either the paperwork got lost or they "forgot" because he's a deathborn. There was a command available, since we've gotten a brevet. I guess if we got the promotion ourselves by leading the forlorn hope, we wouldn't had a brevet, instead we would have been fully promoted to Colonel.
LordTryhard
Novice
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- Jul 7, 2018
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- 55
Here is the situation as I understand it.
The Dragoons went into Blogia with three Squadrons. The Squadron commanders were Elson (Captain), Marras (Lieutenant-colonel), and the Duke of Cunaris (Colonel.) Elson and Marras are MIA, probably dead, and Cunaris was crippled. You, Lieutenant Cazarosta, and Major Keane were the highest ranking survivors who were still physically fit for command. So you and Cazarosta were promoted to Captain, while Keane bought a promotion to Lieutenant-colonel. From that point onward each of you commanded one of the three Squadrons of Dragoons in Antar. With Cunaris crippled and promoted to Brigade command, Keane was the de-facto field commander of the regiment.
Then the Siege of Kharangia happened, and Keane's PTSD got the better of him. After that point, you and Cazarosta were the highest ranking Dragoon officers in Antar, despite only being Captains.
They didn't refuse to promote him just because he was a Deathborn (he's also a war criminal.) They refused to promote him to Major specifically because doing so would make him outrank you, thus making him the regiment's de facto commander. Had you done the Forlorn Hope with him, or had the 800 crowns necessary to purchase your own Major's commission, then he would have received his promotion shortly after you received yours. That is all that's stopping them - they don't want a deathborn war criminal leading the regiment. Otherwise, they would have grudgingly promoted him.
Also, you wouldn't have been to promoted straight to Colonel, you only would have been a Major. You receive the brevet for this battle no matter what, because the alternative is either a Deathborn war criminal or an untested Captain.
And I would also like to point out that there is a distinction between Lieutenant-colonel and Colonel. Cunaris is the Colonel because he's the one who owns the regiment, and the position is usually hereditary (it will one day be passed down to his son and heir, Renard, who is one of your Lieutenants). The Lieutenant-colonel (which is your current temporary rank) is his second-in-command (however, because Cunaris can't physically lead the regiment into battle, that means the Lieutenant-colonel basically is the Colonel, at least in the field.) Even though you're only a Lieutenant-colonel, people call you a Colonel because that's military custom, or something.
Then the Siege of Kharangia happened, and Keane's PTSD got the better of him. After that point, you and Cazarosta were the highest ranking Dragoon officers in Antar, despite only being Captains.
They didn't refuse to promote him just because he was a Deathborn (he's also a war criminal.) They refused to promote him to Major specifically because doing so would make him outrank you, thus making him the regiment's de facto commander. Had you done the Forlorn Hope with him, or had the 800 crowns necessary to purchase your own Major's commission, then he would have received his promotion shortly after you received yours. That is all that's stopping them - they don't want a deathborn war criminal leading the regiment. Otherwise, they would have grudgingly promoted him.
Also, you wouldn't have been to promoted straight to Colonel, you only would have been a Major. You receive the brevet for this battle no matter what, because the alternative is either a Deathborn war criminal or an untested Captain.
And I would also like to point out that there is a distinction between Lieutenant-colonel and Colonel. Cunaris is the Colonel because he's the one who owns the regiment, and the position is usually hereditary (it will one day be passed down to his son and heir, Renard, who is one of your Lieutenants). The Lieutenant-colonel (which is your current temporary rank) is his second-in-command (however, because Cunaris can't physically lead the regiment into battle, that means the Lieutenant-colonel basically is the Colonel, at least in the field.) Even though you're only a Lieutenant-colonel, people call you a Colonel because that's military custom, or something.
Hope that clears it up.
Last edited:
Lithium Flower
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This looks like the darkest timeline for Cazarostra, jesus. Imagine going through the meatgrinder of the Forlorn Hope solely because that is the only way your deathborn ass can get promoted, then get cucked out of your promotion because some dumbass captain didn't have enough funds to afford his own promotion that one time.
LordTryhard
Novice
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- Jul 7, 2018
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- 55
And then that same dumbass captain is temporarily bumped up by two ranks anyway despite doing nothing to deserve it.
Thank you for the detailed explanation. Still I've missed something
Since when Cazarostra is a war criminal? Because of Kharangia, where I think he killed civilians? Or was it something I've missed or we haven't see in our playthrough?
But we needed that money to invest in that cool gun idea! And to send to daddy even if we don't like him because we're a good son.
Well at least we're getting some C&C.
LordTryhard
Novice
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- Jul 7, 2018
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You've seen some evidence of this already in Sabres. His desecration of the Antari shrine, the fact that the plan he pushed for would likely cause civilian casualties, and also the scene at Blogia where after your men are butchered by the hussars he suggests you use their bodies to construct a barricade.
You would have been able to see more, but that requires having a closer relationship with him, and spending more time with him.
Also, to my knowledge, he didn't kill any civilians at Kharangia.
So it's mostly things that we haven't seen. At most, he would just seem to be rather brutal and callous.
Lithium Flower
Arcane
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I think its pretty heavily implied the guy is ASPD (ie socio/psycopath) and pushes for the most pragmatic course of action at all times with zero regard to ethical considerations, which lies in stark contrast to the honor-obsessed Tierran traditions.
LordTryhard
Novice
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Here is one of my favourite quotes from the author that explains Cazarosta's mindset:
(if anyone wants Caius's personality/motive to remain mysterious or ambiguous until you get to play the game and find more out for yourself, it would be best if you don't read this.)
"Caius d’al Cazarosta is a sociopath. He feels no empathy for other human beings, your main character included. His view of the world is shaped primarily by his intense religious zeal, which was informed by his childhood, one where he was both reviled as a deathborn bastard, and exalted as the Earl of Leoniscourt’s ward. This basic, some might say, absurd disjunction in the years where he was most impressionable has made him believe very deeply in the power of the Saints: namely that every creature, object, and event is a part of a great master plan by the Sainted Martyrs, and that to oppose this plan is both insane, and futile.
As a result, Cazarosta interprets his own personal feelings as the urgings of the Saints to follow a certain path, same with the constrictions of the society which he (and your player character) live in: Cazarosta interprets the watchful eyes of the law and his brother-officers as divine writ not to deviate from his socially defined path in their presence, but when they are absent, he will carry out what he believes to be his divine orders."
As a result, Cazarosta interprets his own personal feelings as the urgings of the Saints to follow a certain path, same with the constrictions of the society which he (and your player character) live in: Cazarosta interprets the watchful eyes of the law and his brother-officers as divine writ not to deviate from his socially defined path in their presence, but when they are absent, he will carry out what he believes to be his divine orders."
Lithium Flower
Arcane
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- Nov 29, 2016
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- 1,832
You find Sir Caius d'al Cazarosta exactly where you would expect him to be: in prayer.
The makeshift chapel set up in one corner of the cantonment is nearly empty when you arrive. Designed to minister to the spiritual needs of an entire army, you barely see a dozen supplicants within its candle-lit, tent-canvas walls. With the day of battle mere hours away, it seems the majority of the King's Army have opted for the more temporal solaces of loose company and strong drink rather than the more tenuous comfort of the ever-watching Sainted Martyrs.
Perhaps that is a good thing; it is one matter to command or even fight alongside a deathborn-bastard, but to be seen seeking out his friendship? That would certainly not do your reputation any favours.
You find him kneeling before a brightly-lit shrine, his lips flickering open and closed in silence before the alabaster ranks of the Saints of the Red, head bowed low towards the miniature celestial host, and face gleaming bronze under the massed candlelight.
"Sir Alaric," he says as you approach, more a statement of fact than a question.
"Yes," you reply. "How did you know?"
"My men have orders not to disturb me during prayer, and nobody else would see me, had they the choice," he replies. He stands up and turns to face you, even offering you his hand and the barest hint of a smile as he does so.
"You look well," he remarks with surprising ease as he shakes your hand. "Regimental command must agree with you, sir."
"I trust you do not mind being under my orders?"
"Of course not," Cazarosta replies. "Is there any reason I should be?"
The moment you hear the other man's reply, you feel foolish for even asking the question. Of course Cazarosta will follow your orders. Whatever the rest of the army might think, he is your friend, and a solid fighting officer besides. What reason have you to doubt him now?
"Ah—no, of course not," you reply sheepishly.
"How fares the regiment?"
"You know the condition of your own squadron better than I," Cazarosta replies. "As for Third Squadron, it remains understrength, but…" He pauses for a moment, hesitating. When he speaks again, it is with a heady mix of pride and certainty. "Third Squadron is the best squadron of horse in the King's Army, I would stake my life on it."
Your eyebrow rises. "Truly?" you ask. From any other officer, you would have dismissed such claims as pure bluster, but you have never known Caius d'al Cazarosta to be a man for empty boasts.
"Truly," he replies, with an earnestness in his voice more convincing than any printed service record.
"What about Fourth Squadron?" you ask, changing the topic to the true subject of your questioning. You had known Cazarosta would have kept his squadron in excellent enough shape. It is the newcomers and their officer commanding who is to you more a source of worry.
The other officer shakes his head. "Green, very green. Fourth Squadron is at full strength, but most of that strength is made up of conscripts, and very few have seen anything resembling a battle."
"What about its officer commanding?" you ask, fearing the answer you will receive. "I've not even had a chance to speak to Captain Garret yet. Is he at least competent?"
Cazarosta ponders an answer for a moment, his eyes narrowing. "Competent? Perhaps. A quick study? Definitely. He is also a scoundrel of the highest degree; I can tell you for a fact that he is lazy, a chronic gambler, and a drunkard. It would not surprise me if he were an opium-smoker and a womaniser, besides."
You nod gravely. You are not one to judge a man's personal tastes, but you cannot help but think that an officer prone to such excesses might not be the sort of man you'd want leading unblooded troops in a fight. "So they are not to be relied upon," you conclude.
"They are not be relied upon," Cazarosta replies.
"You keep praying to the Saints; do they ever reply?"
The scarred officer throws a look over his shoulder to where the candles continue to burn. "You mean to ask if they whisper their will in my ear as I kneel before their altars?"
"Do they?" you ask.
Cazarosta replies with a smile of faint amusement. "Of course not," he scoffs. "Only the insane and the deluded claim that the Sainted Martyrs give orders to them directly. All I can do is guess, and trust that they are always watching."
1) "You should be commanding the regiment, not I."
2) "I should be off. Good night."
The makeshift chapel set up in one corner of the cantonment is nearly empty when you arrive. Designed to minister to the spiritual needs of an entire army, you barely see a dozen supplicants within its candle-lit, tent-canvas walls. With the day of battle mere hours away, it seems the majority of the King's Army have opted for the more temporal solaces of loose company and strong drink rather than the more tenuous comfort of the ever-watching Sainted Martyrs.
Perhaps that is a good thing; it is one matter to command or even fight alongside a deathborn-bastard, but to be seen seeking out his friendship? That would certainly not do your reputation any favours.
You find him kneeling before a brightly-lit shrine, his lips flickering open and closed in silence before the alabaster ranks of the Saints of the Red, head bowed low towards the miniature celestial host, and face gleaming bronze under the massed candlelight.
"Sir Alaric," he says as you approach, more a statement of fact than a question.
"Yes," you reply. "How did you know?"
"My men have orders not to disturb me during prayer, and nobody else would see me, had they the choice," he replies. He stands up and turns to face you, even offering you his hand and the barest hint of a smile as he does so.
"You look well," he remarks with surprising ease as he shakes your hand. "Regimental command must agree with you, sir."
"I trust you do not mind being under my orders?"
"Of course not," Cazarosta replies. "Is there any reason I should be?"
The moment you hear the other man's reply, you feel foolish for even asking the question. Of course Cazarosta will follow your orders. Whatever the rest of the army might think, he is your friend, and a solid fighting officer besides. What reason have you to doubt him now?
"Ah—no, of course not," you reply sheepishly.
"How fares the regiment?"
"You know the condition of your own squadron better than I," Cazarosta replies. "As for Third Squadron, it remains understrength, but…" He pauses for a moment, hesitating. When he speaks again, it is with a heady mix of pride and certainty. "Third Squadron is the best squadron of horse in the King's Army, I would stake my life on it."
Your eyebrow rises. "Truly?" you ask. From any other officer, you would have dismissed such claims as pure bluster, but you have never known Caius d'al Cazarosta to be a man for empty boasts.
"Truly," he replies, with an earnestness in his voice more convincing than any printed service record.
"What about Fourth Squadron?" you ask, changing the topic to the true subject of your questioning. You had known Cazarosta would have kept his squadron in excellent enough shape. It is the newcomers and their officer commanding who is to you more a source of worry.
The other officer shakes his head. "Green, very green. Fourth Squadron is at full strength, but most of that strength is made up of conscripts, and very few have seen anything resembling a battle."
"What about its officer commanding?" you ask, fearing the answer you will receive. "I've not even had a chance to speak to Captain Garret yet. Is he at least competent?"
Cazarosta ponders an answer for a moment, his eyes narrowing. "Competent? Perhaps. A quick study? Definitely. He is also a scoundrel of the highest degree; I can tell you for a fact that he is lazy, a chronic gambler, and a drunkard. It would not surprise me if he were an opium-smoker and a womaniser, besides."
You nod gravely. You are not one to judge a man's personal tastes, but you cannot help but think that an officer prone to such excesses might not be the sort of man you'd want leading unblooded troops in a fight. "So they are not to be relied upon," you conclude.
"They are not be relied upon," Cazarosta replies.
"You keep praying to the Saints; do they ever reply?"
The scarred officer throws a look over his shoulder to where the candles continue to burn. "You mean to ask if they whisper their will in my ear as I kneel before their altars?"
"Do they?" you ask.
Cazarosta replies with a smile of faint amusement. "Of course not," he scoffs. "Only the insane and the deluded claim that the Sainted Martyrs give orders to them directly. All I can do is guess, and trust that they are always watching."
1) "You should be commanding the regiment, not I."
2) "I should be off. Good night."
LordTryhard
Novice
- Joined
- Jul 7, 2018
- Messages
- 55
1.
Yes, let's tell the sociopath who should have gotten a promotion but didn't because of us that he should be in command, I'm sure it will end well /s
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