Completed [LP] Bleed for your Kingdom, officer! Codex plays Guns of Infinity

[ERYFKRAD]

Sounds tailor made for 2.

 

[Reinhardt]

Sounds tailor made for 2.

 

[Grimgravy]

Yup. 2

 

[baud]

Meh, we've trained our squadron enough: 3

 

[Major_Blackhart]

2.

 

[Lithium Flower]

Lieutenant Hawkins nods soberly when you set his task before him. Cazarosta's second-in-command shares his Captain's angular features but none of the steel-cold malice which seems to give the deathborn officer his edge.

"I offer no guarantees, but I shall endeavour to do my utmost, sir," he replies at last, his voice backed by a quiet self-assurance totally at odds with the equivocation of his words. He gives you a quick, efficient salute and heads off to ready his men.

What next?

-

1) I assign men to guide reinforcements.
2) I order my remaining men to support the main attack.

 

[Major_Blackhart]

2.

 

[baud]

I guess we either send two squadron to attack the square or one to guide the reinforcement and one to support the attack.

I'll say we send the first squadron in the square and our squadron to guide the reinforcement: 1

 

[Grimgravy]

1 - quicker reinforcements will be good.

 

[ERYFKRAD]

2- Let some other crew handle reinforcements.

 

[Kalarion]

2.

 

[LordTryhard]

2- Let some other crew handle reinforcements.

Not an option. It's just us and the Highlanders in the city right now, and Marcus is committing all his Highlanders to the assault.

I vote 1.

 

[Reinhardt]

2. Even someone with 5% in intellect wouldn't trust someone with 5% in intellect to handle reinforcements.

 

[LordTryhard]

Hey guys, if anyone is interested in the lore of this series, the author has a monthly series of world-building articles, which has been going on for more than two years now.

Here are (in my opinion) the most important ones (that don't spoil the events of Guns of Infinity.)

---

How Tierra Was Founded

https://cataphrak.files.wordpress.com/2016/06/july_update.png
https://cataphrak.files.wordpress.com/2017/08/august_update.jpg
https://cataphrak.files.wordpress.com/2017/09/september_update.jpg

Note: These articles do not explain how Wulfram, Warburton, or Weathern joined the Unified Kingdom. If I recall correctly, the author has stated that they eventually joined through peaceful negotiation.

---

Information on The Knightly Orders

https://cataphrak.files.wordpress.com/2017/03/march_update.jpg
https://cataphrak.files.wordpress.com/2018/05/may_update.jpg

---

Other Nations (From Takara's Perspective)

https://cataphrak.files.wordpress.com/2016/04/may_update.jpg
https://cataphrak.files.wordpress.com/2018/02/february_2018_update.jpg

---

History of Takara (from Kian'Zi's Perspective)

https://cataphrak.files.wordpress.com/2018/06/june_2018.jpg
https://cataphrak.files.wordpress.com/2018/07/july_2018.jpg

Note: The Kian and the Takarans hate each other, so take anything they have to say about each other with a grain of salt.

---

I would also advise against seeking out the additional articles, at least not until this playthrough is finished. Many of them contain spoilers, and one even has a spoiler right in the title. The ones I have listed above are spoiler free.

 

[Lithium Flower]

You walk back up to Lord Marcus and his small group of Highlanders. "I have the pleasure to report that the walls shall soon be clear. Where would you place us for the advance?"

The Kentauri officer flashes you an appreciative look for the two full squadrons you have seen fit to commit to his attack. "Put your men right behind our regimental colour. I would see you act as clenched fist to our mailed gauntlet, if that meets with your approval?"

You nod. He must mean to use you to reinforce the centre of his attack, giving it enough weight to drive through the Antari and split their force in two, perhaps. "I'll see it done," you reply.

Lord Marcus responds with a grin. "Excellent. Allow me a moment to see to my company commanders, and I shall join you shortly."

-

The Highlanders' two battalions are in rough shape when you find them.

Even at a glance, you can see that that some companies have lost a third or more of their men. The ones that remain look haggard, their jackets, cloaks, and faces covered with the detritus of black powder. Some have lost their shakoes, while others continue to prime, load, and fire to the hoarse bellowing of ragged sergeants despite bearing wounds as grievous as you have seen on any corpse.

Behind the line, knots of men with drums and bagpipes tucked under their arms wait for the next scattered volley to fell more of their fellows, for it is they who must drag the worst wounded to safety, where they might die in some peace.

In the middle, right in front of you, stands an incongruous pair. One is a young lad wearing the bicorne of an officer, no more than fourteen. In his hands is a long wooden pole topped with an immense flag emblazoned with the gryphons and towers of House Rendower. No more than a pace behind him is his opposite in every way, an immense fellow, old enough for his sideburns to be flecked with grey. In his hands rests an immense weapon from a long-ago age, an axe head mounted on a pole taller than the largest man.

They are the colour party; the boy to carry the flag and the old Sergeant to guard the boy, for the bullet-ripped, streamer-burdened, tattered banner the young Ensign holds is the regimental colour, the embodiment of an infantry regiment's honour and history.

Now, Lord Marcus walks up to join them. The pipers and drummers scramble to their feet. Around you, Highlanders and dragoons alike tense. They know well enough that the moment of decision is at hand.

-

The Kentauri nobleman looks to his left, then his right, then to you. He brings his hand to his soot-caked, blood-stained face. For a moment, you think he is wiping away the filth from his face, though all it seems to do is smear the Highlander officer's face with black and red further.

Only when he pulls his hand away do you realise that is exactly what he intended, for gone is the sedate, weary-faced aristocrat who had stood before you a moment ago. Now his face is a mask of rage and blood-madness, made terrifying by the smeared blood and soot.

"Highlanders!" he roars, voice heavy with fury as he unsheathes his sword. "Draw swords and fix bayonets!"

For a moment, the world is nothing but the rasp of baring steel as all along the line, the men of the Kentauri Highlanders tip their muskets with long, needle-thin bayonets, and their officers draw their immense broad-bladed swords.

"Pipers!" Lord Marcus shouts as six hundred men lock their bayonets into place. "Give us a tune worth dying to!"

The bagpipers scramble to their feet and take position before the massed steel-tipped ranks. The first low, droning notes fill the air, and the battle-madness spreads with them. The line sways as men strain to spring forward, only their discipline holding them back as they wait for the words that will send them tearing into the foe.

It is not the order to charge that they wait for, nor even the customary 'Tierra and Victory!' that they strain to hear from their commanding officer's lips. No, for the battle-madness has burned away thoughts of King, of country, and all but the barest ties of order. No, they wait for one word and one word only.

"Murder!" Lord Marcus cries as he points his sword at the enemy.

"Murder!" roar six hundred Highlanders as they follow him into battle, bayonets levelled, swords high, pipes shrieking with bloodlust…

…and your dragoons follow right behind them.

-

Your heart pounds in your chest as you rush forward, sword in hand. The wail of the pipes and the battle-cries of the Highlanders around you melt into a single primal scream of aggression as you charge out from the cover of the buildings and into the open square.

You feel the enemy ahead of you even before you see them; the sensation of hundreds of people up ahead sends your banesense tingling, even as your boots pound against the yet-unscarred cobblestone and the hazy shape of the Antari begin to resolve themselves in the thick powder-smoke.

The crack of gunfire drags your eyes to the side, towards the part of the city wall which borders the left flank of the Highlanders' attack.

You snatch but a glimpse of it, but you need no more to see the shapes of men in Dragoon helmets rushing across the wall at full run, sabres in hand, cutting down the few Antari who've managed to survive the volley from their carbines.

-

Your head snaps forward as thunder and fire bloom around you. The Highlanders empty their loaded muskets into the dark outlines of the enemy ahead. You see some of the shapes tumble, others stagger, but the mass stands firm as you, your dragoons, Lord Marcus, and two battalions of blood-mad Kentauri barrel through the smoke of their own guns.

You get a good look at them as you burst through the smoke, the Antari who had defended this city so tenaciously for the past six months. The enemy which still stands defiant against you, even with the walls breached and faced with the full might of the Duke of Havenport's army.

They are a tangled mass of humanity, the city itself come out to defend her streets; men in the bright sashes and furs of nobility packed with wretches wearing clothes fit only for a beggar. Mixed among them are scrawny boys, stooped grey-bearded elders, and men of every age in between. You even see women among the foe, and for an instant you wonder how desperate the defenders must be to conscript the gentler sex into their number.

In their hands, they carry clubs, makeshift spears, knives, a sword here and there. There are few guns among them, thin hunting rifles, heavy blunderbusses, and ornate pistols meant more for show than battle. In their eyes, you see defiance, you see anger, but most of all, you see fear, a fear that yawns wide as they catch sight of what comes for them.

Still, they stand, their bravery outweighing the voices in their heads that you know must be screaming at them to run, as you cross the final distance.

1) I think I shall enjoy cutting through this insolent rabble.
2) They are the enemy, they stand before me, and I must do my duty.
3) These people wish only to defend their homes; I dislike having to fight them.

Personal Information

As of the Summer of the 609th year of the Old Imperial Era
Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 21
Rank: Captain
Wealth: 383
Income: 15

Soldiering: 75%

Charisma: 43%

Intellect: 5%

Reputation: 23%

Health: 65%

Idealism: 82% Cynicism: 18%

Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%

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

You have no decorations as of yet.

Unit Information

Sixth Squadron, Royal Dragoons

Senior NCO: Staff-sergeant Hernandes

Discipline: 54%

Morale: 54%

Loyalty: 39%

Strength: 95%

 

[Major_Blackhart]

1. Let the crimson nightmares o'ertake our sanity. The great river of souls will be bloated this eve! Oh Glorious God on high, thy name is Slaughter!


As a side note, this kinda gets you in the mood for the butchery: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3tzE98pQH08

 

[LordTryhard]

Peasants have two purposes in life:
-To pay tribute to their highborn masters.
-To be cut down by the enemies of their highborn masters.

To this end, I vote for Option 1.

 

[ERYFKRAD]

2

 

[Grimgravy]

2

 

[Reinhardt]

2. Not edgy enough.

 

[Kalarion]

2

 

[Lithium Flower]

Your thoughts remain calm as you raise your blade high. You suppose there are many reasons to dislike what is to come, but you have neither the time nor the inclination to dwell upon them. At the present moment, the people in front of you are the enemy, it is your duty to see them defeated, and if that means killing a few…

If that means killing a few, then that is what your oath to the King and the regiment requires of you.

The ragged mass of Antari ready their weapons as you close. The time for thinking is past.

-

The wave of Highlanders smashes into the disorganised body of the enemy like a boot stomping onto a ripe fruit. Some of the foe who meet the Tierran Line Infantry are sent reeling. Most crumple to the ground, for in lieu of hobnails, the heel of this great Kentauri boot is studded with a line of razor-sharp steel.

For a moment, Lord Marcus and his men wreak a fearful slaughter. To your right, a Highlander sends an Antari man armed with only a butcher's knife sprawling onto the cobbles with the butt of his musket. To your left, another infantryman puts his bayonet through a stumbling foe's throat, cutting short the defender's frantic scream. Dead ahead, there is nothing between you and them, and as Kharangia's defenders rally, a gaggle of them launch themselves in your direction.

A man lunges at your midsection, a crude polearm in hand. You bring your bane-runed longsword to meet it, but instead of blocking the blow, your burning blade flares with eldritch power as it slices right through the wooden shaft. The Antari looks up in shock as you bring your blade around two-handed and swing down.

The unfortunate man falls away in two pieces, but that does not dissuade more foes. They come, and you kill them, as simply as that, for none of their weapons can pierce your armour, and no armour in the Infinite Sea can stand up to a bane-runed sword. Within moments, you find yourself so deep into the enemy that even the Highlanders have trouble keeping up.

The Antari resistance stiffens more by the second. The Highlanders begin to run out of momentum as the enemy's superior numbers and sheer desperation begin to make themselves apparent. The crack of musketry cuts through the chaotic cacophony of the melee, a ragged volley from the side of the square opposite the wall. In the corner of your eye, you see dragoons and Highlanders fall, cut down from the flank. You grit your teeth in frustration. Lord Marcus should have posted men to guard the flank.

Within moments, all sense of movement is lost. Neither side can retreat, neither side can break through. Tierran ferocity dashes itself again and again against Antari desperation, and the fight devolves into a chaotic brawl.

-

There is no room for finesse or elegance now. The melee has become a struggle of the most brutal sort. You see some of the Highlanders unfix their bayonets, using them as improvised stilettos as they grapple with their foes. Others resort to bare hands. You see the Kentauri Ensign fall and the colour topple with him, as he is brained by a woman armed only with a table leg.

With a mighty roar, a handful of Highlander officers tear their way through the press, beating down those in their way with the basket hilts of their swords. One of them wrenches the colour out of the hands of a freshly disembowelled foe and raises it high again. Even so, the Antari refuse to give another step.

It is a few moments later when you hear it behind you and feel the stones tremble beneath your feet. It is at that moment that you know victory to be assured.

It is the sound of drums, and of the tread of hundreds of boots upon the cobbles.

Reinforcements. Companies in the burnt-orange jackets of the Line Infantry, their kettle drums rattling as they advance into the fray, bayonets fixed.

For the Antari, it is the thing that breaks them. In the space of a few hours of fighting, they have lost their city wall, their most defensible positions, and now even their advantage of numbers is gone, swept away by a fresh wave of the hated invaders.

Within half a minute, the enemy's resistance is broken. Those not fleeing into the powder-smoke lie dead on the cobbles as knots of bloodied Highlanders put the enemy's wounded to the bayonet and the sword.

-

As the battle devolves into a rout, you finally take the time to take stock of the situation, admittedly a much easier task when nobody is trying to kill you.

The long, drawn-out melee bled your squadron hard, but where the bodies of your men lie scattered on the cobbles, the Highlanders and Antari lie in great heaps. As hard as it might be to grasp, it is possible that your men got off lightly.

At the very least, you know for sure they were able to inflict far more losses than they received. In the melee, you saw them fighting in concert with fellow dragoons or Highlanders, rather than alone as ill-disciplined soldiers were wont to do. For their first proper battle, you must confess that your men have done quite well.

-

You are still rounding up and looking over the last of your men when Lord Marcus approaches with his staff. Even the most cursory glance tells you that he has not stayed clear of the fighting, as some high officers are wont to do; his face is bruised in two places, a cut scores his forearm, and another drips and seeps through the cloth of his trousers. The officers with him are similarly battered, and two are missing entirely.

"So this is what a battle is like," he remarks bitterly as he approaches. Gone is the ebullience that carried him into battle, gone is the blood-madness. All that remains is a man who has justwatched too many of his friends and subordinates die.

"Yes," you reply sadly. "Not what you expected, is it?"

The Kentauri lord shakes his head. "No, it is exactly as I expected. My brother spared no detail in describing a battlefield to me," he replies before beginning to breathe in deep. Then as the stench of death hits him, he thinks better of it. "Yet hearing and expecting is not quite the same as being on it, is it?"

The Highlander officer shakes his head as if to clear it. When he looks at you again, his composure is much improved. "Your men did well clearing the wall," he says, changing the subject. "I am in your debt for it."

You accept the young lord's praise as graciously as you can.

"I'll leave you to your men," he says wearily. "I must see to mine before they disgrace themselves."

-

It takes you scant moments for you to understand exactly what the Kentauri nobleman had meant. With the main force of the Antari defenders crushed, the battle is all but over. Now, the Highlanders who fought and bled so hard to take the city begin spreading out to claim the spoils of their victory.

Battalions and companies unravel into gangs of marauders, rushing into the smoke-shrouded streets of the newly taken city. Only their powder-smeared uniforms and the muskets they clutch in their hands offer any proof that they had, not minutes ago, fought as members of a disciplined regiment of the King's Army.

You see some small number of infantry officers shouting at their dispersing men, ordering them to form ranks. It is of little use. In bare moments, discipline has broken down entirely. Many of the Highlander officers simply hang their heads in resignation, and even more join their men as they take out the bottled frustration and aggression that had grown and built through the six months of siege and the bloody assault upon the supine city.

A gang of men in burnt orange rush on past you. No Highlanders these, but members of the Line Infantry regiments who followed your dragoons into the breach, men who had not fired a single shot in anger. It is not bloodlust which glitters in their eyes but greed; a successful siege offers a rare opportunity for men grown used to the meagre rations and pay of a common infantryman, and the spoils from a fat city like Kharangia will make many such men rich fellows indeed.

Even the soldiers of your own regiment are made ungovernable by the thought of a city ripe for plunder and ravishment. From what you can see, First Squadron has all but disintegrated, leaving the hapless Lieutenant Butler standing alone in the square. Third Squadron is more orderly, if only because Lieutenant Hawkins has harnessed the chaos to his own ends, ordering his men into teams for the purpose of more efficient pillage. With the danger past and discipline among the King's soldiers naught but a memory, your temporary command of your regiment is all but ended. You have only your own men now.

-

Your men are not immune to the bestial feelings which now hold the Duke of Havenport's army in its grasp. Already, the boldest and least principled are scattering, forming themselves into gangs, or heading off into the powder-choked streets by themselves.

You can see the feral glimmer in their eyes, and you know that left to their own devices, even the men whom you were so proud to call your own minutes ago would behave no better than the infantrymen who have already begun the process of tearing Kharangia apart.

A scant few men remain by your side: your officers stand by you, but of the enlisted men, only Marion and Hernandes stay. The rest have already begun to scatter into the city, whatever bonds of loyalty and discipline they had possessed burned away by thoughts of loot, vengeance, and other, baser desires.

If you are to attempt to take action, then you best do it now.

1) My time and effort would be best spent taking some trophies of my own.
2) The men have fought hard for their victory, best to let them savour it.
3) I must convince my men to maintain order.
4) Discipline must be enforced, no matter the cost.

Personal Information

As of the Summer of the 609th year of the Old Imperial Era
Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 21
Rank: Captain
Wealth: 383
Income: 15

Soldiering: 75%

Charisma: 43%

Intellect: 5%

Reputation: 23%

Health: 65%

Idealism: 82% Cynicism: 18%

Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%

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

You have no decorations as of yet.

Unit Information

Sixth Squadron, Royal Dragoons

Senior NCO: Staff-sergeant Hernandes

Discipline: 54%

Morale: 54%

Loyalty: 39%

Strength: 79%

 

[ERYFKRAD]

3

 

[Reinhardt]

3. It's too early to relax.

 

[tindrli]

3