Endemic
Arcane
- Joined
- Jul 16, 2012
- Messages
- 4,478
Agreed.
-
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In Progress [LP] Lord Captain, you've served your time in Hell! Codex plays Lords of Infinity, a text RPG of Politics and Warfare
- Thread starter Lithium Flower
- Start date
Agreed.
- Joined
- Sep 25, 2012
- Messages
- 30,183
Aye, but we're better at krumping gits and soldiering.
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
I shall handle this personally, regardless of the risk.
It would have been easier, perhaps, to call upon your tenants. After all, that's what a lord is supposed to do in situations like this, least of all because it is they who would be most affected by a poacher stealing game which ought rightfully to belong to them. There are those among them who have hunted on your lands their entire lives, and you certainly cannot doubt that they know the woods better than you.
Yet that doesn't mean you have the right to send them into the woods to face down men who might be dangerous. When you were in Antar, your duty compelled you to send your men into the face of death and injury. Here, you have no such obligation. You'd shame no regimental honour by leaving those under your charge out of danger. In fact, it is rather the opposite.
You shall find and confront these poachers alone, not only because it is your desire, but because it is your duty.
But first, you must find them.
So, every morning, you head out as you had before, but instead of wandering aimlessly in search of excitement, you move towards the north woods with earnest. Stripped down to your shirt sleeves in the summer heat, you sweep through the underbrush with carbine in hand, ready for anything that might come your way…
---
It is almost by chance that you finally find what you're looking for: a patch of disturbed brush in the shadow of a tree, just off of the trail, too artfully placed to be natural. You probe the growth with the muzzle of your carbine, only to be rewarded by the sharp ring of metal upon metal as the jaws of the disguised trap snap shut upon the barrel of your weapon.
A more careful search around the area quickly reveals another trap, and then another.
But after that? Nothing.
Despite your best efforts, you find no more clues. Each new day only yields more empty brush, or perhaps another trap if you're fortunate. The object of your search, once so tantalisingly close, seems to slip from your very fingers. As the weeks pass and the days grow hotter, your investigation increasingly becomes an exercise in frustration.
And then, the entire affair is swept away into almost triviality. Suddenly, you have more pressing matters to deal with.
---
You're eating lunch one late summer's day when you are quite suddenly interrupted by one of your footmen, a hurried look on his face.
"Apologies, my lord," he reports as he bows low. "Master Saundersley begs pardon to inform you that there is a situation of some delicacy in the village, and that your presence is required immediately."
You put down your fork and eye the man carefully. You would rather not like to head out into the heat of midday unless you absolutely have to. "A situation?" you ask. "What sort of situation, pray tell?"
The footman shakes his head. "I do not know, my lord. He only bade me to say that it is urgent and that it must be addressed without delay."
So, without delay it is then. You throw on your coat, saddle up your horse, and ride down the path to the village, only to find Saundersley coming up the road the other way.
"Saints be praised!" your solicitor exclaims as you pull up next to him. "We must move quickly, or else I fear that this whole affair shall be entirely beyond our control."
You look down from your saddle. "I have still not yet been informed of the specifics of the affair. Might you at least tell me what has you in such a state of excitement?"
Saundersley's expression turns grim. "Pray, my lord, let us hurry to the village square then. It would be best if you saw for yourself."
---
The market square of Ezinbrooke village is already packed with people when you arrive. It seems that most of the population of your fief is there. Yet instead of the noise and general hullabaloo which might be expected of a gathering of several hundred, the crowd is almost entirely silent and quite nearly still. The normal business of the market has ceased entirely, and those present seem only content to converse with each other in hushed whispers and looks of utmost suspicion.
When the crowd parts to let you through, you quickly realise why.
In the centre of the square stands a half-dozen wretched-looking figures, four men and two women. The ragged remnants of what had once been homespun hangs on their wasted frames. Some watch the hostile crowd around them apprehensively, their limbs trembling from either fear or mere hunger. Others turn to you as you approach them, their expressions plaintive on their hunger-sunken faces.
You do not know what gives them away first. Perhaps it is the hints of pale skin that still show under their angry red sunburns, or the straw-coloured hair which hangs from their heads, limp and unwashed. Or perhaps it is because you recognise a word or two as they whisper nervously to each other.
These folk are Antari.
---
"They arrived about half an hour ago," Saundersley says as you get off your horse. "The crowd started gathering soon after."
You look around the square. "They seem tense."
Saundersley's eyes narrow. "Forgive my frankness, my lord, but I dare say that they have a right to be," he replies. "A band of dirty, starving, unkempt ruffians straggle into town, capable of speaking naught but foreign gibberish. Surely that is reason for apprehension?"
"Then perhaps we should put their apprehensions to rest," you reply before continuing on towards the middle of the square.
One of the Antari steps forward. He was a big man once, but hunger has shrunken him to little more than skin stretched over a skeleton. His eyes dart from side to side like a cornered animal's. His shoulders hunch over, as if he were trying to make himself as small as possible.
He addresses you in a thick-tongued voice. It is Antari, to be sure. You recognise—or at least, you think you recognise a word or two, but no more than that.
You turn to Saundersley. "I don't suppose you have any Antari, do you?"
The man before you looks quizzically at you for a moment, his brow furrowed. When next he speaks, it is with considerable effort and in a broken, halting Tierran. "Southman master? You?"
You nod. "I have the honour to be lord of this village, yes."
Suddenly, the Antari is on his knees, prostrating himself before you, his voice quavering with fear. "I Tomasz. Not know Southman ways. Forgive?"
It takes you a moment to realise that the man before you is begging your forgiveness for not grovelling before you sooner. His fear, you suppose, is understandable. In Antar, a serf could be impaled for not showing the proper respect to one of his Baneblooded masters.
But you are not in Antar.
"There is no need for that," you reply hastily. "Pray, stand up and tell me why you have come here."
The man, Tomasz, looks up hesitantly, as if expecting a trap. You must repeat yourself before he finally gets up off his knees, shaking with nerves. "I beg help, master," he replies. "Many day, no food…" He pulls up his tattered shirt, revealing a set of ribs poking out of his shrunken belly. "Beg help, for them…" He waves at the others with him. "…and for many other, too."
"What exactly do you need, in particular?"
Tomasz stares back uncomprehendingly.
You try again, taking care to speak as slowly as possible. "How do I help you?"
The Antari takes a moment to find the words. "No food, no hearth, master," he replies despondently. "No food, we die."
"Is it food you require, then?" you ask. "Perhaps some could be made available."
Tomasz shakes his head, his brow furrowed in frustration. "No hearth, winter come, we die," he answers slowly, carefully.
You nod. Tierran winters are not a patch on Antari ones, but they will kill a man easily enough if he's forced to wander the countryside without food or shelter.
"Need hearth, need food," the Antari tries again. "Master give hearth, we make food. We live."
Now you understand. It is not food that they require, but land to grow it on and a fire to cook it over.
What he and his companions are asking you for is a home.
"You mentioned many others. How many? Where are they?"
"Others wait up road, master," Tomasz replies quickly. "Not want offend master by bring all."
Your eyes narrow. "And how many is 'all,' exactly?"
Tomasz frowns. "When snow melt, almost ten tens families?" he says carefully. "Now? Eight tens, maybe seven?"
"You mean to tell me that you have lost a quarter of your number since the beginning of spring?" you ask in disbelief. "How could such a thing even be possible?"
The Antari lets out a long sigh. "No food, no coin," he answers despondently. "No rest, no hope."
"How exactly did a group of Antari serfs end up here, anyway?"
The Antari shakes his head. He has clearly not understood.
You try again: "Where are you from?"
"Khorobirit," Tomasz replies. "Old master go to war. Tomasz go with. Southman take."
That does little to answer your question. In fact, it only seems to give rise to a new one. "The war is over," you reply. "If you were taken prisoner by the King's Army, why did they not return you to Khorobirit?"
Tomasz shrugs. "Master take serf, serf belong to master."
You try not to look appalled. Does he mean to tell you that when an Antari lord takes a serf prisoner, he becomes that man's master? What of the serf's loyalties? His family? Not to mention his right to decide his own destiny…surely such a system is too cruel even for the Lords of the Congress.
Yet when you repeat the question to Tomasz, his reply is the same: "Master take serf, serf belong to master."
By all intents and purposes, Tomasz became the King's property the instant he was captured.
"One day Southman come," the former serf continues. "He say war over, Tomaesz no master."
You find your eyes narrowing. "If you were set free in Antar at the end of the war, why would you come here?" you demand. "Would you rather not be free in your own country?"
Tomasz shakes his head vehemently. "No master, not free. No master, be outlaw. No master, death." He lets out a sigh. "They say this not so in Southland. So live or die? We choose live."
So that is the choice which brought this man and his fellows to Tierra: to be hunted down like animals by the lords of his homeland, or to seek their fortune in a strange and hostile country. You daresay you would have made the same choice he did.
Yet even so, it hasn't been easy for them. You can see that well enough in their sunken eyes, their ragged clothes, their hunger-shrunken bellies. "You've had a hard time of it," you observe, perhaps a little redundantly.
The Antari nods sadly. "Winter, very hard. Blue priests help, never enough. Many die," he replies dully. "Spring come, look food. No find food. Many die. Next winter come…"
He lets out a sigh, his eyes despondent. "Next winter come, all die."
"Saundersley, what do you think?"
Your solicitor turns to you with a strained look. "I feel for these people, my lord, I really do. The ordeals that they have suffered through…" He shakes his head sadly.
"But these people are not your tenants, and you are not their lord," he continues. "Times are hard for everyone, and it is your responsibility to make them easier for those who live on your land and pay you their rents before anyone else."
He gestures at the tense, silent crowd all around you. "Look at their faces, my lord. They know that every penny you spend to give charity to these foreigners will be a penny which will have to be taken out of their rents—the rents they pay so that you may maintain their cottages, repair their roads, and ensure that their crops make it to market. In a matter like this, your people must come first before anyone else's, no matter how desperate they may seem."
"These people will die if we do not help them!" you reply, more than a little appalled at your solicitor's cold-blooded reasoning.
Saundersley looks back at the band of starving Antari before you, his lips taut. He lets out a sigh. "Then offer aid to those worst afflicted, my lord. Those with small children, perhaps. I cannot in good conscience advise you to help all of them, but if we must help some, let it be those who need it the most."
"I have come to a decision."
The crowd falls silent as your words echo over the square; even the whispered muttering amongst your tenants suddenly stops.
All eyes turn to you now. As a Baron speaking in your own fiefdom, your decision is as good as a ruling:
1) "I mean to feed and shelter all who need it, at my own expense."
2) "I can offer food and shelter, but only for those who need it most."
3) "I will provide food and shelter—to those who pay for it."
4) "We cannot afford to offer charity in these hard times."
[Looks like the outcome of our attempt to find poachers may have raised our Intellect slightly, to a whopping 9%:]
It would have been easier, perhaps, to call upon your tenants. After all, that's what a lord is supposed to do in situations like this, least of all because it is they who would be most affected by a poacher stealing game which ought rightfully to belong to them. There are those among them who have hunted on your lands their entire lives, and you certainly cannot doubt that they know the woods better than you.
Yet that doesn't mean you have the right to send them into the woods to face down men who might be dangerous. When you were in Antar, your duty compelled you to send your men into the face of death and injury. Here, you have no such obligation. You'd shame no regimental honour by leaving those under your charge out of danger. In fact, it is rather the opposite.
You shall find and confront these poachers alone, not only because it is your desire, but because it is your duty.
But first, you must find them.
So, every morning, you head out as you had before, but instead of wandering aimlessly in search of excitement, you move towards the north woods with earnest. Stripped down to your shirt sleeves in the summer heat, you sweep through the underbrush with carbine in hand, ready for anything that might come your way…
---
It is almost by chance that you finally find what you're looking for: a patch of disturbed brush in the shadow of a tree, just off of the trail, too artfully placed to be natural. You probe the growth with the muzzle of your carbine, only to be rewarded by the sharp ring of metal upon metal as the jaws of the disguised trap snap shut upon the barrel of your weapon.
A more careful search around the area quickly reveals another trap, and then another.
But after that? Nothing.
Despite your best efforts, you find no more clues. Each new day only yields more empty brush, or perhaps another trap if you're fortunate. The object of your search, once so tantalisingly close, seems to slip from your very fingers. As the weeks pass and the days grow hotter, your investigation increasingly becomes an exercise in frustration.
And then, the entire affair is swept away into almost triviality. Suddenly, you have more pressing matters to deal with.
---
You're eating lunch one late summer's day when you are quite suddenly interrupted by one of your footmen, a hurried look on his face.
"Apologies, my lord," he reports as he bows low. "Master Saundersley begs pardon to inform you that there is a situation of some delicacy in the village, and that your presence is required immediately."
You put down your fork and eye the man carefully. You would rather not like to head out into the heat of midday unless you absolutely have to. "A situation?" you ask. "What sort of situation, pray tell?"
The footman shakes his head. "I do not know, my lord. He only bade me to say that it is urgent and that it must be addressed without delay."
So, without delay it is then. You throw on your coat, saddle up your horse, and ride down the path to the village, only to find Saundersley coming up the road the other way.
"Saints be praised!" your solicitor exclaims as you pull up next to him. "We must move quickly, or else I fear that this whole affair shall be entirely beyond our control."
You look down from your saddle. "I have still not yet been informed of the specifics of the affair. Might you at least tell me what has you in such a state of excitement?"
Saundersley's expression turns grim. "Pray, my lord, let us hurry to the village square then. It would be best if you saw for yourself."
---
The market square of Ezinbrooke village is already packed with people when you arrive. It seems that most of the population of your fief is there. Yet instead of the noise and general hullabaloo which might be expected of a gathering of several hundred, the crowd is almost entirely silent and quite nearly still. The normal business of the market has ceased entirely, and those present seem only content to converse with each other in hushed whispers and looks of utmost suspicion.
When the crowd parts to let you through, you quickly realise why.
In the centre of the square stands a half-dozen wretched-looking figures, four men and two women. The ragged remnants of what had once been homespun hangs on their wasted frames. Some watch the hostile crowd around them apprehensively, their limbs trembling from either fear or mere hunger. Others turn to you as you approach them, their expressions plaintive on their hunger-sunken faces.
You do not know what gives them away first. Perhaps it is the hints of pale skin that still show under their angry red sunburns, or the straw-coloured hair which hangs from their heads, limp and unwashed. Or perhaps it is because you recognise a word or two as they whisper nervously to each other.
These folk are Antari.
---
"They arrived about half an hour ago," Saundersley says as you get off your horse. "The crowd started gathering soon after."
You look around the square. "They seem tense."
Saundersley's eyes narrow. "Forgive my frankness, my lord, but I dare say that they have a right to be," he replies. "A band of dirty, starving, unkempt ruffians straggle into town, capable of speaking naught but foreign gibberish. Surely that is reason for apprehension?"
"Then perhaps we should put their apprehensions to rest," you reply before continuing on towards the middle of the square.
One of the Antari steps forward. He was a big man once, but hunger has shrunken him to little more than skin stretched over a skeleton. His eyes dart from side to side like a cornered animal's. His shoulders hunch over, as if he were trying to make himself as small as possible.
He addresses you in a thick-tongued voice. It is Antari, to be sure. You recognise—or at least, you think you recognise a word or two, but no more than that.
You turn to Saundersley. "I don't suppose you have any Antari, do you?"
The man before you looks quizzically at you for a moment, his brow furrowed. When next he speaks, it is with considerable effort and in a broken, halting Tierran. "Southman master? You?"
You nod. "I have the honour to be lord of this village, yes."
Suddenly, the Antari is on his knees, prostrating himself before you, his voice quavering with fear. "I Tomasz. Not know Southman ways. Forgive?"
It takes you a moment to realise that the man before you is begging your forgiveness for not grovelling before you sooner. His fear, you suppose, is understandable. In Antar, a serf could be impaled for not showing the proper respect to one of his Baneblooded masters.
But you are not in Antar.
"There is no need for that," you reply hastily. "Pray, stand up and tell me why you have come here."
The man, Tomasz, looks up hesitantly, as if expecting a trap. You must repeat yourself before he finally gets up off his knees, shaking with nerves. "I beg help, master," he replies. "Many day, no food…" He pulls up his tattered shirt, revealing a set of ribs poking out of his shrunken belly. "Beg help, for them…" He waves at the others with him. "…and for many other, too."
"What exactly do you need, in particular?"
Tomasz stares back uncomprehendingly.
You try again, taking care to speak as slowly as possible. "How do I help you?"
The Antari takes a moment to find the words. "No food, no hearth, master," he replies despondently. "No food, we die."
"Is it food you require, then?" you ask. "Perhaps some could be made available."
Tomasz shakes his head, his brow furrowed in frustration. "No hearth, winter come, we die," he answers slowly, carefully.
You nod. Tierran winters are not a patch on Antari ones, but they will kill a man easily enough if he's forced to wander the countryside without food or shelter.
"Need hearth, need food," the Antari tries again. "Master give hearth, we make food. We live."
Now you understand. It is not food that they require, but land to grow it on and a fire to cook it over.
What he and his companions are asking you for is a home.
"You mentioned many others. How many? Where are they?"
"Others wait up road, master," Tomasz replies quickly. "Not want offend master by bring all."
Your eyes narrow. "And how many is 'all,' exactly?"
Tomasz frowns. "When snow melt, almost ten tens families?" he says carefully. "Now? Eight tens, maybe seven?"
"You mean to tell me that you have lost a quarter of your number since the beginning of spring?" you ask in disbelief. "How could such a thing even be possible?"
The Antari lets out a long sigh. "No food, no coin," he answers despondently. "No rest, no hope."
"How exactly did a group of Antari serfs end up here, anyway?"
The Antari shakes his head. He has clearly not understood.
You try again: "Where are you from?"
"Khorobirit," Tomasz replies. "Old master go to war. Tomasz go with. Southman take."
That does little to answer your question. In fact, it only seems to give rise to a new one. "The war is over," you reply. "If you were taken prisoner by the King's Army, why did they not return you to Khorobirit?"
Tomasz shrugs. "Master take serf, serf belong to master."
You try not to look appalled. Does he mean to tell you that when an Antari lord takes a serf prisoner, he becomes that man's master? What of the serf's loyalties? His family? Not to mention his right to decide his own destiny…surely such a system is too cruel even for the Lords of the Congress.
Yet when you repeat the question to Tomasz, his reply is the same: "Master take serf, serf belong to master."
By all intents and purposes, Tomasz became the King's property the instant he was captured.
"One day Southman come," the former serf continues. "He say war over, Tomaesz no master."
You find your eyes narrowing. "If you were set free in Antar at the end of the war, why would you come here?" you demand. "Would you rather not be free in your own country?"
Tomasz shakes his head vehemently. "No master, not free. No master, be outlaw. No master, death." He lets out a sigh. "They say this not so in Southland. So live or die? We choose live."
So that is the choice which brought this man and his fellows to Tierra: to be hunted down like animals by the lords of his homeland, or to seek their fortune in a strange and hostile country. You daresay you would have made the same choice he did.
Yet even so, it hasn't been easy for them. You can see that well enough in their sunken eyes, their ragged clothes, their hunger-shrunken bellies. "You've had a hard time of it," you observe, perhaps a little redundantly.
The Antari nods sadly. "Winter, very hard. Blue priests help, never enough. Many die," he replies dully. "Spring come, look food. No find food. Many die. Next winter come…"
He lets out a sigh, his eyes despondent. "Next winter come, all die."
"Saundersley, what do you think?"
Your solicitor turns to you with a strained look. "I feel for these people, my lord, I really do. The ordeals that they have suffered through…" He shakes his head sadly.
"But these people are not your tenants, and you are not their lord," he continues. "Times are hard for everyone, and it is your responsibility to make them easier for those who live on your land and pay you their rents before anyone else."
He gestures at the tense, silent crowd all around you. "Look at their faces, my lord. They know that every penny you spend to give charity to these foreigners will be a penny which will have to be taken out of their rents—the rents they pay so that you may maintain their cottages, repair their roads, and ensure that their crops make it to market. In a matter like this, your people must come first before anyone else's, no matter how desperate they may seem."
"These people will die if we do not help them!" you reply, more than a little appalled at your solicitor's cold-blooded reasoning.
Saundersley looks back at the band of starving Antari before you, his lips taut. He lets out a sigh. "Then offer aid to those worst afflicted, my lord. Those with small children, perhaps. I cannot in good conscience advise you to help all of them, but if we must help some, let it be those who need it the most."
"I have come to a decision."
The crowd falls silent as your words echo over the square; even the whispered muttering amongst your tenants suddenly stops.
All eyes turn to you now. As a Baron speaking in your own fiefdom, your decision is as good as a ruling:
1) "I mean to feed and shelter all who need it, at my own expense."
2) "I can offer food and shelter, but only for those who need it most."
3) "I will provide food and shelter—to those who pay for it."
4) "We cannot afford to offer charity in these hard times."
[Looks like the outcome of our attempt to find poachers may have raised our Intellect slightly, to a whopping 9%:]
As of the Summer of the 614 of the Old Imperial Era:
Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga, Baron Ezinbrooke
Captain, Royal Dragoons (half-pay)
Age: 26
Current Funds: 1485 Crown
Debts: 10860 Crown
Bi-Annual Income (Personal): 135 Crown
Bi-Annual Estate Revenues: 290 Crown
Bi-Annual Estate Expenses: 350 Crown
Bi-Annual Interest Payments: 217 Crown
Total Net Income (Next Six Months): -142 Crown
Soldiering: 72%
Charisma: 43%
Intellect: 9%
Reputation: 41%
Health: 62%
Idealism: 66% ; Cynicism: 34%
Ruthlessness: 32% ; Mercy: 68%
You are a Knight of the Red, having the right to wear Bane-hardened armour and wield a Bane-runed sword.
Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga, Baron Ezinbrooke
Captain, Royal Dragoons (half-pay)
Age: 26
Current Funds: 1485 Crown
Debts: 10860 Crown
Bi-Annual Income (Personal): 135 Crown
Bi-Annual Estate Revenues: 290 Crown
Bi-Annual Estate Expenses: 350 Crown
Bi-Annual Interest Payments: 217 Crown
Total Net Income (Next Six Months): -142 Crown
Soldiering: 72%
Charisma: 43%
Intellect: 9%
Reputation: 41%
Health: 62%
Idealism: 66% ; Cynicism: 34%
Ruthlessness: 32% ; Mercy: 68%
You are a Knight of the Red, having the right to wear Bane-hardened armour and wield a Bane-runed sword.
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)
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)
Ezinbrooke, a barony within the Duchy of Cunaris, possessed of 145 rent-paying households.
Respectability: 28%
Prosperity: 34%
Contentment: 55%
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 and in very poor condition, having been in a state of disrepair for some time. A number of fields lie adjacent to the village, but much arable land is wasted for want of proper clearance.
Bi-Annual Estate Revenues
Rents: 290 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: -60 Crown
Respectability: 28%
Prosperity: 34%
Contentment: 55%
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 and in very poor condition, having been in a state of disrepair for some time. A number of fields lie adjacent to the village, but much arable land is wasted for want of proper clearance.
Bi-Annual Estate Revenues
Rents: 290 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: -60 Crown
Endemic
Arcane
- Joined
- Jul 16, 2012
- Messages
- 4,478
3) "I will provide food and shelter—to those who pay for it."
Taking in these Antari for free will hurt our finances even more, and probably upset our existing tenants. Not sure if this option lets them work off the debt to you over time, would be neat if it does.
Taking in these Antari for free will hurt our finances even more, and probably upset our existing tenants. Not sure if this option lets them work off the debt to you over time, would be neat if it does.
Tyranicon
A Memory of Eternity
- Joined
- Oct 7, 2019
- Messages
- 8,196
Eagerly awaiting the scene where you breed a brace of buxom poachers, who upon being caught and penniless, have no choice but to offer your their nubile pornstar (and for the time, surprisingly shaved and hygienic) bodies.
Wait, what do you mean that scene doesn't exist? PAUL!!!!
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
I'm planning to write some erotic interludes eventually but the idea is to make it less like a porn parody and more like something written by an ESL bastard child of Dostoevsky and Jane Austen with half the talent and twice the mental issues.
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Ideally, we should use the Antari to replace our missing tenants. Does option 3 work like that?
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
Given that my heart is heavy with contrition over my perjurious words from the other day, I will refrain from elaborating on the fictional or mechanical effects of choices not yet taken unless I am all but certain in my assessment thereof BUT in terms of conjecture based solely on the wording of the choice then uh yeah I'm gonna guess so my duderman
But maybe thru option 1 they will eventually become paying tenants too, albeit with more short term financial strain?
Idk, your guess is as good as mine.
I assume you would have received extra information if you took the time to learn the Antari language in your previous games or had recruited a certain amphibious monster from the paleolithic era. Now, what did you need to attain such a companion, you might ask?
About treefiddy
#oof #thatwassopun(n)y #dankmaymay #narwhalbaconsatmidnight #redditprideworldwide #thisisacryforhelp
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Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
No but seriously there was a washed up Antari lord called Loch you could have invited back to your crib and he would've supplement Saundersley as advisor/possible administrator. IIRC it required getting the best result in Hunter's mission in Sabres, then making him the offer in Guns. Spilled milk at this point, though.
- Joined
- Sep 25, 2012
- Messages
- 30,183
Lmao who cares about non alcoholic beverages anyway
Orbit
Scholar
- Joined
- Jun 4, 2017
- Messages
- 108
1) "I mean to feed and shelter all who need it, at my own expense."
I assume this choice is about how many additional surviving tenants we want and how much we are willing to invest. So long-term benefits vs. short-term costs.
Edit: Also, since we're the resident jew now, it's time to start the population replacement.
I assume this choice is about how many additional surviving tenants we want and how much we are willing to invest. So long-term benefits vs. short-term costs.
Edit: Also, since we're the resident jew now, it's time to start the population replacement.
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2) "I can offer food and shelter, but only for those who need it most."
This was tough, not least because the solution I would have put forth on my own is a little too convoluted for this type of game
.
Our first responsibility is always to our own people. Any charity is a result of strength, and that - especially economic strength - is in direly short supply. How can we offer aid and succor to others when we're straining to even properly house our own people?
And yet...
This was tough, not least because the solution I would have put forth on my own is a little too convoluted for this type of game
.Our first responsibility is always to our own people. Any charity is a result of strength, and that - especially economic strength - is in direly short supply. How can we offer aid and succor to others when we're straining to even properly house our own people?
And yet...
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
Ok so we got a tricky thingy on our lapper-toppers:
3 votes for 1, 3 votes for 2 (if I interpret Eryfkrad's vote as being for 2 and 3,) 3 votes for 3 (assuming same interpretation of Eryfkrad's vote and interpreting Storyfag's post as a vote for 3 even though there is a bit of ambiguity in that.)
In the future, I am going to ask you guys to explicitly indicate whether or not you are voting for something or merely inquiring about a choice. In addition, please limit yourself to up to 2 ranked choices (ie "2>3" but not "2 and 3." )
This time I ended up rolling to resolve a 3-way tie, with 3. "I will provide food and shelter—to those who pay for it." being the result. Throwing update up in a bit.
3 votes for 1, 3 votes for 2 (if I interpret Eryfkrad's vote as being for 2 and 3,) 3 votes for 3 (assuming same interpretation of Eryfkrad's vote and interpreting Storyfag's post as a vote for 3 even though there is a bit of ambiguity in that.)
In the future, I am going to ask you guys to explicitly indicate whether or not you are voting for something or merely inquiring about a choice. In addition, please limit yourself to up to 2 ranked choices (ie "2>3" but not "2 and 3." )
This time I ended up rolling to resolve a 3-way tie, with 3. "I will provide food and shelter—to those who pay for it." being the result. Throwing update up in a bit.
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
"I will provide food and shelter—to those who pay for it."
"Pay?" Tomasz protests. "No pay, no coin have!"
"And I will not either, if I offer aid to any who ask for it," you firmly reply. "My decision is final."
Saundersley nods, though his expression remains grim. "It is a harsh compromise, my lord," he admits, "but we live in harsh times. You cannot be faulted it."
Your tenants, however, seem to have other ideas. They respond to your ruling with naught but looks of quiet anger, directed both at the Antari and at you. Some of them begin muttering amongst themselves again. It is clear that at least some among their number have decided that taking in even a single Antari refugee would be one too many, no matter who pays for their food and shelter.
The ragged group of former serfs makes their way back out of the village. Their progress is slow, dejected, their shoulders slumped under the burden they carry back to their fellows: that survival shall only come to those who might afford it.
---
They start coming in over the afternoon. Tomasz is among them. With him are three small children, one still a babe in arms. None of them bear a family resemblance.
Many of the other groups seem of a similar sort. One or two adults and a host of children behind them, some of them looking very little like their supposed parents. They carry only the ragged clothes on their back and a few pathetic bundles of worldly possessions. More than a few can only be carried by their fellows, their bodies trembling with coughing fits. Others are all but covered in bites, sores, and infected wounds.
Behind them travels a small cloud of insects, nesting in their ragged clothes, in their filthy hair, and in their scanty packs.
Your tenants watch them come. As each new bedraggled group of refugees arrives, you can see their mood grow uglier. Their hostility is all but open now, and it isn't just directed at the newcomers. It's you they blame for bringing these people into their community, and if things go poorly, it is you who they will blame for that, as well.
The next few days pass in a state of constant activity, in helping the new arrivals get settled into their homes, and in tending for the worst afflicted.
It is perhaps this last task which is the most taxing, for not all of those who arrive prove strong enough to recover from their long ordeal. There are three deaths in the first night, all of them children. Six more follow over the next few days, one little girl from eating more than her wasted belly could accept, her guts bursting from sudden plenty after months of starvation.
Pyres are duly made for them; at least that is a practise familiar to both your peoples. The families of the dead gather in miserable clumps around them as they burn to ash, still too exhausted to weep.
You cannot help but feel for them, and you take comfort in the fact that thanks to you, they shall not have to burn a child ever again.
---
Things seem to improve over the course of the next week. Steady diet and reliable shelter seem to do wonders for the Antari. The deaths stop, and as the days pass, you can see once-gaunt bodies again begin to bear flesh.
Even your tenants seem to be making an effort not to cause trouble with the new arrivals, their sense of pity likely overriding their sense of suspicion. After a few days, mutual avoidance even begins to give way to a few tentative attempts at communication, albeit ones much restricted by the newcomers' rudimentary grasp of Tierran. Most of it, you admit, is governed by necessity: refugees bartering away their last personal effects for food or other necessities, but it is progress nonetheless.
Matters seem to settle into a pattern as things quiet down and your tenants begin to grow accustomed to their new neighbours. For a while, you even dare to consider the crisis past, and Saundersley's warnings mere hyperbole.
It is not much later that you're proven wrong.
---
"I was approached by a group of Antari this morning," Saundersley reports to you, not a week later. "They were quite distraught."
Your brow furrows. "Has another died?" you ask, your voice tinged with worry. "I must arrange for the construction of a fresh funeral pyre, at once."
Your solicitor shakes his head. "I fear it is nothing so simply resolved as that, my lord," he replies resignedly. "They came to me because they have finally noticed that there is no statue of the Mother of Ascension in the village shrine. It seems that they consider themselves greatly in need of their own place of worship."
Oh, that is a problem.
The Antari worship the Saints, just as you do. However, where you and almost all Tierrans were brought up in the Mersdonian Rite, the Antari adhere to their own version of the faith. In their 'Ascensionist' Rite, the Saintly Martyrs are not elevated by the force of their own deeds and the vigils of their followers. Instead, they are chosen for Sainthood by the Mother of Ascension, a figure with no equivalent in your own version of Saints-Worship.
In short, the new arrivals to your fief follow a religion which is just familiar enough for any good, Saints-revering Tierran to recognise as utterly heretical.
"I could order a second shrine built," you muse. "Pay for the work and materials myself, if necessary."
Saundersley shakes his head. "I would advise against it, my lord," he replies grimly. "The Antari will no doubt be grateful, but I fear your tenants will see the situation quite differently, They will see you as bending over backwards to champion the followers of a foreign heresy. They would certainly disapprove."
Your solicitor has a point. You will win no friends among your long-time tenants by accommodating the new arrivals and their faith. But if you are to deny the Antari even the ability to worship the Saints in the manner which they're accustomed to, what possible impetus would they have to accommodate themselves in return? If the Antari refugees are to become a permanent part of your fief's population, then you shall have to make allowances for them.
It will almost certainly raise the ire of your tenants, but perhaps that is a sacrifice you must be willing to make.
1) "I shall allocate the funds to build a new shrine."
2) "I shall give the Antari a space to worship, but I'll not build them a shrine."
3) "The Antari shall have to make do without."
[Strangely, no updates for our Barony stats yet to reflect the Antari integration, but I assume that they will update next season.]
[Also - fucking hell that was grim.]
"Pay?" Tomasz protests. "No pay, no coin have!"
"And I will not either, if I offer aid to any who ask for it," you firmly reply. "My decision is final."
Saundersley nods, though his expression remains grim. "It is a harsh compromise, my lord," he admits, "but we live in harsh times. You cannot be faulted it."
Your tenants, however, seem to have other ideas. They respond to your ruling with naught but looks of quiet anger, directed both at the Antari and at you. Some of them begin muttering amongst themselves again. It is clear that at least some among their number have decided that taking in even a single Antari refugee would be one too many, no matter who pays for their food and shelter.
The ragged group of former serfs makes their way back out of the village. Their progress is slow, dejected, their shoulders slumped under the burden they carry back to their fellows: that survival shall only come to those who might afford it.
---
They start coming in over the afternoon. Tomasz is among them. With him are three small children, one still a babe in arms. None of them bear a family resemblance.
Many of the other groups seem of a similar sort. One or two adults and a host of children behind them, some of them looking very little like their supposed parents. They carry only the ragged clothes on their back and a few pathetic bundles of worldly possessions. More than a few can only be carried by their fellows, their bodies trembling with coughing fits. Others are all but covered in bites, sores, and infected wounds.
Behind them travels a small cloud of insects, nesting in their ragged clothes, in their filthy hair, and in their scanty packs.
Your tenants watch them come. As each new bedraggled group of refugees arrives, you can see their mood grow uglier. Their hostility is all but open now, and it isn't just directed at the newcomers. It's you they blame for bringing these people into their community, and if things go poorly, it is you who they will blame for that, as well.
The next few days pass in a state of constant activity, in helping the new arrivals get settled into their homes, and in tending for the worst afflicted.
It is perhaps this last task which is the most taxing, for not all of those who arrive prove strong enough to recover from their long ordeal. There are three deaths in the first night, all of them children. Six more follow over the next few days, one little girl from eating more than her wasted belly could accept, her guts bursting from sudden plenty after months of starvation.
Pyres are duly made for them; at least that is a practise familiar to both your peoples. The families of the dead gather in miserable clumps around them as they burn to ash, still too exhausted to weep.
You cannot help but feel for them, and you take comfort in the fact that thanks to you, they shall not have to burn a child ever again.
---
Things seem to improve over the course of the next week. Steady diet and reliable shelter seem to do wonders for the Antari. The deaths stop, and as the days pass, you can see once-gaunt bodies again begin to bear flesh.
Even your tenants seem to be making an effort not to cause trouble with the new arrivals, their sense of pity likely overriding their sense of suspicion. After a few days, mutual avoidance even begins to give way to a few tentative attempts at communication, albeit ones much restricted by the newcomers' rudimentary grasp of Tierran. Most of it, you admit, is governed by necessity: refugees bartering away their last personal effects for food or other necessities, but it is progress nonetheless.
Matters seem to settle into a pattern as things quiet down and your tenants begin to grow accustomed to their new neighbours. For a while, you even dare to consider the crisis past, and Saundersley's warnings mere hyperbole.
It is not much later that you're proven wrong.
---
"I was approached by a group of Antari this morning," Saundersley reports to you, not a week later. "They were quite distraught."
Your brow furrows. "Has another died?" you ask, your voice tinged with worry. "I must arrange for the construction of a fresh funeral pyre, at once."
Your solicitor shakes his head. "I fear it is nothing so simply resolved as that, my lord," he replies resignedly. "They came to me because they have finally noticed that there is no statue of the Mother of Ascension in the village shrine. It seems that they consider themselves greatly in need of their own place of worship."
Oh, that is a problem.
The Antari worship the Saints, just as you do. However, where you and almost all Tierrans were brought up in the Mersdonian Rite, the Antari adhere to their own version of the faith. In their 'Ascensionist' Rite, the Saintly Martyrs are not elevated by the force of their own deeds and the vigils of their followers. Instead, they are chosen for Sainthood by the Mother of Ascension, a figure with no equivalent in your own version of Saints-Worship.
In short, the new arrivals to your fief follow a religion which is just familiar enough for any good, Saints-revering Tierran to recognise as utterly heretical.
"I could order a second shrine built," you muse. "Pay for the work and materials myself, if necessary."
Saundersley shakes his head. "I would advise against it, my lord," he replies grimly. "The Antari will no doubt be grateful, but I fear your tenants will see the situation quite differently, They will see you as bending over backwards to champion the followers of a foreign heresy. They would certainly disapprove."
Your solicitor has a point. You will win no friends among your long-time tenants by accommodating the new arrivals and their faith. But if you are to deny the Antari even the ability to worship the Saints in the manner which they're accustomed to, what possible impetus would they have to accommodate themselves in return? If the Antari refugees are to become a permanent part of your fief's population, then you shall have to make allowances for them.
It will almost certainly raise the ire of your tenants, but perhaps that is a sacrifice you must be willing to make.
1) "I shall allocate the funds to build a new shrine."
2) "I shall give the Antari a space to worship, but I'll not build them a shrine."
3) "The Antari shall have to make do without."
As of the Summer of the 614 of the Old Imperial Era:
Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga, Baron Ezinbrooke
Captain, Royal Dragoons (half-pay)
Age: 26
Current Funds: 1485 Crown
Debts: 10860 Crown
Bi-Annual Income (Personal): 135 Crown
Bi-Annual Estate Revenues: 290 Crown
Bi-Annual Estate Expenses: 350 Crown
Bi-Annual Interest Payments: 217 Crown
Total Net Income (Next Six Months): -142 Crown
Soldiering: 72%
Charisma: 43%
Intellect: 9%
Reputation: 41%
Health: 62%
Idealism: 60% ; Cynicism: 40%
Ruthlessness: 32% ; Mercy: 68%
You are a Knight of the Red, having the right to wear Bane-hardened armour and wield a Bane-runed sword.
Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga, Baron Ezinbrooke
Captain, Royal Dragoons (half-pay)
Age: 26
Current Funds: 1485 Crown
Debts: 10860 Crown
Bi-Annual Income (Personal): 135 Crown
Bi-Annual Estate Revenues: 290 Crown
Bi-Annual Estate Expenses: 350 Crown
Bi-Annual Interest Payments: 217 Crown
Total Net Income (Next Six Months): -142 Crown
Soldiering: 72%
Charisma: 43%
Intellect: 9%
Reputation: 41%
Health: 62%
Idealism: 60% ; Cynicism: 40%
Ruthlessness: 32% ; Mercy: 68%
You are a Knight of the Red, having the right to wear Bane-hardened armour and wield a Bane-runed sword.
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)
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)
[Strangely, no updates for our Barony stats yet to reflect the Antari integration, but I assume that they will update next season.]
Ezinbrooke, a barony within the Duchy of Cunaris, possessed of 145 rent-paying households.
Respectability: 28%
Prosperity: 34%
Contentment: 55%
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 and in very poor condition, having been in a state of disrepair for some time. A number of fields lie adjacent to the village, but much arable land is wasted for want of proper clearance.
Bi-Annual Estate Revenues
Rents: 290 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: -60 Crown
Respectability: 28%
Prosperity: 34%
Contentment: 55%
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 and in very poor condition, having been in a state of disrepair for some time. A number of fields lie adjacent to the village, but much arable land is wasted for want of proper clearance.
Bi-Annual Estate Revenues
Rents: 290 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: -60 Crown
[Also - fucking hell that was grim.]
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- Joined
- Sep 25, 2012
- Messages
- 30,183
Irrelevant, let them handle it themselves, I say. 2
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
ACCORDING TO MY UNDERSTANDING OF THE GAME'S SCRIPT WHICH MAY OR MAY NOT BE CORRECT, fiddy dollars initially. However, I don't know whether there are upkeep costs down the line.
Stop doing that. I was explicitly asking a question, and not voting.
- Joined
- Sep 25, 2012
- Messages
- 30,183
Don't look now but Lithium Flower spilled some milk again.
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
Hopefully you can understand how I could fairly interpret your statement of "ideally we should do x. Does option n do that?" as an implicit vote for n in the event that my response is "yeah, probably?" Because had I ruled "Storyfag didn't make an explicit vote so fuck him I guess," you could have also fairly said, "hang on, my preference for x was clear, and you said that n probably corresponded to that, how is that in itself not a vote." So while I agree that my interpretation was based on conjecture, and that's not fair either, please make things easier for me by being even more explicit, for instance by mentioning "I am not voting yet." or by omitting the first part of the statement that implies possible intent to vote on that option; Set boundaries; Advocate for yourself; Life, laugh, love; I feel suffocated by this relationship.
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