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

[Lithium Flower]

…negotiations which resulted in an engagement, entered into of my own free will.''

Yes, there was an exchange of promises," you reply absent-mindedly as you dive back into the pits of your memory. "Nothing legally binding, but…"

It's been a long time since you thought of Alisanne d'al Touravon. War didn't give you much time for such things. You had not known each other well, though clearly you considered her pleasant enough to consent to marry her all those years ago, in the parlour of their manse.

But you're a far different man from the one who departed for Fernandescourt in the spring of 602. Surely, she must have changed as well. Will you even still recognise her after all these years? You, who can barely remember what she looked like then?

~And yet...

"What he needs is a wife," Wulfram opines. "Someone strong-willed enough to take him in hand and give him the resolve to make something of himself. He will not like it, at first, but once he grows accustomed to his new condition, he will find himself happier than he ever was and look upon his old behaviour with disdain."

"You speak well of marriage, sir."

"I consider it one of the foundational stones of human happiness, my lord," he replies, smiling just a little...

Are you chasing some foolish notion of redemption... or, failing that, domestication? You are not a mere rake like Warburton - you present a danger to everyone around you, little better than a wretched animal. Wild beasts can be trained but they may never be fully tamed, even your scatterbrained self knows this.

Whether one is paired up or lonesome, it matters not - a wretch shall remain a wretch...~

Something of your inner thoughts must have shown on your face this time, for you see Saundersley's eyes narrow almost immediately.

"If that is the case, then as your solicitor, I would strongly advise you to call upon this lady at soonest convenience, either to confirm the terms of your engagement or—" He pauses, lips pressed together as he searches for the right words. "—or to make a clean break of it, if that is your intention."

"It is not. The engagement will stand."

Saundersley nods approvingly. "Good, then I suppose you shall require no further counsel from me on the matter."

No, you suppose you shall not. It's all up to you now. You'll have to call upon the Touravons, and soon, to see for yourself whether or not you made the right decision. The village is far behind you now, its last cottages receding into the distance. Ahead, there's only the long, lonely path up the rise to the manor house where you lived for so many of your early years.

Even from a distance, it too is somewhat less than you remembered it, the stucco of the walls cracked and crumbling, the stone fittings falling to pieces, the tiled roof patched and imperfect when it isn't stripped bare entirely. The home of your childhood has been reduced to a sad little edifice, a rickety pile atop its hill; half its windows broken or blocked up, its perimeter fence tumbled-down and entirely collapsed at places, the grounds almost overrun with wild tangles of growth and shrubbery.

There can be no safety in a frail half-ruin like this. It would be so easy for a band of determined attackers to advance under cover of the brush up to the very perimeter fence. From there, it would be child's play for any band of assailants to find and advance through one of the gaps in the fence, to enter through one of the broken windows and place the entire house at their mercy. Even if you were able to shut yourself up in some secure wing, you doubt it would take any piece of artillery greater than a six-pounder to batter the whole edifice down within an hour, with you still inside—

It is only then that you realise that you have, through long force of habit, begun thinking like a soldier again.

Only through a conscious effort do you force yourself to stop. The war is over. There are no partisans skulking about in the woods around Ezinbrooke House, looking to do you harm. You may have enemies in Tierra, true, but nobody so barbarous as to attack you with cannon. Surely to apply military patterns of thought to your life at peace would be ridiculous.

Wouldn't it?

1a) The lessons of war have made me stronger. I'll not abandon them.
1b) I may no longer be at war, but some of what I've learned may yet be of use.
1c) My days as a soldier are over; I must stop thinking like one.


They're all here, the half-dozen men and women who had served your father and are now to serve you...

You can see the unease and uncertainty in their expressions as they deliver their bows and curtseys...

Perhaps it's time for some words, or a gesture. Anything to lay their uncertainties to rest....

2a) No. If I am to reassure them, it will be by deeds, not words.
2b) I must reassure them that things will not be so much different.
2c) I shall try to inspire them, convince them that we are bound for greater things.
2d) Words are cheap. I'll offer the staff a substantial bonus instead.

[Vote once for 1. and 2. each. The votes will be considered individually, not as a set. And congratulations, RPG Romancedex.]

---

As of the Autumn of the 613 of the Old Imperial Era:

Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga, Baron Ezinbrooke
Captain, Royal Dragoons (half-pay)
Age: 25

Current Funds: 1754 Crown
Debts: 10860 Crown

Bi-Annual Income (Personal): 135 Crown

Soldiering: 75%

Charisma: 43%

Intellect: 5%


Reputation: 31%

Health: 65%


Idealism: 61% Cynicism: 39%

Ruthlessness: 39% Mercy: 61%

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.
(Born: 583 OIE)

James d'al Sandoral: Captain (half-pay), the Royal Dragoons.
(Born 592 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. (Born 587 OIE)

 

[ERYFKRAD]

1a 2a

 

[Storyfag]

1b 2c

 

[Kalarion]

1b) I may no longer be at war, but some of what I've learned may yet be of use.
We've already had a taste of the vast gulf between leading soldiers in battle and managing politics and an estate. Surely much of it is transferable, but not all. Not even close. If war comes we will take up the blade and the musket once again. Until then we must ruthlessly apply ourselves to the task at hand, using whatever advantages available, including our prior training and deeds.

2b) I must reassure them that things will not be so much different.
This one was tough. My heart calls for 2d. But we don't have the wherewithal. Generosity comes from a position of strength. Perhaps something to keep in mind for the future.

 

[Non-Edgy Gamer]

1b) 2b)

 

[Grimgravy]

1b, 2a

 

[Non-Edgy Gamer]

3-way tie on 2 lol. I'm willing to flop to 2c if it continues.

 

[Optimist]

1b, 2c

Let's give them a nice, uplifting speech.

 

[Kipeci]

1B 2B

Just voting randomly on the latest update as I was tagged but haven’t read anything in between. The war against the potatoes is over? Who won?

 

[Lithium Flower]

1b, 2a

1B 2B

Just voting randomly on the latest update as I was tagged but haven’t read anything in between. The war against the potatoes is over? Who won?

Ayo nice to see all yall's cute asses up in this bitch homebois you know what I'm saying and shit

You were there for the end of the war, birdfriend, happened at the end of the last game/book. Its been a little while though! I wrote shortish summaries in the OP after the Story so Far section, I think that's probably the fastest way to catch up on the story so far and all that

EDIT: oh but I forgot to answer, guess I've got a birdbrain aha - the war ended some time after Second Battle of Kharingia, with peace terms relative favorable to Tierra. But we are home now and the kingdom seems to be in quite a precarious state

 

[Endemic]

1b, 2b.

 

[Lithium Flower]

I may no longer be at war, but some of what I've learned may yet be of use.

True, you're a King's officer on the active list no longer, but that doesn't mean the lessons you learned during your long years at war will be of no use at all. While the command of a squadron of Dragoons is a much different affair from the management of an estate, there will no doubt be some overlap. After all, are not both disciplines ones which ultimately rest upon one's ability to lead men effectively?

You'll have to remain flexible, of course. You can hardly expect to snap out commands to your tenants, to be obeyed immediately and unquestioningly as you might to a group of common soldiery, and you shall have to take care not to offend the gentlemen of your neighbouring estates with anything that might resemble a soldier's coarseness; but surely, such matters might be addressed later.

As for now, you may yet have need for a soldier's talents.

---

The coach trundles on, past the rusted wrought-iron gates and up the paved drive, to where a row of figures await, turned out to receive the new lord of the manor.

They're all here, the half-dozen men and women who had served your father and are now to serve you. They're smaller and greyer than you remember, their clothes more worn and threadbare, but one by one, the sight of their faces pulls a name from the deep recesses of your memory: Fernand, the foul-mouthed old groundskeeper; Mistress Ibanez, who'd run the kitchen as her own personal realm; Armand, the footman, who had once played constable-and-roadsmen with Willie Fenton in that very same yard.

You remember them, all of them.

At last, the coach lurches to a stop on the uneven cobbles. Thumps echo across the ceiling as the coachman makes his way down to the side of the carriage, and then his black-gloved hand pulls open the door. With a deep breath, you step out onto the drive, back into the world you left so many years ago.

---

Some part of you had expected your father to be here, even long after you received the news of his death. Some dark and vengeful part of you yet burned to stand before him, with all of your achievements marshalled around you, to cast all the bitterness of his neglect and his callousness back in his face. You held onto your imagining of the moment like a secreted dagger through all your years at war. You wouldn't need to rant or roar or resort to brute force. It would have been enough simply to look into his eyes and see him recognise just how thoroughly he'd been surpassed.

But no, there will be no such reckoning. Your father is gone, just like your mother before him, his ashes scattered into the evening wind. Not even your desire for vengeance can bring him back now.

Only the servants are left now, the coachman and Saundersley among them. You can see the unease and uncertainty in their expressions as they deliver their bows and curtseys.

True, you were the young master to them when you were a boy, but boyhood seems far away now, and the gulf of years that separates you has become a wide and bottomless chasm. While they spent those years in this quiet and rural backwater, you fought on the forefront of the largest and bloodiest war in the Unified Kingdom's history. Could they even think to fathom the trials you have faced? What stories have they heard of the war in Antar, of you?

Perhaps it's time for some words, or a gesture. Anything to lay their uncertainties to rest.

I must reassure them that things will not be so much different.

It still strikes you as a little foreign to begin by stressing how little is about to change. You certainly wouldn't have addressed a new command in such a manner. Then again, the men and women assembled before you are not soldiers, to be uprooted and dragged about in the name of duty or pay. They are the old retainers of your house, who have devoted much of their lives to a well-worn, unerring method in their labours, one which you would do no good to uproot.

So, it is tradition and continuity which are to be your watchwords, for now at least.

"I understand some of you may have concerns," you begin, stepping back to address the whole yard. "It has been a long time since any of you have seen me, and I am sure I look very different today than I did then. War is known to change men, and no doubt that after twelve years of it, you worry as to the soundness of my temperament."

You can see some of them nodding, in agreement and in relief. It would have been the height of insolence to voice those concerns to your face, but now that you yourself have mentioned them, they are free to make their opinion known.

"I mean to lay those concerns to rest," you continue. "War has changed me, that I cannot deny, but I am still the boy who grew up in this very house, and I mean to run things much as they were run in my childhood. You may go about your duties, confident in the knowledge that things will be as they were, and will continue to be so as long as I am master of this house."

There are more looks of relief now. It seems you have laid their immediate concerns to rest.

"That will be all," you conclude. "Back to your duties."

---

Dinner is almost a feast. There's a cold soup of potatoes and leeks and a platter of quartered apples in honey. There's coarse brown bread and salt dace on rice, along with a plate piled high with horse-meat steak.

No Aetoria City hostess would have been caught dead serving such fare, no regimental mess either. It has too much of the air of the backwoods rustic and lacks any of the sophistication of Kian or Takaran or M'hidiyossi cooking, with ingredients determined less by any culinary theory or high fashion than by price and sheer proximity to the kitchen which is to prepare it. You can imagine the polite condescension of some of your higher-placed acquaintances if they were served such food. Others of their class would likely be far less civil. "Food for peasants," they would likely sneer, "and people who live like peasants."

But for you, it is the food of your childhood, and even if the rest of your past before the war seems dull and foggy and only half-recalled, you remember this more than well enough.

It is the taste of home, and you spoon it up with gusto.

---

It is…strange, to eat alone. With your parents dead, you have only your servants for company, and they, like any properly behaved domestics, only speak when spoken to.

In retrospect, you realise that you were almost never truly alone in your time at war. When you were not at the head of your men, you were always accompanied by subordinates, superiors, your bat man at the very least. Even in times of solitude, there was some notion that your fellow soldiers were only a few steps away. Now though, as you sit alone at a table easily large enough to seat twelve, you cannot help but feel a great emptiness around you.

It's something you haven't felt in a long time, not since you were home last, all those years ago.

You look around again at the empty dining room, at the flickering candles, the worn and cracked panels of wood that adorn the walls, at the great, decrepit house around you, silent save for the creaks and groans of old age, and empty save for you and those who wouldn't dare think of you as an equal, even if you commanded them to.

Perhaps you will people this empty house again, fill the empty rooms with the sound of joyous voices and the desolate halls with the laughter of children. Perhaps you'll draw the isolation around you like a fortress, letting your solitude serve as ramparts to shut out the distractions of the world, leaving you with the privacy of your own thoughts.

~And what thoughts are those? Besides the usual churn, there are memories of the people who once lived here, fragmented by pain. Her mask of bared teeth, that smiled one moment and scowled the next; His cold eyes, that so often seemed to be a hundred thousand miles away - until you caught His ire and caused that distance to be filled with trembling fury; the shouting, the attic, your private little games... and the wooden sword that kept your mind at peace. The same peculiar peace that now reigns in the manor, one of isolation, daydreams, and quiet sadness.~

Or perhaps this place will become like a prison. Perhaps your best days are already behind you, and you'll become a dessicated husk of a man in this dessicated husk of a house, simply waiting to die.

~Just as you used to wait and wait and wait on the floor of that dark little storeroom. Sometimes a woman's voice from the other side of the locked door would utter, "you deserve this." What was more dreadful - His actions, or Her words? It did not matter; you had your blade and knoll, and the books of knightly tales in the attic. Until the books were taken, and the sword was broken over His knee. Not too long afterwards, you held a real sabre. Even then, you were only playing...

How long until you finally grow up? How much time do you have left at all?~

You push such thoughts out of your mind. Whatever the future holds is for the future to determine. The present yet demands your attention, and you have a great deal of work ahead of you before such concerns retreat into the past.

~Distractions - more toys for reckless play, that too shall shatter in time. The last seals over your mind will break alongside them.

For the meantime, the nights you spend in this place will rarely be restful.~

---

The next few days pass in a flurry of activity as you grow accustomed to your new position and circumstances.

When you were in Antar, the process of settling into your new billet only took a few hours. Your bat man would follow you to your new lodgings with your baggage and unpack everything as per your well-accustomed directions. You would immediately commandeer a desk for the purpose of your administrative work. After that, it was only a matter of clearing away the papers left by the desk's previous owner, introducing yourself at the local officers' club, and making sure the rest of your command was similarly settled in.

You took that for granted, then.

Now, newly returned to your childhood home, you find yourself surrounded by half a dozen servants who remember your name and face, but know nothing of your personal habits. Your baggage—the sparse kit of a soldier ready to depart at a moment's notice—possesses little of the necessities you suddenly find yourself in need of as a country gentleman. Worst of all, instead of having the luxury of discarding your father's confidential papers—the ones which even Saundersley is not privy to—you must read through them, one by one, at the desk which used to be his, so that you may learn of your father's affairs and the decisions he made in government of the barony which is now yours.

It is not an easy process. Your father evidently never meant anyone but himself to read his papers, for they're written and arranged in such an arcane and irrational manner that you find it almost torture to decipher. In the end, you resort to writing notes of your own, just to wring the necessary information out of your father's rambling, near-incoherent records.

Day and night, you pore over reams of notes, papers, and official correspondence. Most of the time, you take your meals at your father's desk—your desk now, you suppose—and pause only to sleep, attend to needs of the body, and periodically wipe the ink from your hands. By the end of the second day, you're exhausted and stressed. Still, you ignore the aches in your wrists and the dull pain behind your ears, call for a fresh candle, and go on.

It is only after three days of near-constant work that you finally emerge from your father's study. Your head still filled with lists of tenants, maps of grazing fields, and the texts of legal contracts, you commit yourself to a good, long night's sleep. You are not entirely versed in your estate's workings, but you at least now know enough to be confident in moving forward. You've taken the first step to becoming Baron Ezinbrooke in truth, as well as in name.

On the morning of the fourth day, you bathe and dress in your best coat. You order the carriage hitched and readied, and head for Baron Touravon's estate to confirm your alliance with his daughter.

---

Touravon House is not so different from your own residence. The drive is perhaps less holed, the walls in less disrepair, the outbuildings in better condition, but as a whole, it is of the same model as your house and the perhaps one hundred other country houses which dot the Cunarian countryside: too worn and too cramped to be the stately hall of a great lord, far too grand and ancient to be the home of a mere farmer or tradesman.

Lord Touravon is a solidly built man, his grey hair tied back and curled, as had been the fashion among the country nobility when your father was young. You think he would have made a good Dragoon officer, were he twenty years younger. Over cups of coffee and plates of biscuits, the two of you discuss matters almost perfectly devised to be incapable of causing offence. Yet as the minutes tick past on the heavy pendulum clock in Lord Touravon's parlour, and you discuss such inane matters as the weather and the harvest and the state of the roads, the real reason for your coming here seems to take on a greater and greater urgency.

When Touravon finally asks you your intentions regarding his daughter, you're almost overjoyed to reply.

Lord Touravon is no less contented by your reply, contented enough to immediately call for his daughter so that you might tell your betrothed of the progress of your engagement directly.

---

Lady Alisanne d'al Touravon has grown a great deal since you last saw her. No longer a slip of a girl, she has matured into a slim, demure woman with long, mousey-brown hair and a delicate snub nose. Her hazel eyes brighten with happiness when you inform her that you mean to carry on with your engagement, and that you're likely to be married not too far in the future, as soon as you're properly established in your new title.

As she goes on to speak happily of her hopes for a wedding and children, it occurs to you that neither of you actually know each other all that well. You had spoken a few times before you went to war, but that was almost twelve years ago. You were no more than a callow youth, and she not too far out of childhood. You know nothing of her interests, and she knows nothing of yours. Of her fears and apprehensions, of her likes and preferences, you know no more than she would know of your experiences in Antar. While it is generally considered a piece of common wisdom that affection comes after a wedding rather than before, that doesn't mean you ought to swear your oaths without any understanding of the woman you're to spend what is likely to be the rest of your life with.

Perhaps it would be best to reach out, even in this early stage. It certainly wouldn't hurt to try to establish some personal friendship with her now—so long as you don't end up coming across as a bore.


1) I have charm enough to make a good impression, at least.

2) Surely we have some common interests we might bond over.

3) I'd rather not be too forward. I'll listen, rather than speak.

---

As of the Autumn of the 613 of the Old Imperial Era:

Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga, Baron Ezinbrooke
Captain, Royal Dragoons (half-pay)
Age: 25

Current Funds: 1754 Crown
Debts: 10860 Crown

Bi-Annual Income (Personal): 135 Crown
Bi-Annual Estate Revenues: 450 Crown

Bi-Annual Estate Expenses: 350 Crown
Bi-Annual Interest Payments: 217 Crown

Total Net Income (Next Six Months): 18 Crown

Soldiering: 75%

Charisma: 43%

Intellect: 5%


Reputation: 31%

Health: 62%


Idealism: 61% Cynicism: 39%

Ruthlessness: 39% Mercy: 61%

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.
(Born: 583 OIE)

James d'al Sandoral: Captain (half-pay), the Royal Dragoons.
(Born 592 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. (Born 587 OIE)

---

Ezinbrooke

A barony within the Duchy of Cunaris, possessed of 150 rent-paying households.

Respectability: 25%

Prosperity: 25%

Contentment: 25%

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, though the poor state of local roads may cause great delays in travel.

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.

Revenues and Expenditures

Bi-Annual Estate Revenues
Rents: 450 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: 100 Crown

[I will figure of the best way to present all this reoccuring information before the next update]

 

[ERYFKRAD]

1

 

[Kalarion]

Her hazel eyes brighten with happiness when you inform her that you mean to carry on with your engagement, and that you're likely to be married not too far in the future...

As she goes on to speak happily of her hopes for a wedding and children...

fuck off inner tormentor!

3) I'd rather not be too forward. I'll listen, rather than speak. (>2)

A happy and contented wife, versed in the management of a country estate, will be a jewel beyond price. We must learn as much as we can about her, whether we're peas in a pod or night and day. Facile charm won't do, and we haven't the wit for it anyway. Although... maybe for a young lady not already well-versed in the latest fashion in courtship...? Hmmmmmm.

Quiet observance, a smile, softened eyes... that's the ticket for now.

 

[ERYFKRAD]

Facile charm won't do,

Look at our damned charisma score bruv, it might actually be useful for once

 

[Kalarion]

Alright. Your barbarian brainpower has convinced me. Flop to 2.

 

[ERYFKRAD]

Your barbarian brainpower has convinced me

I never expected to read such a line in my lifetime.

 

[Optimist]

1

We can slay other things than slavs

 

[Lithium Flower]

Her hazel eyes brighten with happiness when you inform her that you mean to carry on with your engagement, and that you're likely to be married not too far in the future...

As she goes on to speak happily of her hopes for a wedding and children...

fuck off inner tormentor!

Haha, you mean the tildes of friendly insight?

Facile charm won't do,

Look at our damned charisma score bruv, it might actually be useful for once

Just to be clear 43% charisma is in the average range, but on the lower side. Its like having, I don't know, a 5.0inch penoid. Not great, not terrible, that kind of thing. You've definitely passed some checks with it so far. Many however require 45+ charisma which you are infuriatingly close to.

 

[ERYFKRAD]

tildes of friendly insight

Brother if that's friendly you gonna get shot dead by the warning shot.

 

[Non-Edgy Gamer]

Hmm. I'm going to have to guess that 3 would be the way to go here. Our low-end charisma might have us fail the check in the first option.

Anything but the second option. Because just what do we expect to have in common with her? This isn't 2020. She's not a gamer and neither are we.

 

[ERYFKRAD]

She's not a gamer and neither are we.

We're probably gonna get suckered into Kipling's Great game if we're not careful, though.

 

[Endemic]

3) I'd rather not be too forward. I'll listen, rather than speak.

 

[Storyfag]

1

 

[Kipeci]

2

I am intrigued in finding out what interest our martial gorilla figures he has in common with this poor girl.