-
Welcome to rpgcodex.net, a site dedicated to discussing computer based role-playing games in a free and open fashion. We're less strict than other forums, but please refer to the rules.
"This message is awaiting moderator approval": All new users must pass through our moderation queue before they will be able to post normally. Until your account has "passed" your posts will only be visible to yourself (and moderators) until they are approved. Give us a week to get around to approving / deleting / ignoring your mundane opinion on crap before hassling us about it. Once you have passed the moderation period (think of it as a test), you will be able to post normally, just like all the other retards.
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
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
~Interlude I: Apropos of the Melting Snow
Yet there is more silence to overcome.
Even though the air of early spring ought to bring relief, each inhale fills you with unease. You can practically feel the chaperone's eyes digging at your back - yet each time you turn your head to glance at the footman trailing you at some distance, he appears to be observing nothing beyond the state of his dirtied footwear.
In hindsight, inviting the Lady for a walk was premature. Your intention was to find slightly more privacy and distance from your embarrassing reunion in the parlor, so that both of you may speak with greater ease. Yet the well-trodden roads and fields of Cunaris are all too moistened by dirty snow, and - in spite of the warm sunshine - the chill air is enough to render you both phlegmatic in every sense of the word; Alisanne had endured the sniffles for as long as she could, but now she keeps turning away from you on the regular to dab at her face with a handkerchief. It strikes you that it may solely be your mutual familiarity with rural life that allows this meeting to persist. A prim and urban lady would have called it off by now, in order to retreat within the warm walls of a salon or somesuch.
"...I am still not used to calling on our servants, in truth," she picks up the conversation that her latest handkerchief ritual had interrupted. "Father is adept at giving orders to the staff, particularly to the footmen. Yet I - well, with the maid, for instance - I've trouble finding the right tone, some balance that avoids being either too demanding or too...soft, I suppose."
She turns to look at you, which you reciprocate - direct eye contact that occurs yet seldom between the two of you - her mouth half-pursed and eyebrows raised, whether out of genuine curiosity or a polite pretense at such, "might you know of the right way, my lord?"
Your breath is caught, if only for a moment. It is hardly the first time that she asks for your opinion - likely because there would not be much conversation otherwise - yet for the first time the matter seems much more personal than general trivia or mundane particulars of country life. Even though the question is poised to be a request for neither aid nor advice, the implication remains clear even to your oblivious self: she cares enough for your opinion to consider it, or is at least trying to gauge just how much experience you have in these matters.
Now is that chance to say just the right thing, to prove yourself competent and worldly, if not learned-
"Commanding others, my lady, is..."
...a fearful absurdity, when some are twice your age yet serve you still;
...an anxiety that feels at times unbearable, when one must commit to an action that will meddle with the lives of men just like yourself, baneblood or naught...
...is a shameful evil when you are not fit for command, when your mouth is open and an order comes out as a stutter - or worse, does not come out at all, - when you must observe the men who were killed by your own words;
...not the sort of burden you ever truly wanted;
"...a d-difficult sort of thing," you stammer after an enormity of time had passed - and that is that.
The young woman waits a moment, then bats her eyes, and smiles apologetically, and clears her throat, and murmurs "oh, I see," and looks away, and produces her handerkchief - however vast her arsenal for recovering lost conversation, she had just used all of it to zero effect.
But it is hardly the first time that your crude self can think of nothing but scenes of brutality in response to even the most mundane of the Lady's questions; previously, when she merely inquired of your taste in literature, you struggled to dismiss the memory of when you found Hernandes' body, his journal ruined by thick Antari mud, and of the way the shattered glass and bent frame of his spectacles had been driven into his face, into his bleeding eyes...
Indeed, those moments revealed that you have just barely enough competency and worldliness to spare her the absurd horror of your thoughts - and no more, certainly not enough to come up with anything more civil, let alone wise.
Yet this moment is the worst one yet. Such a relevant subject, such an opportunity to build rapport - and you took it to nowhere but your mutual embarrassment.
Now it is her own turn to figure out what else to bloody say.
“Is something the matter, my lord?” she finally utters, in a tone just barely tinged with equal parts concern and irritation, “do you want us to speak of something else?”
You tense up, as if expecting that the woman might try dig out the anxieties gnawing through your head only to throw them back in your face.
“Not at all, my lady,” you lie through a forced smile, “the pleasure of your company is enough to, ah...occupy my attention.”
She shakes her head before she can stop herself, seemingly dazed by your ill-attempted compliment.
By the saints, this is simply awful...
“Then it is I who is doing something wrong. Would my lord not tell me-”
“Oh no, not at all, my lady is a splendid conversationalist,” you try to parry with barely concealed desperation.
Frowning, she counterattacks, “no, this scarcely resembles a conversation...”
Her words catch you by surprise – you can only assume that it is due to cold weather that the normally-demure Lady is irritated enough to confront you so openly. She tries to compose herself with a sigh “Ah, but I am only frustrated at myself – not at you, my lord – as in so many of our meetings I seem to fail to engage you. You were so much more animated upon our reunion-”
“My lady did not seem pleased with the way I conducted myself then,” you reply with more bitterness than you expected.
“And yet it did lead to some sort of exchange, at least. Perhaps I discouraged my lord with my own conduct – I beg pardon, for I am not a terribly practiced interlocutor myself. And I am thankful that unlike... some, you let me speak my mind. Yet I must ask, what was it that allowed you to speak livelier then? Was it...”
Was it her father's presence?
“Was it my father's presence?"
Does he remind you of your own Father - or of the way you used to play just at the edge of His sight, or babble just barely within His earshot, all so that you could finally gain his positive regard...or any regard at all?
Does Alisanne remind you of your Mother – or of the way you used to reel from Her speech, of how every phrase She uttered seemed to carry a hidden and poisoned meaning, as She seemed to scrutinized your every word and silence?
Does-
“Does-”
“Enough already,” you exhale through teeth clenched by a sudden headache, coming to a halt – as does the Lady - and now it is you who shakes your head and turns away...
You look back at the field you had crossed, at the landscape that in this moment seems not genuine but merely painted on, dream-like, and at the roof of the Touravon manor faintly visible beyond a treeline. All you must do is take that first step back and this farce will be over.
Yet you stay rooted in place, your breathing heavy... and strangely fearful. Are you suddenly afraid to be alone, to disappear into this strange world that so abruptly lost its definition, where the past and present mix in such an anxious manner?
Alisanne's expression is complex enough as to be largely unreadable to you; there are so many lines crossing her face now, and her delicate lips had been replaced by yet one more such line. Still, there is little doubt in your mind that this strange woman, who may as well be a nag in human flesh, is merely regrouping – before long she will surely deliver a statement perfectly crafted to scorn, reject, and ridicule you, all in a manner that leaves her guarded against any rebuke, while thoroughly exposing your every awkward weakness...
“I'm sorry, Alaric,” instead she utters gently, as you finally realize that it is worry that wrinkles her mousy countenance. “I simply wish to know more of you – for the future seems to me so...uncertain, otherwise. But I spoke out of turn. Perhaps I am speaking out of turn even now.”
You blink, hard. The world is sharper now, more real, and you greet it with the same gratitude as that of a man emerging from a nightmare. This relief must be showing on your face, for some of Alisanne's usual tenderness returns to smooth over her own expression.
Yet that momentary comfort seems all but gone as you realize that now you have no choice but to answer her in earnest.
“The trouble is, my lady, if you must know...” you finally say, as a sudden pang in your chest causes you to wince...
Why is it so painful to speak of these things? Why is it all the more painful to admit them to a woman?
“...I fear that I've forgotten how to conduct civil conversation. No matter the subject, it seems that my mind, by the vaguest of associations, is drawn to back to Antar, to my dead comrades, some of whom needn't have died-”
“Oh,” Alisanne breathes out, so aghast that she renders you unable to continue.
Oh, she says, trembling – this craven, sheltered child... of course, she does not want to know the whole bloody truth of yours, she merely meant that she wants to know you as some knight-romantic, perhaps as one preoccupied by the wordless beauty of the evening horizon and the glory of the Saints, perhaps expecting you to still be that same boy she met a dozen years ago...
Again the handkerchief is out, and she looks away, unable to face you. You tremble – out of nerve or anger or weakness, you know not – as some vile, spiteful part of you wants nothing more than to afflict her with every bit of your own madness, to tell her of Kharangia and of Blogia and of a myriad screaming men, to reduce her to the whimpering little girl she pretends not to be, to punish her for her half-concealed impudence... you barely resist doing so, and instead open your mouth to speak from the top of your mind, as if to override your bile with your babble.
She likely notices some part of your inner tumult and tries to say something to calm it, but it is too late, “my lord, I did not mean to-”
“Regardless, as for my authority over father's... rather, over my own servants, no, this station does not come easily to me - for they, like many of the soldiers under my former command, once knew me as little more than their boy master, yet now their lives depend on my own, and in part my life still depends on theirs, and that is... I must admit that these circumstances put a strain on me, and one that I was once eager to find respite from, back here in Tierra, but now it seems that there is to be none.”
Yes, let her know the whole of your immaturity and wretched impotence... let her be the one to storm off in bemused disappointment. And you ought to return to those Aetorian slums and take your place among your kind, the destitute and desperate men broken by Antar – as any hope for normalcy, family, is yet again proven to be your most foolish notion. For you, a peaceful life among sane, unbloodied men and women is impossible; you do not deserve a thing from anyone, and even if you did, no one could bear such a burden. They-
“Thank you,” says someone, a woman, Lady Alisanne – and you are all the more stunned to see that her eyes are wide and wet with warm, genuine gratitude, “thank you for telling me so. I... your words bear insight into own situation, which is similar, if less... severe than your own. Most of my house servants had taken care of me since I was little, whether through my tantrums or moments of childish weakness...”
“Yes,” you do not mean to say, nor do you mean to nod in affirmation – and yet you do.
“But now I must act as their mistress. It is a strange notion, and yet everyone, even the servants, expect me to accept it without question, as if it was the most ordinary thing. It is all so very...peculiar. And difficult, indeed, just as my lord first said.”
“Yes,” you reply in one thoughtless breath, “it is so, my lady.”
Her eyes become even gentler as her lips purse slightly into a small, sad smile. A moment ago, you would have thought this to be a look of pity - now it seems to be an expression of a quiet, empathetic understanding. One born of kinship, however strange and distant.
Did you not also know each other as children, at a time when you felt even more powerless than you do now, and thus see yourselves as those same children still? Or perhaps each of you independently feels before the other as a child before an adult – or before a parent – with all the anxieties and expectations of such a relation?
The thought ought to disturb you greatly, or else cause you to withdraw into labor or distractions as you so often do. Yet the realization that Alisanne may be feeling nearly the exact same way is strangely soothing.
You take a long breath of that fresh yet suddenly warm spring air, then breathe out..and are surprised to feel so much of your tension leave you with that exhale.
Emancipated from the bulk of your own worry, you find it much easier to consider that of Alisanne. Could it be that she was first to seize upon this anxious notion and tried to see whether you could share it, and whether the two of you could find some way to diffuse it?
For once it almost feels pleasant, and certainly rewarding, to concern yourself with her needs and desires, when before they seemed to you so mercurial and contradictory.
“I think I ought to ask you something now, my lady,” you offer, letting your improved humour show on your face by way of a slight smile, “that is how conversations are meant to go, is it not?”
She opens her eyes wide before narrowing them, not merely in amusement, but clearly pleased, if taken aback, by this long-awaited initiative of yours. Yet to recover her poise, she laughs quite girlishly, “ah, I suppose so, yes, though I am not exactly an authority on the subject... but certainly, yes – and thank you, my lord...”
“Then pray tell - why did you ask me in the first place? I mean that question in particular, my lady, on the matter of command.”
Her laughter-narrowed eyes suddenly seem flustered – her smile, sheepish – as she mumbles, “oh, it was only because... you see, my lord, I thought that perhaps our temperament could reflect how we might raise our... well, you seem so experienced, and... oh, I beg pardon for but a moment-”
Rendered nasally by the unfortunate combination of chill and chortling, the lady turns away to attend to her runny nose for what feels like a hundredth time – and while it is evident to you that this instance is not some underhanded attempt at deflection, you nevertheless feel quite irritated, in large part because you also feel some pressure to know more of Alisanne.
Perhaps it is also pressure that renders you shameless enough (as it has many times throughout your life,) to crane your neck and look impatiently at the young woman's labor. With even greater irritation, you see that the Lady is only barely applying the handkerchief to herself, with dainty little dabs that barely do the job – perhaps she is prim enough to conduct this would-be private act as subtly as possible, though fortunately not prim enough to have abandoned the walk altogether out of embarrassment.
Even so, you feel an almost comic level of outrage at Alisanne's sheer inefficiency...
Which is probably – for only the Saints know why you would do something so gormless and brazen – why you extend your hand and say, in the same tone as you would use to reprimand a soldier for cleaning his carbine too slowly, “that's quite enough. Give me the handkerchief.”
Her eyes do not look at you and instead swell with embarrassed horror;
“Beg your pardon?!” Statement, question, exclamation – her phrase is all three and more besides.
“Give it to me, I said,” you repeat the order, this time in a tone best reserved for Thunderer.
She does not relinquish the small square of linen to you as much as she simply lets you take it from her trembling hands. Thoughtlessly, you bunch the cloth up around the base of her dainty snub nose and, as if attending to a child, you subject it to a vigorous, precise wiping-
Alisanne snatches the soiled thing from your hands, reeling back like a cat tapped on the nose by its owner, appearing too saintsdamned shocked and embarrassed to get properly outraged...
“Wh-why did y-you... I... what-” she stutters, with shame of indescribable magnitude apparent on her face.
Yet you feel none of that shame – not for the moment anyway – and neither do you stutter;
“My lady, in Antar I had to wipe blood from the faces of my comrades. This is but a trifle in comparison, and one that I will not allow to impede our conversation.”
She only stares at you, her mouth agape.
Somehow you realize only now that, perhaps, just perhaps, the ministrations you have afflicted upon the good lady were ever so slightly inappropriate at best, and at worst constituted a thoroughly grotesque intrusion upon her privacy and person. In spite of all this, possibly due to unconsciously adopting the role of an officer-at-war, your mind is reigned by perfect, focused calm.
You really are a rare sort of human – and, somehow, in the most inhuman manner possible.
Looking to see whether the chaperone has strong feelings on the matter (he obviously does,) you find him staring at you, with his blood-drained face in a state of second-hand petrification. You glare back at the annoying bastard until his attention retreats to his saints-buggered boots.
Ah yes, now this you have no trouble doing – it's all but bloody natural for you to commit rash and cretinous deeds, enabled by the maddest sort of certainty and a ruthless disregard for others, just as you so effortlessly evoke disappointment and fear in everyone around you, until they cannot help but look away, aghast...
Yet unlike her footman, Lady Alisanne does not appear to be bloodless with horror. In fact, as she quietly suggests that it is time to return from this excursion on account of cold weather, her cheeks could not possibly be redder...
And not from mere embarrassment, though such an observation is lost on your boyishly oblivious self.
---
As expected, you torture yourself with self-scrutinizing thoughts for the remainder of the evening and the whole of the next day, just as you deserve.
Yet you neither expected nor deserve the invitation that comes to you the subsequent morning – one from Lady Alisanne herself, towards the prospect of another walk together (in spite of conditions being even muddier and colder than previously.) It is unorthodox for her to take this initiative, or for her father to have let her do so; you would have found it slightly emasculating given any other circumstances, but now...
Now you stand before her sheepishly-smiling self, and in the presence of a female chaperone who, for whatever reason, seems to watch you from twice the distance as compared to the previous busybody.
You cannot even imagine what she might possibly say to you, or how she summoned enough bravery – or folly – to bear seeing you again.
"What else was it like, my lord?" the Lady dares ask you in a voice as clear as the spring breeze, if breathy with trepidation – her foolish bravery a reflection of your own;
“What was it like, the war in Antar?”
And you tell her.
Not everything, no, you only scratch the surface;
That is enough to keep you talking until you have to part.
Even so, it is but one more awkward meeting amid mud and wet remains of snow, barely resembling a conversation, let alone courtship...
Yet now there is less silence to overcome.~
Yet there is more silence to overcome.
Even though the air of early spring ought to bring relief, each inhale fills you with unease. You can practically feel the chaperone's eyes digging at your back - yet each time you turn your head to glance at the footman trailing you at some distance, he appears to be observing nothing beyond the state of his dirtied footwear.
In hindsight, inviting the Lady for a walk was premature. Your intention was to find slightly more privacy and distance from your embarrassing reunion in the parlor, so that both of you may speak with greater ease. Yet the well-trodden roads and fields of Cunaris are all too moistened by dirty snow, and - in spite of the warm sunshine - the chill air is enough to render you both phlegmatic in every sense of the word; Alisanne had endured the sniffles for as long as she could, but now she keeps turning away from you on the regular to dab at her face with a handkerchief. It strikes you that it may solely be your mutual familiarity with rural life that allows this meeting to persist. A prim and urban lady would have called it off by now, in order to retreat within the warm walls of a salon or somesuch.
"...I am still not used to calling on our servants, in truth," she picks up the conversation that her latest handkerchief ritual had interrupted. "Father is adept at giving orders to the staff, particularly to the footmen. Yet I - well, with the maid, for instance - I've trouble finding the right tone, some balance that avoids being either too demanding or too...soft, I suppose."
She turns to look at you, which you reciprocate - direct eye contact that occurs yet seldom between the two of you - her mouth half-pursed and eyebrows raised, whether out of genuine curiosity or a polite pretense at such, "might you know of the right way, my lord?"
Your breath is caught, if only for a moment. It is hardly the first time that she asks for your opinion - likely because there would not be much conversation otherwise - yet for the first time the matter seems much more personal than general trivia or mundane particulars of country life. Even though the question is poised to be a request for neither aid nor advice, the implication remains clear even to your oblivious self: she cares enough for your opinion to consider it, or is at least trying to gauge just how much experience you have in these matters.
Now is that chance to say just the right thing, to prove yourself competent and worldly, if not learned-
"Commanding others, my lady, is..."
...a fearful absurdity, when some are twice your age yet serve you still;
...an anxiety that feels at times unbearable, when one must commit to an action that will meddle with the lives of men just like yourself, baneblood or naught...
...is a shameful evil when you are not fit for command, when your mouth is open and an order comes out as a stutter - or worse, does not come out at all, - when you must observe the men who were killed by your own words;
...not the sort of burden you ever truly wanted;
"...a d-difficult sort of thing," you stammer after an enormity of time had passed - and that is that.
The young woman waits a moment, then bats her eyes, and smiles apologetically, and clears her throat, and murmurs "oh, I see," and looks away, and produces her handerkchief - however vast her arsenal for recovering lost conversation, she had just used all of it to zero effect.
But it is hardly the first time that your crude self can think of nothing but scenes of brutality in response to even the most mundane of the Lady's questions; previously, when she merely inquired of your taste in literature, you struggled to dismiss the memory of when you found Hernandes' body, his journal ruined by thick Antari mud, and of the way the shattered glass and bent frame of his spectacles had been driven into his face, into his bleeding eyes...
Indeed, those moments revealed that you have just barely enough competency and worldliness to spare her the absurd horror of your thoughts - and no more, certainly not enough to come up with anything more civil, let alone wise.
Yet this moment is the worst one yet. Such a relevant subject, such an opportunity to build rapport - and you took it to nowhere but your mutual embarrassment.
Now it is her own turn to figure out what else to bloody say.
“Is something the matter, my lord?” she finally utters, in a tone just barely tinged with equal parts concern and irritation, “do you want us to speak of something else?”
You tense up, as if expecting that the woman might try dig out the anxieties gnawing through your head only to throw them back in your face.
“Not at all, my lady,” you lie through a forced smile, “the pleasure of your company is enough to, ah...occupy my attention.”
She shakes her head before she can stop herself, seemingly dazed by your ill-attempted compliment.
By the saints, this is simply awful...
“Then it is I who is doing something wrong. Would my lord not tell me-”
“Oh no, not at all, my lady is a splendid conversationalist,” you try to parry with barely concealed desperation.
Frowning, she counterattacks, “no, this scarcely resembles a conversation...”
Her words catch you by surprise – you can only assume that it is due to cold weather that the normally-demure Lady is irritated enough to confront you so openly. She tries to compose herself with a sigh “Ah, but I am only frustrated at myself – not at you, my lord – as in so many of our meetings I seem to fail to engage you. You were so much more animated upon our reunion-”
“My lady did not seem pleased with the way I conducted myself then,” you reply with more bitterness than you expected.
“And yet it did lead to some sort of exchange, at least. Perhaps I discouraged my lord with my own conduct – I beg pardon, for I am not a terribly practiced interlocutor myself. And I am thankful that unlike... some, you let me speak my mind. Yet I must ask, what was it that allowed you to speak livelier then? Was it...”
Was it her father's presence?
“Was it my father's presence?"
Does he remind you of your own Father - or of the way you used to play just at the edge of His sight, or babble just barely within His earshot, all so that you could finally gain his positive regard...or any regard at all?
Does Alisanne remind you of your Mother – or of the way you used to reel from Her speech, of how every phrase She uttered seemed to carry a hidden and poisoned meaning, as She seemed to scrutinized your every word and silence?
Does-
“Does-”
“Enough already,” you exhale through teeth clenched by a sudden headache, coming to a halt – as does the Lady - and now it is you who shakes your head and turns away...
You look back at the field you had crossed, at the landscape that in this moment seems not genuine but merely painted on, dream-like, and at the roof of the Touravon manor faintly visible beyond a treeline. All you must do is take that first step back and this farce will be over.
Yet you stay rooted in place, your breathing heavy... and strangely fearful. Are you suddenly afraid to be alone, to disappear into this strange world that so abruptly lost its definition, where the past and present mix in such an anxious manner?
Alisanne's expression is complex enough as to be largely unreadable to you; there are so many lines crossing her face now, and her delicate lips had been replaced by yet one more such line. Still, there is little doubt in your mind that this strange woman, who may as well be a nag in human flesh, is merely regrouping – before long she will surely deliver a statement perfectly crafted to scorn, reject, and ridicule you, all in a manner that leaves her guarded against any rebuke, while thoroughly exposing your every awkward weakness...
“I'm sorry, Alaric,” instead she utters gently, as you finally realize that it is worry that wrinkles her mousy countenance. “I simply wish to know more of you – for the future seems to me so...uncertain, otherwise. But I spoke out of turn. Perhaps I am speaking out of turn even now.”
You blink, hard. The world is sharper now, more real, and you greet it with the same gratitude as that of a man emerging from a nightmare. This relief must be showing on your face, for some of Alisanne's usual tenderness returns to smooth over her own expression.
Yet that momentary comfort seems all but gone as you realize that now you have no choice but to answer her in earnest.
“The trouble is, my lady, if you must know...” you finally say, as a sudden pang in your chest causes you to wince...
Why is it so painful to speak of these things? Why is it all the more painful to admit them to a woman?
“...I fear that I've forgotten how to conduct civil conversation. No matter the subject, it seems that my mind, by the vaguest of associations, is drawn to back to Antar, to my dead comrades, some of whom needn't have died-”
“Oh,” Alisanne breathes out, so aghast that she renders you unable to continue.
Oh, she says, trembling – this craven, sheltered child... of course, she does not want to know the whole bloody truth of yours, she merely meant that she wants to know you as some knight-romantic, perhaps as one preoccupied by the wordless beauty of the evening horizon and the glory of the Saints, perhaps expecting you to still be that same boy she met a dozen years ago...
Again the handkerchief is out, and she looks away, unable to face you. You tremble – out of nerve or anger or weakness, you know not – as some vile, spiteful part of you wants nothing more than to afflict her with every bit of your own madness, to tell her of Kharangia and of Blogia and of a myriad screaming men, to reduce her to the whimpering little girl she pretends not to be, to punish her for her half-concealed impudence... you barely resist doing so, and instead open your mouth to speak from the top of your mind, as if to override your bile with your babble.
She likely notices some part of your inner tumult and tries to say something to calm it, but it is too late, “my lord, I did not mean to-”
“Regardless, as for my authority over father's... rather, over my own servants, no, this station does not come easily to me - for they, like many of the soldiers under my former command, once knew me as little more than their boy master, yet now their lives depend on my own, and in part my life still depends on theirs, and that is... I must admit that these circumstances put a strain on me, and one that I was once eager to find respite from, back here in Tierra, but now it seems that there is to be none.”
Yes, let her know the whole of your immaturity and wretched impotence... let her be the one to storm off in bemused disappointment. And you ought to return to those Aetorian slums and take your place among your kind, the destitute and desperate men broken by Antar – as any hope for normalcy, family, is yet again proven to be your most foolish notion. For you, a peaceful life among sane, unbloodied men and women is impossible; you do not deserve a thing from anyone, and even if you did, no one could bear such a burden. They-
“Thank you,” says someone, a woman, Lady Alisanne – and you are all the more stunned to see that her eyes are wide and wet with warm, genuine gratitude, “thank you for telling me so. I... your words bear insight into own situation, which is similar, if less... severe than your own. Most of my house servants had taken care of me since I was little, whether through my tantrums or moments of childish weakness...”
“Yes,” you do not mean to say, nor do you mean to nod in affirmation – and yet you do.
“But now I must act as their mistress. It is a strange notion, and yet everyone, even the servants, expect me to accept it without question, as if it was the most ordinary thing. It is all so very...peculiar. And difficult, indeed, just as my lord first said.”
“Yes,” you reply in one thoughtless breath, “it is so, my lady.”
Her eyes become even gentler as her lips purse slightly into a small, sad smile. A moment ago, you would have thought this to be a look of pity - now it seems to be an expression of a quiet, empathetic understanding. One born of kinship, however strange and distant.
Did you not also know each other as children, at a time when you felt even more powerless than you do now, and thus see yourselves as those same children still? Or perhaps each of you independently feels before the other as a child before an adult – or before a parent – with all the anxieties and expectations of such a relation?
The thought ought to disturb you greatly, or else cause you to withdraw into labor or distractions as you so often do. Yet the realization that Alisanne may be feeling nearly the exact same way is strangely soothing.
You take a long breath of that fresh yet suddenly warm spring air, then breathe out..and are surprised to feel so much of your tension leave you with that exhale.
Emancipated from the bulk of your own worry, you find it much easier to consider that of Alisanne. Could it be that she was first to seize upon this anxious notion and tried to see whether you could share it, and whether the two of you could find some way to diffuse it?
For once it almost feels pleasant, and certainly rewarding, to concern yourself with her needs and desires, when before they seemed to you so mercurial and contradictory.
“I think I ought to ask you something now, my lady,” you offer, letting your improved humour show on your face by way of a slight smile, “that is how conversations are meant to go, is it not?”
She opens her eyes wide before narrowing them, not merely in amusement, but clearly pleased, if taken aback, by this long-awaited initiative of yours. Yet to recover her poise, she laughs quite girlishly, “ah, I suppose so, yes, though I am not exactly an authority on the subject... but certainly, yes – and thank you, my lord...”
“Then pray tell - why did you ask me in the first place? I mean that question in particular, my lady, on the matter of command.”
Her laughter-narrowed eyes suddenly seem flustered – her smile, sheepish – as she mumbles, “oh, it was only because... you see, my lord, I thought that perhaps our temperament could reflect how we might raise our... well, you seem so experienced, and... oh, I beg pardon for but a moment-”
Rendered nasally by the unfortunate combination of chill and chortling, the lady turns away to attend to her runny nose for what feels like a hundredth time – and while it is evident to you that this instance is not some underhanded attempt at deflection, you nevertheless feel quite irritated, in large part because you also feel some pressure to know more of Alisanne.
Perhaps it is also pressure that renders you shameless enough (as it has many times throughout your life,) to crane your neck and look impatiently at the young woman's labor. With even greater irritation, you see that the Lady is only barely applying the handkerchief to herself, with dainty little dabs that barely do the job – perhaps she is prim enough to conduct this would-be private act as subtly as possible, though fortunately not prim enough to have abandoned the walk altogether out of embarrassment.
Even so, you feel an almost comic level of outrage at Alisanne's sheer inefficiency...
Which is probably – for only the Saints know why you would do something so gormless and brazen – why you extend your hand and say, in the same tone as you would use to reprimand a soldier for cleaning his carbine too slowly, “that's quite enough. Give me the handkerchief.”
Her eyes do not look at you and instead swell with embarrassed horror;
“Beg your pardon?!” Statement, question, exclamation – her phrase is all three and more besides.
“Give it to me, I said,” you repeat the order, this time in a tone best reserved for Thunderer.
She does not relinquish the small square of linen to you as much as she simply lets you take it from her trembling hands. Thoughtlessly, you bunch the cloth up around the base of her dainty snub nose and, as if attending to a child, you subject it to a vigorous, precise wiping-
Alisanne snatches the soiled thing from your hands, reeling back like a cat tapped on the nose by its owner, appearing too saintsdamned shocked and embarrassed to get properly outraged...
“Wh-why did y-you... I... what-” she stutters, with shame of indescribable magnitude apparent on her face.
Yet you feel none of that shame – not for the moment anyway – and neither do you stutter;
“My lady, in Antar I had to wipe blood from the faces of my comrades. This is but a trifle in comparison, and one that I will not allow to impede our conversation.”
She only stares at you, her mouth agape.
Somehow you realize only now that, perhaps, just perhaps, the ministrations you have afflicted upon the good lady were ever so slightly inappropriate at best, and at worst constituted a thoroughly grotesque intrusion upon her privacy and person. In spite of all this, possibly due to unconsciously adopting the role of an officer-at-war, your mind is reigned by perfect, focused calm.
You really are a rare sort of human – and, somehow, in the most inhuman manner possible.
Looking to see whether the chaperone has strong feelings on the matter (he obviously does,) you find him staring at you, with his blood-drained face in a state of second-hand petrification. You glare back at the annoying bastard until his attention retreats to his saints-buggered boots.
Ah yes, now this you have no trouble doing – it's all but bloody natural for you to commit rash and cretinous deeds, enabled by the maddest sort of certainty and a ruthless disregard for others, just as you so effortlessly evoke disappointment and fear in everyone around you, until they cannot help but look away, aghast...
Yet unlike her footman, Lady Alisanne does not appear to be bloodless with horror. In fact, as she quietly suggests that it is time to return from this excursion on account of cold weather, her cheeks could not possibly be redder...
And not from mere embarrassment, though such an observation is lost on your boyishly oblivious self.
---
As expected, you torture yourself with self-scrutinizing thoughts for the remainder of the evening and the whole of the next day, just as you deserve.
Yet you neither expected nor deserve the invitation that comes to you the subsequent morning – one from Lady Alisanne herself, towards the prospect of another walk together (in spite of conditions being even muddier and colder than previously.) It is unorthodox for her to take this initiative, or for her father to have let her do so; you would have found it slightly emasculating given any other circumstances, but now...
Now you stand before her sheepishly-smiling self, and in the presence of a female chaperone who, for whatever reason, seems to watch you from twice the distance as compared to the previous busybody.
You cannot even imagine what she might possibly say to you, or how she summoned enough bravery – or folly – to bear seeing you again.
"What else was it like, my lord?" the Lady dares ask you in a voice as clear as the spring breeze, if breathy with trepidation – her foolish bravery a reflection of your own;
“What was it like, the war in Antar?”
And you tell her.
Not everything, no, you only scratch the surface;
That is enough to keep you talking until you have to part.
Even so, it is but one more awkward meeting amid mud and wet remains of snow, barely resembling a conversation, let alone courtship...
Yet now there is less silence to overcome.~
Last edited:
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
but my laaawd
but my laaaydeh
but my laaaaawd
but my laaaaydeh
but my laaaaaaaaawd
but my laaaaaaaaydeh
Anyway, hopefully this inspires Paul to add the booger bandit branch to Wars of Infinity.
Oh yeah, update. Coming in a bit.
EDIT: got wiped out by writing so hopefully this count is correct #sesamestreetgang4lyfe #gottarepresent
but my laaaydeh
but my laaaaawd
but my laaaaydeh
but my laaaaaaaaawd
but my laaaaaaaaydeh
Anyway, hopefully this inspires Paul to add the booger bandit branch to Wars of Infinity.
Oh yeah, update. Coming in a bit.
EDIT: got wiped out by writing so hopefully this count is correct #sesamestreetgang4lyfe #gottarepresent
by dude:
ENDEMIC
I-0) I will pay off no crowns of debt beyond my interest payment.
II-1) No changes.
III-2a) The house must be repaired, extensively.
ERYKFRAD
I-0) I will pay off no crowns of debt beyond my interest payment.
II-1) No changes.
III-3c) I'll not have my tenants living in such dilapidated cottages.
Kalarion
I-0) I will pay off no crowns of debt beyond my interest payment.
II-1) No changes.
III-3c) I'll not have my tenants living in such dilapidated cottages.
Kipeci
I-0)
II-1)
III-3f)
Optimist
I-0) I will pay off no crowns of debt beyond my interest payment.
II-2) (edited)
III-3e) A new market hall might bring in new business.
Storyfag
I-0)
II-2)
III-3e)
Orbit
I-0) I will pay off no crowns of debt beyond my interest payment.
II-1) No changes.
III-3c) I'll not have my tenants living in such dilapidated cottages.
Grimgravy
I-0) I will pay off no crowns of debt beyond my interest payment.
II-1) No changes.
III-2a) The house must be repaired, extensively.
----
By plan:
3 votes:
I-0) I will pay off no crowns of debt beyond my interest payment.
II-1) No changes.
III-3c) I'll not have my tenants living in such dilapidated cottages.
2 votes:
I-0) I will pay off no crowns of debt beyond my interest payment.
II-1) No changes.
III-2a) The house must be repaired, extensively.
2 votes:
I-0) I will pay off no crowns of debt beyond my interest payment.
II-2) (edited)
III-3e) A new market hall might bring in new business.
1 vote:
I-0)
II-1)
III-3f)
leading plan:
3 votes:
I-0) I will pay off no crowns of debt beyond my interest payment.
II-1) No changes.
III-3c) I'll not have my tenants living in such dilapidated cottages.
ENDEMIC
I-0) I will pay off no crowns of debt beyond my interest payment.
II-1) No changes.
III-2a) The house must be repaired, extensively.
ERYKFRAD
I-0) I will pay off no crowns of debt beyond my interest payment.
II-1) No changes.
III-3c) I'll not have my tenants living in such dilapidated cottages.
Kalarion
I-0) I will pay off no crowns of debt beyond my interest payment.
II-1) No changes.
III-3c) I'll not have my tenants living in such dilapidated cottages.
Kipeci
I-0)
II-1)
III-3f)
Optimist
I-0) I will pay off no crowns of debt beyond my interest payment.
II-2) (edited)
III-3e) A new market hall might bring in new business.
Storyfag
I-0)
II-2)
III-3e)
Orbit
I-0) I will pay off no crowns of debt beyond my interest payment.
II-1) No changes.
III-3c) I'll not have my tenants living in such dilapidated cottages.
Grimgravy
I-0) I will pay off no crowns of debt beyond my interest payment.
II-1) No changes.
III-2a) The house must be repaired, extensively.
----
By plan:
3 votes:
I-0) I will pay off no crowns of debt beyond my interest payment.
II-1) No changes.
III-3c) I'll not have my tenants living in such dilapidated cottages.
2 votes:
I-0) I will pay off no crowns of debt beyond my interest payment.
II-1) No changes.
III-2a) The house must be repaired, extensively.
2 votes:
I-0) I will pay off no crowns of debt beyond my interest payment.
II-2) (edited)
III-3e) A new market hall might bring in new business.
1 vote:
I-0)
II-1)
III-3f)
leading plan:
3 votes:
I-0) I will pay off no crowns of debt beyond my interest payment.
II-1) No changes.
III-3c) I'll not have my tenants living in such dilapidated cottages.
Last edited:
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
I'll not have my tenants living in such dilapidated cottages.
You make a note to set aside the appropriate funds, then draft a call for workmen to be posted in the village square.
By the time summer begins, you should have the materials and labour necessary to begin work in earnest. Until then, all you can do is wait.
---
You spend a good few days making arrangements for the next few months, but when the last papers are shuffled and the planting season comes to an end, you quickly find yourself falling into a now-familiar pattern of lethargy.
Before long, you begin to find the hot, languid emptiness of summer just as intolerable as the cramped, frigid emptiness of winter.
1. I ought to continue work on my memoirs.
2. I should like to get to know Lady Alisanne better.
3. I must endeavour to keep myself in fighting trim, mentally and physickally.
a) A programme of rigorous exercise will help me stay in physickal shape.
b) Involving myself more deeply in the management of my fief will exercise my mind.
c) I mean to find some way to maintain my social graces.
4. I'll find no excitement unless I go out looking for it.
[Another instance of imminent stat decline, another opportunity to potentially mitigate (some?) of it.
As a reminder, seeing Alisanne last time had the secondary effect of preventing both Intelligence and Charisma from declining, which probably makes both 3b and 3c strictly inferior options, although who knows whether it will do the same this second time (well, I do, but I ain't telling you nothin' mister)]
You make a note to set aside the appropriate funds, then draft a call for workmen to be posted in the village square.
By the time summer begins, you should have the materials and labour necessary to begin work in earnest. Until then, all you can do is wait.
---
You spend a good few days making arrangements for the next few months, but when the last papers are shuffled and the planting season comes to an end, you quickly find yourself falling into a now-familiar pattern of lethargy.
Before long, you begin to find the hot, languid emptiness of summer just as intolerable as the cramped, frigid emptiness of winter.
1. I ought to continue work on my memoirs.
2. I should like to get to know Lady Alisanne better.
3. I must endeavour to keep myself in fighting trim, mentally and physickally.
a) A programme of rigorous exercise will help me stay in physickal shape.
b) Involving myself more deeply in the management of my fief will exercise my mind.
c) I mean to find some way to maintain my social graces.
4. I'll find no excitement unless I go out looking for it.
[Another instance of imminent stat decline, another opportunity to potentially mitigate (some?) of it.
As a reminder, seeing Alisanne last time had the secondary effect of preventing both Intelligence and Charisma from declining, which probably makes both 3b and 3c strictly inferior options, although who knows whether it will do the same this second time (well, I do, but I ain't telling you nothin' mister)]
As of the Spring 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: 5%
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: 5%
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
For now, 2. I should like to get to know Lady Alisanne better.
What exactly does "go out looking for excitement" entail? If it's actually in the vein of "let's go find some banditos to slaughter!", I'm all for it. If it's "let's go find a tavern to get drunk to make our own excitement!", GTFO.
What exactly does "go out looking for excitement" entail? If it's actually in the vein of "let's go find some banditos to slaughter!", I'm all for it. If it's "let's go find a tavern to get drunk to make our own excitement!", GTFO.
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
Its not mount & blade or red dead redemption or whatever so there are no convenient looter gangs positioned every x meters to kill (not to say that there aren't any highwaymen, but its not like they are an omnipresent threat, and you don't know whether there is a significant concentration of them in the barony anyway.) You are going to be riding around in the vicinity of your estate, waiting for something interesting to happen to you. I think mechanically it draws a random event or something, not sure, haven't looked that far ahead into the #code. Perhaps you will find some aliens?
Flop to 4!
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
I may have lied about there being aliens 
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
Here, I'll give you some minimally-spoilery mechanicool reasons for picking each one, if that helps:
Looking for excitement: quite a few of the events have to do with hunting, giving us the rare opportunities to exercise our soldiering. The random events may also foreshadow upcoming threats. Quite a few also depend on, and reflect, the various estate upgrades that we have. Its also possible to both lose and gain personal and estate stats, but I have no idea how the likelihood of such things is weighted (nor would I want to spoil that anyway, of course.) But in general, there will almost certainly be at least a minor mechanical effect, whether positive or negative.
Seeing Alisanne: she is still not on Alaric's friends & acquaintances section, meaning that in spite of Alaric's visit to her earlier, they don't know each other too well (as I roughly tried to reflect in my vignette.) However, you are probably closer to the threshold of friendship than you are to being strangers. However, as you might imagine at some point it may be possible to miss the opportunity to improve the relationship with her further and get locked into less than warm relationship with the future wife. (I actually have no idea whether its possible to fuck things up enough that the engagement is broken off, although I don't think we are close to that point regardless.)
4
Orbit
Scholar
- Joined
- Jun 4, 2017
- Messages
- 108
Commence the waifu hunt.
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
Was informed by a high-ranking white house official that I misrepresented at least one of the choices, (for one, option 4. does not lead to randomized results) and I'm pretty sure I sort of gave the wrong framing for this entire set in general.
Will reassess the extent to which I share my understanding of the "behind the scenes" information and the emotional motivation thereof
Will reassess the extent to which I share my understanding of the "behind the scenes" information and the emotional motivation thereof
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
I'm fucking around with a third-party save editor to see if I ould just combine the results of both choices, just this once. And in the future I will be much more careful and sparing with behind the scenes information. I think people got the gist of the mechanics by now anyway.
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
[Okay, early update on account of me using a save editor to get the results of both choices since I tainted the voting process by giving you incorrect information. I am relatively certain that I did not break anything (if we run into trouble down the line, I will just retrace our steps on a fresh save.) Ugly to cheat, but I think its the fairest measure, and I do not see the matter repeating as long as I watch my whore mouth. There is only one other instance I can think off where I might decide to change the game/LP format in such a disruptive way but I'll burn to that particular bridge down after I cross it and it ain't no certain thing anyway.]
I should like to get to know Lady Alisanne better.
You have many preparations yet to make before you might arrive at the state of marriage. There is the planning of the ceremony itself, the drawing up of preliminary agreements, but perhaps most importantly, there is your duty to grow accustomed to the lady in question herself. This is not your great-grandfather's day, when bride and groom were often wed without even knowing each other's faces. These days, it is the fashion to profess some familiarity with your intended before making her your lady wife.
With that in mind, you take every opportunity to call on the Touravons, intent not only upon planning the more technical aspects of your wedding, but also upon spending as much time as possible with a woman whom you've quickly grown to admire more and more.
The feeling, it seems, is mutual. Lady Alisanne is a lively, joyous spirit in your company. You pass the time riding through country lanes, reading bad poetry to each other in her father's parlour, and sharing open-air picnics against the backdrop of the setting sun. Bit by bit, whatever remaining barriers of formality betwixt you break down under the force of a mutual affection.
It is not necessarily love, not as you have known it. Your stomach doesn't flutter when you see her, your knees do not go weak when you take her hand in yours, but there is a comfort to her presence;
The days don't seem so long, now that they're filled with happy laughter. As the weeks of summer pass and you begin to draft the first tentative plans for your wedding with your beloved and her father, the prospect of sharing the rest of your days with Alisanne at your side increasingly heartens you.
---
[She can fix him.
On the other hand, had you not taken time to build some rapport with Alisanne, this scene would have been rather depressing.
Will write another Interlude - or, you know, several - at some point on the account of being entirely too invested in this imaginary relationship. I am sure you are all ecstatic, Storyfag most of all.]
I'll find no excitement unless I go out looking for it.
While it may be true that your barony is a relatively small holding by the standards of the Cortes nobility, that doesn't mean it possesses nothing of interest. Hundreds of people make this place their home, each of them with their own rivalries, aspirations, and crises. You have absolutely no doubt in your mind that there must be some means of applying yourself within its boundaries.
But one thing is for sure: you shall not find it sitting at your desk.
So, every morning, you ride out into the village and keep a close watch on the market square and the village roads, looking for any matter which might warrant your direct involvement. You are, in effect, looking for trouble.
It is less than a week before you find it.
---
One day, you're riding through one of the outlying paths when you come across two of your tenants headed the other way, their rough work clothes already splattered with dirt and stained with sweat.
"Good morning, milord," they call out almost in unison as they step to the side of the dirt lane, their wide straw hats doffed in that near-universal display of deference.
You nod back at them from the saddle. "Good morning," you reply as you ride past, as you have perhaps a thousand times before.
"And good luck catchin' those poachers, milord!"
Poachers? You haven't heard anything about any poachers. You turn your horse around. "What's this about catching poachers?" you demand.
The two tenants look to each other, their faces flashing from surprise to confusion. "The poachers, milord, in your woods, milord," the older of the two replies somewhat uncertainly. "Sandro put in a complaint about them to your man in the village last week." He turns to the other tenant, who suddenly seems considerably more nervous than before. "You did put it in, right?"
The second man—Sandro—mops at his suddenly sweaty brow with the back of his sleeve. "Well, uh, not quite." He puts up one hand placatingly. "Don't yell at me, Hal! I told Old Ron to do it!"
Hal gives his companion a look of exasperation which wouldn't have looked out of place in a music-hall comedy. "Old Ron don't even get out of bed mo—" He lets out a sigh, and then he turns back to you. "Apologies, milord. The long and short of it is, there's poachers in the north woods."
Poaching is not an unserious offence in the Unified Kingdom. While it is customary for the lord of a fief to allow his tenants certain rights over game and fish on his lands, it's a right which is tightly controlled, and for good reason. A lord known to allow men from other fiefdoms to hunt in his woods and fish in his creeks is sure to find his game hunted to extinction and his rivers fished dry.
You look back at your tenants, still standing nervously before you. It might be wise to investigate these complaints further, lest your own lands suffer such a fate.
And besides, it might be just the sort of exertion you need to keep your edge.
"Start from the beginning: how did you discover these poachers?"
"It were about two weeks ago, milord," the younger man volunteers. "The three of us—that is, us two and Hal's boy Will—we was out in the north woods checkin' our snares, on account of—"
The other man elbows the first in the ribs. "'is Lordship don't want to hear about that, dammit!" he hisses to his companion before turning back to you. "Long and short of it is, we found blood by one of our snares, a lot of it, only a day old, the kind you get from a wounded animal."
Your eyes narrow. "I'm not sure I understand the significance," you reply. Is there something you're missing here?
"We figured, maybe the creature was still alive," Hal explains. "Easiest prey is one that can't run no more. So we followed the trail, but it weren't no half-dead deer we found."
"It were a campfire, or what were left of it," Sandro interjects. "Still marks in the ground, from the shelters and the like they put up next to it."
"You're sure?" you ask. The remains of a fire and a few scratches in the dirt seem to you rather spurious evidence of any sort of misdeed.
Hal nods. "I saw it too, and I saw trails leading out from it, drag marks going through the brush," He nods firmly. "It was poachers milord, I'm sure of it."
"You're certain they were poachers?"
Hal nods firmly. "We're sure of it."
"Is it not possible that you might have simply run into something left by one of the other men from the village?" you ask. "Surely you're not the only ones who hunt or trap in the north woods."
"That's what we first thought too, milord," Sandro answers. "But the trails they left, they were leading north."
North? What does that have to do with anything? For a moment, you can only stare at your two tenants in confusion.
"Uh, the woods already run along the northern border of your lands, milord," Hal reminds you helpfully. "If there was a trail leading north out of 'em, it would mean whoever left it didn't come from anywhere near here."
The pieces fit themselves together in your head. Yes, perhaps your tenants are right. You may have poachers, after all.
"My thanks for bringing this to my attention, good day."
Your two tenants dip their heads in respect as you ride on. "Good day, milord!" they call out. "Best of luck!"
They continue on their leisurely way, their voices fading slowly into nothing.
You, on the other hand, head immediately for your house, your mind deep in thought as you consider the options at your disposal.
If you mean to put a stop to these poachers, you must first confront them. To confront them, you shall first have to find out as much as you can about them: their point of origin, their methods, their numbers, the trails they use, and the specifics of their equipment. Only then will you be able to seek them out in earnest.
Organising a search, you suppose, would be the customary way. You could seek out volunteers from among your tenants, then sweep the woods for any clues they might find. If you can convince enough people to step forward and keep them motivated enough to spend long hours during the hottest part of summer to look for any elusive trace of your poachers, you might dig up all manner of clues.
If.
Alternatively, you could simply do the work yourself, launch a personal investigation. It would also mean that you wouldn't need to rely upon the potentially unreliable temperaments of your tenants, or anyone else for that matter. It would also mean taking on a certain quantity of personal risk. The woods aren't particularly dangerous, for the most part, but that doesn't mean that you're entirely safe from misadventure: going into the forest alone is hardly a cautious course of action.
Then again, you could simply let the issue be. You somehow doubt that these poachers are anything more than a handful of mischief-makers. Surely you could begrudge them a deer or a weasel, or whatever it is they mean to hunt. Perhaps you should decide against seeking any excitement this summer, after all…
1) I must call up my tenants and organise a search.
2) I shall handle this personally, regardless of the risk.
3) On second thought, I have no desire to involve myself in this issue.
I should like to get to know Lady Alisanne better.
You have many preparations yet to make before you might arrive at the state of marriage. There is the planning of the ceremony itself, the drawing up of preliminary agreements, but perhaps most importantly, there is your duty to grow accustomed to the lady in question herself. This is not your great-grandfather's day, when bride and groom were often wed without even knowing each other's faces. These days, it is the fashion to profess some familiarity with your intended before making her your lady wife.
With that in mind, you take every opportunity to call on the Touravons, intent not only upon planning the more technical aspects of your wedding, but also upon spending as much time as possible with a woman whom you've quickly grown to admire more and more.
The feeling, it seems, is mutual. Lady Alisanne is a lively, joyous spirit in your company. You pass the time riding through country lanes, reading bad poetry to each other in her father's parlour, and sharing open-air picnics against the backdrop of the setting sun. Bit by bit, whatever remaining barriers of formality betwixt you break down under the force of a mutual affection.
It is not necessarily love, not as you have known it. Your stomach doesn't flutter when you see her, your knees do not go weak when you take her hand in yours, but there is a comfort to her presence;
The days don't seem so long, now that they're filled with happy laughter. As the weeks of summer pass and you begin to draft the first tentative plans for your wedding with your beloved and her father, the prospect of sharing the rest of your days with Alisanne at your side increasingly heartens you.
---
[She can fix him.
On the other hand, had you not taken time to build some rapport with Alisanne, this scene would have been rather depressing.
Will write another Interlude - or, you know, several - at some point on the account of being entirely too invested in this imaginary relationship. I am sure you are all ecstatic, Storyfag most of all.]
I'll find no excitement unless I go out looking for it.
While it may be true that your barony is a relatively small holding by the standards of the Cortes nobility, that doesn't mean it possesses nothing of interest. Hundreds of people make this place their home, each of them with their own rivalries, aspirations, and crises. You have absolutely no doubt in your mind that there must be some means of applying yourself within its boundaries.
But one thing is for sure: you shall not find it sitting at your desk.
So, every morning, you ride out into the village and keep a close watch on the market square and the village roads, looking for any matter which might warrant your direct involvement. You are, in effect, looking for trouble.
It is less than a week before you find it.
---
One day, you're riding through one of the outlying paths when you come across two of your tenants headed the other way, their rough work clothes already splattered with dirt and stained with sweat.
"Good morning, milord," they call out almost in unison as they step to the side of the dirt lane, their wide straw hats doffed in that near-universal display of deference.
You nod back at them from the saddle. "Good morning," you reply as you ride past, as you have perhaps a thousand times before.
"And good luck catchin' those poachers, milord!"
Poachers? You haven't heard anything about any poachers. You turn your horse around. "What's this about catching poachers?" you demand.
The two tenants look to each other, their faces flashing from surprise to confusion. "The poachers, milord, in your woods, milord," the older of the two replies somewhat uncertainly. "Sandro put in a complaint about them to your man in the village last week." He turns to the other tenant, who suddenly seems considerably more nervous than before. "You did put it in, right?"
The second man—Sandro—mops at his suddenly sweaty brow with the back of his sleeve. "Well, uh, not quite." He puts up one hand placatingly. "Don't yell at me, Hal! I told Old Ron to do it!"
Hal gives his companion a look of exasperation which wouldn't have looked out of place in a music-hall comedy. "Old Ron don't even get out of bed mo—" He lets out a sigh, and then he turns back to you. "Apologies, milord. The long and short of it is, there's poachers in the north woods."
Poaching is not an unserious offence in the Unified Kingdom. While it is customary for the lord of a fief to allow his tenants certain rights over game and fish on his lands, it's a right which is tightly controlled, and for good reason. A lord known to allow men from other fiefdoms to hunt in his woods and fish in his creeks is sure to find his game hunted to extinction and his rivers fished dry.
You look back at your tenants, still standing nervously before you. It might be wise to investigate these complaints further, lest your own lands suffer such a fate.
And besides, it might be just the sort of exertion you need to keep your edge.
"Start from the beginning: how did you discover these poachers?"
"It were about two weeks ago, milord," the younger man volunteers. "The three of us—that is, us two and Hal's boy Will—we was out in the north woods checkin' our snares, on account of—"
The other man elbows the first in the ribs. "'is Lordship don't want to hear about that, dammit!" he hisses to his companion before turning back to you. "Long and short of it is, we found blood by one of our snares, a lot of it, only a day old, the kind you get from a wounded animal."
Your eyes narrow. "I'm not sure I understand the significance," you reply. Is there something you're missing here?
"We figured, maybe the creature was still alive," Hal explains. "Easiest prey is one that can't run no more. So we followed the trail, but it weren't no half-dead deer we found."
"It were a campfire, or what were left of it," Sandro interjects. "Still marks in the ground, from the shelters and the like they put up next to it."
"You're sure?" you ask. The remains of a fire and a few scratches in the dirt seem to you rather spurious evidence of any sort of misdeed.
Hal nods. "I saw it too, and I saw trails leading out from it, drag marks going through the brush," He nods firmly. "It was poachers milord, I'm sure of it."
"You're certain they were poachers?"
Hal nods firmly. "We're sure of it."
"Is it not possible that you might have simply run into something left by one of the other men from the village?" you ask. "Surely you're not the only ones who hunt or trap in the north woods."
"That's what we first thought too, milord," Sandro answers. "But the trails they left, they were leading north."
North? What does that have to do with anything? For a moment, you can only stare at your two tenants in confusion.
"Uh, the woods already run along the northern border of your lands, milord," Hal reminds you helpfully. "If there was a trail leading north out of 'em, it would mean whoever left it didn't come from anywhere near here."
The pieces fit themselves together in your head. Yes, perhaps your tenants are right. You may have poachers, after all.
"My thanks for bringing this to my attention, good day."
Your two tenants dip their heads in respect as you ride on. "Good day, milord!" they call out. "Best of luck!"
They continue on their leisurely way, their voices fading slowly into nothing.
You, on the other hand, head immediately for your house, your mind deep in thought as you consider the options at your disposal.
If you mean to put a stop to these poachers, you must first confront them. To confront them, you shall first have to find out as much as you can about them: their point of origin, their methods, their numbers, the trails they use, and the specifics of their equipment. Only then will you be able to seek them out in earnest.
Organising a search, you suppose, would be the customary way. You could seek out volunteers from among your tenants, then sweep the woods for any clues they might find. If you can convince enough people to step forward and keep them motivated enough to spend long hours during the hottest part of summer to look for any elusive trace of your poachers, you might dig up all manner of clues.
If.
Alternatively, you could simply do the work yourself, launch a personal investigation. It would also mean that you wouldn't need to rely upon the potentially unreliable temperaments of your tenants, or anyone else for that matter. It would also mean taking on a certain quantity of personal risk. The woods aren't particularly dangerous, for the most part, but that doesn't mean that you're entirely safe from misadventure: going into the forest alone is hardly a cautious course of action.
Then again, you could simply let the issue be. You somehow doubt that these poachers are anything more than a handful of mischief-makers. Surely you could begrudge them a deer or a weasel, or whatever it is they mean to hunt. Perhaps you should decide against seeking any excitement this summer, after all…
1) I must call up my tenants and organise a search.
2) I shall handle this personally, regardless of the risk.
3) On second thought, I have no desire to involve myself in this issue.
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: 5%
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: 5%
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
2) I shall handle this personally, regardless of the risk.
Our people have done their duty in warning us of potential thieves (although... hints of something else there...?). Now it is for us to do ours.
Our people have done their duty in warning us of potential thieves (although... hints of something else there...?). Now it is for us to do ours.
1. Commanding others is one of our few actual skills.
As an Amazon Associate, rpgcodex.net earns from qualifying purchases.