1
We didn't get a choice to wear our armor?
We didn't get a choice to wear our armor?
-
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Completed [LP] Bleed for your Kingdom, officer! Codex plays Guns of Infinity
- Thread starter Lithium Flower
- Start date
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
I think that should be the next choice.
Can't say for sure since I've never done the assault this way before (Forlorn Hope 4lyfe)
I'm now of the opinion that our commander is a death seeker.
Or he could be stupid. Or a traitor. Or displeased the wrong person, who sent him (and his regiment) to his death.
LordTryhard
Novice
- Joined
- Jul 7, 2018
- Messages
- 55
Given the character's 80 idealism and 5 intellect, I would vote #1 as the most in-character.
For the last choice, I was under the impression that we'd take part in the Forlon Hope, but not in command. Oh, well, we'll have a better chance of survival.
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
So our victory shall be delayed a few hours, what of it?
You are not overly worried; after all, it is not as if the assault can be called off, not unless Havenport wishes to throw the King's entire grand strategy into disorder.
Behind you, your officers are still discussing the cause of the unexpected delay, as if simply identifying the culprit might make it end. You spend your time on more productive things. You look down at yourself, checking your sabre and pistols for the hundredth time. You look over your other equipment as well, hoping that…
1) …my decision to wear my armour and bane-runed sword was the right one.
2) …my decision not to wear my armour and knightly sword was the right one.
You are not overly worried; after all, it is not as if the assault can be called off, not unless Havenport wishes to throw the King's entire grand strategy into disorder.
Behind you, your officers are still discussing the cause of the unexpected delay, as if simply identifying the culprit might make it end. You spend your time on more productive things. You look down at yourself, checking your sabre and pistols for the hundredth time. You look over your other equipment as well, hoping that…
1) …my decision to wear my armour and bane-runed sword was the right one.
2) …my decision not to wear my armour and knightly sword was the right one.
As of the Summer of the 609th year of the Old Imperial Era
Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 21
Rank: Captain
Wealth: 383
Income: 15
Soldiering: 75%
Charisma: 43%
Intellect: 5%
Reputation: 24%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 81% Cynicism: 19%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You are a Knight of the Red, having the right to wear bane-hardened armour and wield a bane-runed sword.
You have no decorations as of yet.
Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 21
Rank: Captain
Wealth: 383
Income: 15
Soldiering: 75%
Charisma: 43%
Intellect: 5%
Reputation: 24%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 81% Cynicism: 19%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You are a Knight of the Red, having the right to wear bane-hardened armour and wield a bane-runed sword.
You have no decorations as of yet.
Sixth Squadron, Royal Dragoons
Senior NCO: Staff-sergeant Hernandes
Discipline: 54%
Morale: 54%
Loyalty: 39%
Strength: 99%
Senior NCO: Staff-sergeant Hernandes
Discipline: 54%
Morale: 54%
Loyalty: 39%
Strength: 99%
1
2. We are poor leaders if we think of our safety above that of our men. True, avoiding such weaponry may cause wounds or even death, but is it not noble? We must lead by example in this case as with others. The men would certainly lose heart and faith if they saw us donning such impenetrable plate. What then of their own chances for survival?
To lead, we must be beacons of example, of morale courage and fortitude. And we must lead the new era of men. Such things as magic belong in the past.
To lead, we must be beacons of example, of morale courage and fortitude. And we must lead the new era of men. Such things as magic belong in the past.
1.
LordTryhard
Novice
- Joined
- Jul 7, 2018
- Messages
- 55
Actually, if you wear your armour, fire will be directed away from your men and towards you.
Plus, nothing says 'beacon' like a flaming sword.
On that note, 1.
By staying alive and unwounded, we'll be able to continue to lead our men even against the most fierce of enemy resistance. On the other hand, if we are struck down, our men will surely flee.
Also why must magic be necessarly a thing of the past? With magic, as with technology, you can research and invent new things, you can progress, even if such new inventions do not spread beyond a small group.
LordTryhard
Novice
- Joined
- Jul 7, 2018
- Messages
- 55
This is the Tierran Army we're talking about. Death-seeking is part of the job description.
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
Well, of course you did. When going into an uncertain situation, it is better to be prepared for the worst than not, and you can think of few better ways to prepare than to render yourself impervious to all but the most dire threats.
So, there you stand, at the head of your men, clad from head to toe in shining steel plate, feeling all but invincible.
You are still looking yourself over when your mind is snatched elsewhere by two long, distant, drawn-out peals of brassy music, then those same two notes repeated in rapid succession, once, twice, three times.
Your muscles tense, for the call which the bugle sounds is one you know well; it is the general advance, the signal to begin the attack.
-
Again, the sequence repeats as all around you, the air fills with the naked tension of eight thousand men as they prepare to advance.
A new, peculiar cacophony fills the air as the bugle notes fade, the sound of muskets being shouldered, bayonets being fixed, shakoes being put on, and pistols being checked one last time—the low rattle of an army going into battle.
From ahead, a cheer rises from the front of the assault force. A glance through your field glass reveals the cause of it: Cazarosta and his Forlorn Hope are going forward, armed with carbines, sabres, and a Tierran flag large enough to be mistaken for one of the immense regimental colours of the Line Infantry.
Then, even further in the distance, the parapets of Kharangia blossom with smoke as the air fills with the echoes of distant musketry. The cheering is shocked quiet by the sound of gunfire, but you do not see any of Cazarosta's men fall. They press on towards the glacis, the ditch beyond, and the breach itself.
-
Then, the drums rattle anew, and the blaring skirl of the pipes join them. A great roar rises from the trenches before you, hundreds of voices raised, bloodlust and high spirits given form in a single savage battle-cry.
The Highlanders are going to war.
From the heads of the trenches they file, assembling themselves into companies. Their sergeants dress the parti-coloured ranks, unplagued by the fire from the city's defenders. The Antari on the walls are still busy with Cazarosta's men.
The ground shakes as an immense fireball rises from the glacis. Tiny human shapes run from the cataclysm, their limbs pinwheeling and burning black as the roar of the explosion echoes all around you. Some sort of buried mine, or a banetrap perhaps. In any case, the Forlorn Hope have cleared it, at the cost of their own. Now the men following them, the invincible ranks of cloaked warriors from the wastelands of Kentaur shall have a clear path as they advance, their bayonets twirling and vicious broadswords raised for the kill.
They do not falter, not even in the face of the fire and death that awaits them. In fact, if your eyes see correctly, some men even begin to surge forward, running ahead only to be forced back into their place by the bellowing of sergeants and officers.
Then, another bugle call; the last of the Kentauri have cleared the assault trenches. The way forward is clear.
It is the dragoons' turn now.
-
For a few moments, your regiment stands in near silence, ears cocked, waiting for a signal which does not come. Where is it? Why has Keane not ordered it?
No, it seems you must take matters into your own hands. You turn to Hernandes, standing just beside you. "Staff, if you would oblige the regiment with a cheer?"
Your Staff-sergeant nods and smiles as he steps forward, for it is no ordinary cheer which you have just asked of him. For the dragoons before a battle, there is only one cheer worth shouting, the one which your Lieutenant-colonel has somehow forgotten to order. The one which even now, Hernandes is beginning to cry.
"Who're we?" he shouts.
"The first to fight!" The reply is automatic but confused. They had expected the first words to come from Keane or his Colour-sergeant, not from your squadron.
"Who're we?" Hernandes repeats.
"The last to leave!" comes the answer, louder this time. Their training takes over their confusion now, for the words they shout have been drilled into every man wearing a grey-green coat, without exception.
"Who're we?" You hear more voices joining Hernandes's; the other NCOs, it must be.
"The first a-horse!"
"Who're we?"
"The last a-bed!"
"Who're we?"
"Royal Dragoons!"
"Who're we?"
"Royal Dragoons!"
"Who're we?!"
"Dragoons! Dragoons! The King's Dragoons!" The reply comes as a full-throated roar, one to match the Highlanders' warcry in ferocity.
You let the sound wash over you for a moment, but only for a moment; the regiment advances into battle now, and it has no patience for those who will not lead it.
-
You file out of the trench at the head of your squadron, advancing into a thick, choking powder-fog. Only the low outline of Kharangia's walls in the distance and the distant thunder of muskets show the way ahead.
The next few moments are spent assembling nearly two hundred men into formation. The squadron is put into a single narrow block, no more than eight men wide, packed close enough as to nearly be shoulder to shoulder. For such a seemingly simple formation, getting your men into it is frustratingly difficult. Your men are not used to moving in close order, nor on foot, and precious moments slip by as your dragoons accustom themselves to their circumstances.
Thankfully, the slow process remains undisturbed by enemy fire. Though the walls still echo with the crackle of musketry, no bullets fly over your head. No doubt that with the Kentauri advancing up the glacis, the Antari are making an effort to focus on the more immediate threat of the Highlanders.
Not that you could know for sure. The fog of war grows thicker with every crack of a musket or pistol. The smoke is now so thick that you can barely see to the far end of your almost-formed column. Your muscles tense of their own volition, for you know not what surprises the all-encompassing shroud of the smoke might hide.
-
Indeed, as your men finally ready themselves to move forward, a form does appear from the smoke. Your hand reaches for your pistol but stops halfway; though the colour of the figure's coat is hidden by the smoke, you can see the crest of a Dragoon helmet atop his head quite clearly now.
The form sketches a quick salute as he finally approaches close enough for his features to become plain. "Sir!"
You return the salute on reflex alone, for the approaching figure is Colour-sergeant Wagar, the regiment's senior non-commissioned man. "What is it, Colour?"
"Ortiga, haven't seen the Lieutenant-colonel anywhere, have you?" the NCO asks, his handsome, angular features marred with the slightest tinge of worry.
Some part of you bridles at the Colour-sergeant's informal tone, but only a part of you. A colour-sergeant is a man worthy of respect, even from the Captain of a squadron. Instead, you only shake your head. "No sir, I have not." A spike of uncertainty works down your spine as you realise the implications of Wagar's question.
Lord Renard looks down at the enlisted man with a sneer, perhaps missing the insignia of rank on his sleeve. "Now see here, you rude fellow, ain't you know that Lieutenant-colonel Keane's t' be at the head of his squadron?"
Now it is the Colour-sergeant's turn to bristle. "Where do you think I just came from, you—" Wagar's eyes narrow, perhaps recognising the impertinent junior officer as the Duke's heir. "Sir," he corrects himself. "He's not there."
The feeling of uncertainty turns into a cold plunge of fear. If Keane is not at the head of his men, then where could he possibly be? The regiment needs him to lead them into battle, if he is missing…
1) Saints damn him! If Keane is missing, we'll do without him.
2) I will go to look for him.
3) I shall send Sandoral to look for him.
So, there you stand, at the head of your men, clad from head to toe in shining steel plate, feeling all but invincible.
You are still looking yourself over when your mind is snatched elsewhere by two long, distant, drawn-out peals of brassy music, then those same two notes repeated in rapid succession, once, twice, three times.
Your muscles tense, for the call which the bugle sounds is one you know well; it is the general advance, the signal to begin the attack.
-
Again, the sequence repeats as all around you, the air fills with the naked tension of eight thousand men as they prepare to advance.
A new, peculiar cacophony fills the air as the bugle notes fade, the sound of muskets being shouldered, bayonets being fixed, shakoes being put on, and pistols being checked one last time—the low rattle of an army going into battle.
From ahead, a cheer rises from the front of the assault force. A glance through your field glass reveals the cause of it: Cazarosta and his Forlorn Hope are going forward, armed with carbines, sabres, and a Tierran flag large enough to be mistaken for one of the immense regimental colours of the Line Infantry.
Then, even further in the distance, the parapets of Kharangia blossom with smoke as the air fills with the echoes of distant musketry. The cheering is shocked quiet by the sound of gunfire, but you do not see any of Cazarosta's men fall. They press on towards the glacis, the ditch beyond, and the breach itself.
-
Then, the drums rattle anew, and the blaring skirl of the pipes join them. A great roar rises from the trenches before you, hundreds of voices raised, bloodlust and high spirits given form in a single savage battle-cry.
The Highlanders are going to war.
From the heads of the trenches they file, assembling themselves into companies. Their sergeants dress the parti-coloured ranks, unplagued by the fire from the city's defenders. The Antari on the walls are still busy with Cazarosta's men.
The ground shakes as an immense fireball rises from the glacis. Tiny human shapes run from the cataclysm, their limbs pinwheeling and burning black as the roar of the explosion echoes all around you. Some sort of buried mine, or a banetrap perhaps. In any case, the Forlorn Hope have cleared it, at the cost of their own. Now the men following them, the invincible ranks of cloaked warriors from the wastelands of Kentaur shall have a clear path as they advance, their bayonets twirling and vicious broadswords raised for the kill.
They do not falter, not even in the face of the fire and death that awaits them. In fact, if your eyes see correctly, some men even begin to surge forward, running ahead only to be forced back into their place by the bellowing of sergeants and officers.
Then, another bugle call; the last of the Kentauri have cleared the assault trenches. The way forward is clear.
It is the dragoons' turn now.
-
For a few moments, your regiment stands in near silence, ears cocked, waiting for a signal which does not come. Where is it? Why has Keane not ordered it?
No, it seems you must take matters into your own hands. You turn to Hernandes, standing just beside you. "Staff, if you would oblige the regiment with a cheer?"
Your Staff-sergeant nods and smiles as he steps forward, for it is no ordinary cheer which you have just asked of him. For the dragoons before a battle, there is only one cheer worth shouting, the one which your Lieutenant-colonel has somehow forgotten to order. The one which even now, Hernandes is beginning to cry.
"Who're we?" he shouts.
"The first to fight!" The reply is automatic but confused. They had expected the first words to come from Keane or his Colour-sergeant, not from your squadron.
"Who're we?" Hernandes repeats.
"The last to leave!" comes the answer, louder this time. Their training takes over their confusion now, for the words they shout have been drilled into every man wearing a grey-green coat, without exception.
"Who're we?" You hear more voices joining Hernandes's; the other NCOs, it must be.
"The first a-horse!"
"Who're we?"
"The last a-bed!"
"Who're we?"
"Royal Dragoons!"
"Who're we?"
"Royal Dragoons!"
"Who're we?!"
"Dragoons! Dragoons! The King's Dragoons!" The reply comes as a full-throated roar, one to match the Highlanders' warcry in ferocity.
You let the sound wash over you for a moment, but only for a moment; the regiment advances into battle now, and it has no patience for those who will not lead it.
-
You file out of the trench at the head of your squadron, advancing into a thick, choking powder-fog. Only the low outline of Kharangia's walls in the distance and the distant thunder of muskets show the way ahead.
The next few moments are spent assembling nearly two hundred men into formation. The squadron is put into a single narrow block, no more than eight men wide, packed close enough as to nearly be shoulder to shoulder. For such a seemingly simple formation, getting your men into it is frustratingly difficult. Your men are not used to moving in close order, nor on foot, and precious moments slip by as your dragoons accustom themselves to their circumstances.
Thankfully, the slow process remains undisturbed by enemy fire. Though the walls still echo with the crackle of musketry, no bullets fly over your head. No doubt that with the Kentauri advancing up the glacis, the Antari are making an effort to focus on the more immediate threat of the Highlanders.
Not that you could know for sure. The fog of war grows thicker with every crack of a musket or pistol. The smoke is now so thick that you can barely see to the far end of your almost-formed column. Your muscles tense of their own volition, for you know not what surprises the all-encompassing shroud of the smoke might hide.
-
Indeed, as your men finally ready themselves to move forward, a form does appear from the smoke. Your hand reaches for your pistol but stops halfway; though the colour of the figure's coat is hidden by the smoke, you can see the crest of a Dragoon helmet atop his head quite clearly now.
The form sketches a quick salute as he finally approaches close enough for his features to become plain. "Sir!"
You return the salute on reflex alone, for the approaching figure is Colour-sergeant Wagar, the regiment's senior non-commissioned man. "What is it, Colour?"
"Ortiga, haven't seen the Lieutenant-colonel anywhere, have you?" the NCO asks, his handsome, angular features marred with the slightest tinge of worry.
Some part of you bridles at the Colour-sergeant's informal tone, but only a part of you. A colour-sergeant is a man worthy of respect, even from the Captain of a squadron. Instead, you only shake your head. "No sir, I have not." A spike of uncertainty works down your spine as you realise the implications of Wagar's question.
Lord Renard looks down at the enlisted man with a sneer, perhaps missing the insignia of rank on his sleeve. "Now see here, you rude fellow, ain't you know that Lieutenant-colonel Keane's t' be at the head of his squadron?"
Now it is the Colour-sergeant's turn to bristle. "Where do you think I just came from, you—" Wagar's eyes narrow, perhaps recognising the impertinent junior officer as the Duke's heir. "Sir," he corrects himself. "He's not there."
The feeling of uncertainty turns into a cold plunge of fear. If Keane is not at the head of his men, then where could he possibly be? The regiment needs him to lead them into battle, if he is missing…
1) Saints damn him! If Keane is missing, we'll do without him.
2) I will go to look for him.
3) I shall send Sandoral to look for him.
As of the Summer of the 609th year of the Old Imperial Era
Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 21
Rank: Captain
Wealth: 383
Income: 15
Soldiering: 75%
Charisma: 43%
Intellect: 5%
Reputation: 24%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 81% Cynicism: 19%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You are a Knight of the Red, having the right to wear bane-hardened armour and wield a bane-runed sword.
You have no decorations as of yet.
Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 21
Rank: Captain
Wealth: 383
Income: 15
Soldiering: 75%
Charisma: 43%
Intellect: 5%
Reputation: 24%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 81% Cynicism: 19%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You are a Knight of the Red, having the right to wear bane-hardened armour and wield a bane-runed sword.
You have no decorations as of yet.
Sixth Squadron, Royal Dragoons
Senior NCO: Staff-sergeant Hernandes
Discipline: 54%
Morale: 54%
Loyalty: 39%
Strength: 99%
Senior NCO: Staff-sergeant Hernandes
Discipline: 54%
Morale: 54%
Loyalty: 39%
Strength: 99%
One of three possibilities exist in this exercise:
Either way, we cannot dally about any longer. We risk losing momentum if we do not. His loss is a blow against us but it is not our end nor a defeat!
1. Colour-Sergeant! We shall move ahead as planned and take this city! If Keane will not join us, then that is his own burden to bear. We cannot lose whatever momentum we have obtained!
As an aside: as the most senior officer, is it possible to request cover fire from artillery cannons to begin pounding again at the walls?
- Keane has betrayed us to the enemy as vengeance against the king and his leadership for some unknown hurt done to his family.
- Keane has lost his nerve, consumed with guilt over the lives lost and cannot go any farther.
- Keane is working on something that is consuming all his attention, some sort of great stroke against the enemy.
Either way, we cannot dally about any longer. We risk losing momentum if we do not. His loss is a blow against us but it is not our end nor a defeat!
1. Colour-Sergeant! We shall move ahead as planned and take this city! If Keane will not join us, then that is his own burden to bear. We cannot lose whatever momentum we have obtained!
As an aside: as the most senior officer, is it possible to request cover fire from artillery cannons to begin pounding again at the walls?
Or he's passed out drunk in a ditch somewhere else. Or killed by partisans that infiltrated our camp. Or blew his brain out rather than face death again.
I don't think that leaving is a good idea, same as removing the officer commanding the troop we're attached with. So 1.
I don't think we'd have the authority to do so. Even then, by the time a messenger reached the artillery, we'd be right under the walls, so any missed shot might strike us.
Covenant Ringthane
Novice
1.
W'd charge a wall of pikes naked, and we're all for glorious combat in the name of Tierra. IfJeane Keane isn't here, well... will that stop us? We're a knight, our mettle proven. DO we really need a commanding officer when our heart is filled with love for our King and pride for our country? No, sirrah!
We know best, after all - we're a genius.
W'd charge a wall of pikes naked, and we're all for glorious combat in the name of Tierra. If
We know best, after all - we're a genius.
LordTryhard
Novice
- Joined
- Jul 7, 2018
- Messages
- 55
2.
Both the Highlanders and the Forlorn Hope should be at the walls by now. So... no.
Both the Highlanders and the Forlorn Hope should be at the walls by now. So... no.
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