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

[Lithium Flower]

"It would only be sensible to fear an enemy that so outnumbers us, Your Excellency."

"Numbers?" Lord Cassius replies incredulously. "You would hide from a force which, I have been assured by your Lord Havenport, is inferior in both drill and equipment to yours, simply because of numbers?" He shakes his head and mutters something under his breath, something which you do not quite catch.

"I beg pardon, Your Excellency?" you ask.

"The Richshyr does not put stock in numbers. A Takaran officer always expects themself to be outnumbered and is taught that any foe, no matter how great they are in size, can be mastered," Lord Cassius replies. "Then again…" He waves his perfectly manicured fingers dismissively. "You are not a Takaran officer, are you?"

The comparison rankles in your mind, but the elegant diplomat is already moving on and heading for the door. "Regardless, there is no point in arguing over the matter now. The decision has been made, and there is no point in wasting time further, yes?"

With that, the ambassador walks out into the courtyard and calls for his horse and valet, leaving you alone in the map room.

-

You depart Fort Kharan that morning.

Over the next few days, you make good progress. Though the trees hem your column in on both sides, your outriders report no sign of partisan activity. It seems that the Antari are too busy planting their spring crops to give you any trouble.

Instead, it is a growing feeling of dread that haunts you as the days pass. The further you proceed along the road, the heavier the feeling grows. You can see that some of your other dragoons feel it as well, your veterans, those who have been with the army for years: an oppressive pall which dampens the moods of your best men.

Finally, on a morning a week out of Fort Kharan, Hernandes falls back towards you and your fellow officers from his position at the head of the column.

"It's up ahead," he says, his eyes haunted.

You nod, your own dark mood matching your Staff-sergeant's as the memories of that bloody day in the past well up in your mind once more.

"I don't understand, sir," Blaylock says from your left, looking at the two of you with puzzlement. "What's up ahead?"

Your answer comes out hoarse and brittle, barely louder than a whisper. "Blogia."

-

Blogia.

Fear and powder-smoke, banefire and steel, bloodshed and death.

The memories strike you like blows to the head, too bright, too loud, and too swift to stop. The crack of massed musketry, the hollow thunder of cannon, the trembling of the earth under the iron-shod hooves of Khorobirit's Church Hussars as they swept Wulfram's cavalry from the field in a tide of bane-hardened steel, the wings mounted on their back wailing as they charged home with their monstrous lances.

"Blogia?" Lord Cassius's too-cheerful voice pulls you bodily into the here-and-now. "Did I hear correctly? We are near Blogia? That is where your Duke of Wulfram was defeated by Prince Khorobirit, yes? Also, it is where you won your knighthood, is it not? I would very much like to see the field for myself." The Takaran's blue eyes sparkle with excitement. "Might you offer me a tour?"

You do not much relish the idea of heading back to that field again, especially if it is merely to indulge a foreign diplomat's curiosity.

Yet, surely, if you were able to impress upon him just how hard and how well your men had fought, perhaps you could win some respect from the point-eared bastard.

"Perhaps," you reply, though you cannot imagine such a task will be very easy for you.

It wouldn't be an easy thing for your men either, to see the field where so many fellow Tierrans had fallen. Of course, you suppose you might be able to use their discomfort to your advantage. If you could find the right words, you could turn your dead countrymen from fellows to be mourned into martyrs to be avenged.

That would put fire in your men's hearts and fight in their stomachs.

"Ah, Staff?" Lord Renard pipes up. "The field's safe to cross, ain't it? Been three years, wot."

Hernandes shakes his head. "No sir. If the Antari burned the dead after the battle, they didn't do a thorough job of it. There's bones everywhere."

The young lordling swallows hard, and it takes him a moment to regain his composure. "Ain't proper that. Ought to gather 'em together, those bones, burn 'em up," he says quietly, reverently. "Ain't going to find the Saints if they's left half rot on the ground."

1) I give the battlefield a wide berth in order to avoid unsettling the men.
2) I'll show my men where our countrymen died in order to stoke the fires of vengeance.
3) I'll use the opportunity to show off where my men and I fought.
4) I stage a short ceremony of remembrance for our Tierran dead.

Personal Information

As of the Spring of the 610th year of the Old Imperial Era

Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 22
Rank: Captain
Wealth: 488
Income: 15

Soldiering: 75%

Charisma: 43%

Intellect: 5%

Reputation: 20%

Health: 65%

Idealism: 69% Cynicism: 31%

Ruthlessness: 36% Mercy: 64%

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

You have no decorations as of yet.

Unit Information

Sixth Squadron, Royal Dragoons
Senior NCO: Staff-sergeant Hernandes

Discipline: 39%

Morale: 39%

Loyalty: 37%

Strength: 85%

​

 

[Major_Blackhart]

4. We are not well spoken and inspiring enough for any other option, and cowardice is not in our nature. I cannot understand however why we care so much what a fop thinks, and why we allow him to bait us time and again.

 

[ERYFKRAD]

4

 

[Grimgravy]

4

 

[Reinhardt]

4.

I cannot understand however why we care so much what a fop thinks, and why we allow him to bait us time and again.

Because many codexians are elf lovers. Disgusting.

 

[Urthor]

2. Vengeaaanceeeeeeee

 

[baud]

3

 

[Kalarion]

4

 

[Lithium Flower]

You set up camp on the edge of the battlefield and steel your nerves for the trial that is to come. Then, with Lord Renard in tow, you head out into the field of Blogia.

The terrain itself is much as you remember it, but now it is littered with the wreckage of two armies. Wherever you go, the ground is littered with discarded weapons turned to rust by time, scraps of cloth so faded that you cannot even tell if they had once been Tierran orange or Antari homespun, and bones; so many bones that they jut out from the ground in jagged pale edges like a field of stark white grass.

It is difficult enough to figure out whether one bone belonged to a Tierran or an Antari, jumbled together as they are. You must rely upon close inspection: the battered brass of a sabre hilt, the withered strands of a Kentauri sword knot, the shredded ruin of a cuirassier's riding boot, still clinging to the leg of its wearer.

You set the men to building a pyre, not the rough piles of kindling and firewood of the sort used for field cremations but a proper one: carefully cut logs placed crosswise in a square, doused in lamp oil.

By sunset, all is in readiness.

You assemble your men. Linen-wrapped bones in hand, you say a few words of remembrance for the dead. There are no sounds save the whisper of the evening breeze when you place the bundle on the pyre and light the oil-soaked wood. The ceremony itself is all rightness and decorum, but that does not hide the emotion that fills the air, mingling with the smoke as the ashes of the dead are blown skywards by the cold wind.

The pyre burns quickly, but some of your men stand even after the last of the wood burns out and the embers start to fade. Others come to you, veterans of the battle, their expressions forced into impassivity as they thank you.

You pretend not to see the tears in their eyes.

-

Throughout the next week and a half, your column continues working its way northwards. At first, you make good progress, leaving the field of Blogia far behind you.

With each passing day, you begin to see the half-skeletal forests around you return to life, fresh, broad-leafed greenery sprouting on branches once denuded by the cold of the fleeting winter. With the warm breeze in your faces and no sign of hostile partisans, you and your men even begin to relax a little in your saddles, free to enjoy the sight of spring returning to the trees and the small hamlets which sit alongside the road as you pass them by. It is, all things considered, rather pleasant.

Unfortunately, it also does not last.

The warmth of spring has long since driven the last of the snow from the roads, but that does not mean your progress is entirely smooth. Not all the snowmelt has drained away, and in more than one place, they have turned the stretches of unpaved dirt road into a glutinous morass, capable of slowing your column to a crawl. It takes nearly a day to cross the first of these bad spots, even though it is barely five hundred paces from one end to the other. Again and again, such setbacks slow your squadron's progress as it heads further north.

Worse is yet to come.

-

On the fourteenth day out from Blogia, as you are resting and feeding your horses, you find the unmistakable stench of rot emanating from some of the fodder bags. At once, you set your men to throwing out any feed with any sort of discolouration or strange odour.

Ten minutes later, Sandoral approaches you with a sour expression on his face. "I regret to inform you, sir, that almost all of our feed reserves have been fouled: we are down to our last four bales of fodder," he reports.

"Is that bad?" you ask somewhat sheepishly, understandably reluctant to admit that you're not quite good enough at maths to figure out how much your squadron's horses eat every day.

Your Lieutenant replies with a look of barely restrained exasperation. "That's barely a day's supply, sir."

Oh, that is bad.

"The horses will starve before we reach the King's Army, sir," Sandoral states grimly.

"Sandoral!" Lieutenant Blaylock pushes his way into the conversation, rare worry plain on his features. "What's this I hear about the horses starving?"

When you and Sandoral explain the situation to him, Blaylock relaxes. "Is that all?" he scoffs. "That's hardly a problem, sir. There are villages all along the road. They've got fodder, we've got guns. Simple enough, if you ask me."

"We ain't footpads, Blaylock," Lord Renard exclaims, inserting himself into the impromptu staff meeting with a pointed look. "Ain't nothing stoppin' us from buying fodder from th' locals, like gentlemen."

Your officers look to you for a decision.

"What about food for our men?"

Sandoral shakes his head. "We've still enough food for the men. Barring any major incidents, we'll be able to make it with a little bit to spare, so there should be no need to worry about that, thank the Saints."

"Which ain't help the fact that y'can't feed a horse on hardtack and salt pork," Lord Renard remarks bitterly. "Do that, they get sick." A sheepish pause. "Trust me, I've tried."

"At least it's one less thing we'll have to worry about," you reply.

Your officers nod, though they still wear expressions of unease as they await your decision.

1) "If we ration carefully, our fodder supplies could last."
2) "We'll buy from the locals."
3) "We can take what we need from the Antari villagers."

Personal Information

As of the Spring of the 610th year of the Old Imperial Era

Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 22
Rank: Captain
Wealth: 488
Income: 15

Soldiering: 75%

Charisma: 43%

Intellect: 5%

Reputation: 20%

Health: 65%

Idealism: 69% Cynicism: 31%

Ruthlessness: 33% Mercy: 67%

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

You have no decorations as of yet.

Unit Information

Sixth Squadron, Royal Dragoons
Senior NCO: Staff-sergeant Hernandes

Discipline: 39%

Morale: 42%

Loyalty: 43%

Strength: 85%

​

 

[Lithium Flower]

Gotta say, I am pretty puzzled by Renard's accent. I get that it is supposed to be clipped and dandyish but it translates into a lower class kind of speech in my head. Perhaps that may be the point Wang was trying to make - pampered dandies fops who don't pay attention in class end up not so different from the working poor when it comes to propar speechings - but it still bothers me especially considering his uncle doesn't share his accent so it doesn't appear to be a regional thing either.

 

[Major_Blackhart]

2.

Also, that's something as well that bugs me thus far about this LP. The man is a lordling, minor or not. Raised in a kingdom and around nothing but the finest of tutors, etc. And he talks like that?

 

[ERYFKRAD]

2

 

[Reinhardt]

2.

The man is a lordling, minor or not. Raised in a kingdom and around nothing but the finest of tutors, etc. And he talks like that?

Nigga, when you checked our stats last time did you see something strange?
It's a miracle we can talk at all.

 

[LordTryhard]

Gotta say, I am pretty puzzled by Renard's accent. I get that it is supposed to be clipped and dandyish but it translates into a lower class kind of speech in my head. Perhaps that may be the point Wang was trying to make - pampered dandies fops who don't pay attention in class end up not so different from the working poor when it comes to propar speechings - but it still bothers me especially considering his uncle doesn't share his accent so it doesn't appear to be a regional thing either.

The Duke is his dad, not his uncle.

Also, I went into the Guns of Infinity thread on the Choice of Games forum, searched through some old posts, and here is what Paul Wang had to say on the subject:

"Regency dandies, especially the ones who are wealthy and powerful enough to be the bleeding edge of highborn fashion spoke with a lot of affectations. I’m trying my hardest to integrate them into Lord Renard’s speech, just to show exactly what kind of social background he comes from."

In other words, he doesn't sound like a commoner, he's just so far above us that he has a different way of speaking.

(if anyone is wondering how I know so much about the game - this is why. The author maintains an active presence on the CoG forum and frequently answers questions, occasionally revealing more information about the game's lore and also future installments.)

 

[ERYFKRAD]

As for why the same t

??

 

[Grimgravy]

2

 

[baud]

2.

The man is a lordling, minor or not. Raised in a kingdom and around nothing but the finest of tutors, etc. And he talks like that?

Nigga, when you checked our stats last time did you see something strange?
It's a miracle we can talk at all.

I think it's about Renard, not our character.

3, let's loot and pillage.

 

[Reinhardt]

I think it's about Renard, not our character.

When you talk to retards like our character you do it slow and simple.

 

[LordTryhard]

I'd just like to point out that our character isn't completely mentally inept. According to the author, Soldiering isn't just about personal combat prowess: it also affects your tactical instincts (basically, your ability to read the field, and understand when/how to best use what you have available.) Intellect is more about innovative solutions, detailed battle-plans, and your general knowledge.

For example,

You nod in agreement. "I must concur with your assessment, and I assure you that I have already considered the matter," you reply as you reach into your tunic pocket and pull out your own map of the region, the one which you had gone over with your officers the day before you departed Noringia.

Unfolding your map, you point to the same crossing, only on your copy the point is already annotated with the words "most likely point of ambush" in your handwriting.

Lady Katarina seems taken aback a moment, almost as if she had not expected you to take what almost seems like an elementary precaution.

"I have been in the King's service for the better part of a decade, my lady," you reply, trying to keep your tone genial. "You have no need to remind me of my duty."

Low soldiering characters don't get this scene.

The fighting on the walls will be at close quarters. The powder-fog and the confines of the narrow walkways will make sure of that. Numbers won't quite matter as much as individual skill and discipline.

And they don't get this line, either.

 

[Lithium Flower]

"Will you be paying for all those supplies, sir?" Blaylock asks, his expression sour.

Lord Renard shakes his head. "Don't seem fair to make one man pay for the whole squadron's supplies out his own pocket. Better if each of us pays for his troop, wot?"

"Not all of us can rely upon 800 crown a year," Blaylock grouses before turning to you. "Spare a thought for those of us not heir to a dukedom, sir?"

Blaylock has a point. Lord Renard aside, your junior officers would likely find the financial burden of buying enough fodder for their troops to be onerous indeed.

Your lieutenants look to you for a decision.

1) "This is my responsibility as squadron commander; I shall take on the cost myself."
2) "The purchase of supplies should be the responsibility of each individual troop commander."
3) "Perhaps we might require each man to take personal responsibility for feeding his mount?"

Personal Information

As of the Spring of the 610th year of the Old Imperial Era

Sir Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 22
Rank: Captain
Wealth: 488
Income: 15

Soldiering: 75%

Charisma: 43%

Intellect: 5%

Reputation: 24%

Health: 65%

Idealism: 69% Cynicism: 31%

Ruthlessness: 33% Mercy: 67%

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

You have no decorations as of yet.

Unit Information

Sixth Squadron, Royal Dragoons
Senior NCO: Staff-sergeant Hernandes

Discipline: 39%

Morale: 42%

Loyalty: 43%

Strength: 85%

​

 

[Kipeci]

1

We have a fair amount of cash, it could buy us some goodwill from our subordinates. Though I’m not sure how much good that will do us.

 

[Tigranes]

1. It's not going to be great to foist it on the individual troops. While I'd prefer an option to subsidise the costs...

 

[ERYFKRAD]

1

 

[Reinhardt]

1. I'm feeling generous.

 

[Grimgravy]

1 - jackass move to do otherwise