Captain Philippe Gounelle
709th Heavy Infantry
The port was busy. Even as the vessel came-in, Philippe could see a good few other battalions forming-up and mustering themselves along the waterside, varied as could be. He even saw companies of barbarians armed with bows, of fine-clothed horsemen in black attire, white skulls adorning their helmets. Otherwise, while the port was large it was not used to so many foreigners, especially so many soldiers. As far as a backwater posting there was there weren’t many Dangomor could be compared to. A greater number of fishing boats were out, nothing like what the Captain had seen back home. It looked to be enough to fill the bellies of the populace, a bit more than that, though the boats that were out weren’t all that good. He could see leaks, chipped paint, the normal hallmark of poor sailors and poor people.
That rocking of the ship was unnerving to the young man; he’d spent some years on the water, yet nothing rough at sea. Fishing trips with brothers on a still lake was incomparable towards taking a heavy warship on the seas to transport troops. It had gotten far less severe since they had entered the shallow waters, though despite that fact, Philippe’s hand still grasped the ship’s railings. His knuckles simply weren’t white anymore. The sailors about him moved with a certain deftness that could only be developed from years on the water. The Captain nearly envied them. Nearly. Sailors were in a certain class that most nobles, save for those wishing easy commands, never touched, a class of life that combined brigand with soldier. Swashbuckler spirit replaced the lost dignity though, so the exchange was more fair in Gounelle’s opinion.
Turning-about to look-over how things were going, the Captain was pleased that the likely descriptor was ‘well’. Barrels of munitions and supplies had been hoisted-up from the open center hatch in the deck, his men working hard to bring those supplies over to the side to load into the longboats. Muskets slung over shoulders, breastplates and fez’s on, there was only the brief exultations of a Sergeant’s call in Garronese to break the more common tongue of the sailors. To say that they were uncomfortable was an understatement; not a decade had passed since Philippe’s tongue had been the enemy’s language, since the calls like that had been on the other side, over the hedges and hills. They still worked with the sailors, though, with a good bit of meshing. Many of the 709th had been used to the water in their younger years, after all.
The anchor dropped, the men rapidly beginning to come ashore, and Philippe was one of the first on the longboats. The calmer water made the trip easy and as the young Captain found his feet on dry land he also found a harbour master. The man was obviously an immigrant, wild red hair in a braided beard and coming down to the small of his back. As far as clothing went the man was more local, though his boots were replaced by a pair of fine shoes, somewhat expensive though scuffed about the front and sides. They were also looking to be just a bit ill-fitting. Closer inspection revealed similar oddities about the man’s person; there was a button missing on the man’s coat, for instance. Obviously they were looser in regards to property laws in the Styx. Philippe decided on taking the diplomatic route and simply not noticing more details on the harbour master's clothing choices, not wanting to make assumptions so very damn soon or rather to make enemies so soon. He had enough of those, that was for certain.
“Another one? Soldier lads all over the place. Papers, sah?” He most certainly wasn’t used to having so many soldiers in the place, just like the city, and held-out his hand. Handing the man the papers, a thin sheaf with around half a dozen wax seals and crests on the front page, the man took it in his hands and began to turn-through the pages. Bureaucracy in the thin glove of aristocracy was as potent a weapon to an individual as any, and as a weapon it was one favored by Dallia. It’d been a pain to move his troops out with the degree of signatures he’d had to give, the amount of approvals needed. The harbour master nodded gently to himself, the crackle of folded paperwork lost in the din of troops coming ashore.
“Any interesting Battalions march-through,” Philippe ventured, a thick Garronese accent marking the civilian shoot his head up, eyebrows raised in surprise for just a second before lowering to a beetle like form. Swallowing, the man made his reply; it wasn’t too often that a Dallic officer, never mind a noble, made small talk towards men as he. Normally they just tapped their foot impatiently with little regard.
“Native Battalion ran-through here, last I saw, blaring a right bawdy tune the young lads. Highlands, too; it was a damn fine sight to see some fellow countrymen out here, if you don’t mind me saying so sah.”
Gounelle was just a little bit annoyed by the civilian’s uncomfortability. Despite the time he’d been at the previous posting, before they had always treated him as an outsider. Philippe responded with a “Don’t mind at all, not at all.” Highlanders? Now that was rather interesting. A silence fell between the two, neither really knowing what to say, though that really only lasted only a few seconds.
“Well, sah, everything appears to be in order. Welcome to Dangomor. A courier from your command wanted you to have this, I believe.” The harbour master produced a small wax-sealed envelope and, along with the orders, handed it over to the young Captain. Taking it, Philippe considered and rapidly decided that it was more than likely from the Colonel. As the civilian walked-off to attend to his other duties, Gounelle produced a small knife, cutting it open. It was rather small as far as letters go, though said a few good things. There was to be a dinner, expressly no uniforms, and a small apology that the province was rather boring as far as provinces go. That last point didn’t really surprise Philippe; it was frankly to be expected, the Captain thought, though considering how poor the region was he doubted nobility would interfere with whatever training maneuvers they wished to perform, either in time or place or existance. By the stars, Philippe was tired of spoiled daughters complaining to fathers that his men tramped over their grassy fields in the distance, tired of spoiled songs clinging to the skirt-strings of mothers claiming they had scared all the good game away.
“Anything interesting?” A female voice, light little accent spent from years abroad, inquired. The voice there was like a dozen bells in summer, a little bit of insinuation at the end as though a tease, as though Philippe had a well-paid whore or an actual love in the area. He chuckled at the thought, half-turning to see Marie-Ange Martin in the corner of his eye. As far as looks went she was by no means stunning, lacking the figure most would adore and instead holding a rail-thin disposition, a musculature well-founded. Short autumn leaf hair curled about her ears to frame aquamarine eyes and a little nose, a small smile always held three. The choice of attire was that of the soldier’s, the red puffed trousers and blue vest combined with a pair of blackened ankle boots.
“Not what you think. Dinner with the other Captains and the Colonel. No uniforms allowed.” His voice was rather dry on it, a little nonchalant though that was only be design. Her reaction was just as he thought.
“A dinner? Well, you’ll need someone to keep you out of trouble then.” The tone in her voice suggested that she was interested in far more than merely making sure fools weren’t made out of Philippe, too happy to be charitable. It’d been too long since the Lieutenant had gone to an event with new or otherwise interesting people, especially with so many varied Captains. Especially not one where she was allowed to wear civilian clothes.
“Not really. I’ll be fine, they’re other Captains. You get the distinct joy of getting the men billeted and set-up for training, starting tomorrow. We’ve been far, far too lax in drills, that’s for certain. Need to get that bit back.”
And that was that. The man were mustered and set in their formation at the pierside, each one laden with a heavy pack. They weren’t going to take another trip, that was for certain, and they weren’t going to take any sort of carriages or the like. Operating like that was for the field, for when you need a field kitchen to give the men a little bit of happiness instead of the normal cold meat and cheese. Already at attention, Captain Gounelle strode in front of the men to address them.
“Aujourd'hui est un nouveau jour. Aujourd'hui, nous avons le grand honneur d'être placés dans ce trou de merde, dans cette petite province qui peut ou non nous donner quelque chose à faire. Pendant trop longtemps, nous avons joué le rôle de soldat, nous sommes restés à l’attention, sans jamais entendre le coup de canon, les tirs de mousquet dans les rangs, trop longtemps, nous nous sommes contentés d’être attentifs, jolis, rien de plus et rien de moins. Aujourd'hui est un nouveau jour, un jour où nous avons la possibilité de nous améliorer, de nous transformer en soldats, que ce soit par la force ou par la bataille. Attention! Droite ... Visage! "Marche avant!"
And so, the 709th marched down the street, crisp and clean in their step as they sang-out their marching tune in a native note. The drums rang in the streets and the sound of boots crashing onto the streets all at once ensuring that heads did in fact turn at the foreigners. If they could do anything remarkably well, they could march and that spoke volumes on the men. Eventually they came to a larger hotel where the men were stationed, the Captain getting into a room to change into a far laxer outfit. A plain maroon coat with gold-hued trim over his lightly ruffled shirt, a lighter jacket of that same gold-hue with maroon trim, and a lack of a wig essentially made-up his clothing, something that took after the Garronese fashions. He ditched the sword and kept one of his pistols, leaving the Battalion to it’s Lieutenants.
As he neared the Colonel’s building, Philippe walked there with little pomp, ceremony, or guard. Two knocks and the man waited. He didn’t wait for long at all, though, the door being opened and a rather portly butler standing there. Taking his pistols and the sword, it being clearly not for show or fashion, he was announced, brought into the dining room, and seated. Those about him were remarkably varied, remarkably so. Taking that seat, Philippe said little, preferring instead to allow the Colonel to lead and to merely observe.
