NATION

PASSWORD

CANNON and CANON (IC)

For all of your non-Nationstates related roleplaying needs!
User avatar
Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States
P2TM RP Mentor
 
Posts: 16537
Founded: Feb 20, 2012
Scandinavian Liberal Paradise

CANNON and CANON (IC)

Postby Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States » Sat Jul 28, 2018 7:13 am

The 20th Year of the Lordship of Prince Halvast III
Year 20 HAIII
Halgomar Docks
Royal Province of Dagomor


Image





Perhaps it was all a bit too white. Colonel Horatio Fellus, clad in the white coat common to those learned in theology, sporting white pants and white buckled shoes, atop a white, almost spotless Altai steed. From a distance he seemed to glow and glint in the late afternoon sun, not unlike the reflection of thousands of muskets being ferried to shore. As he looked over the harbour, Horatio could see a sight that would make any true-born patriot proud. Large, three-masted ships laying for anchor all over the Bay of Halgomar, their highest masts allowing the three-times-threecolour of the Dallic Empire to flutter in the wind. The shallow sun made the bay itself shine like silver, which otherwise would reflect the orange sky above. It had been a warm day, and the colonel sighed as the heat began to make way for a more favourable evening coolness. The crisp smell of embers in the air mixed with the faint singing of so many soldiery songs as the various battalions were ferried to shore. It truly was a sight to behold. Every few moments one of the rowing boats would reach the jetties, disembarking their soldiers and making way for the next load. Lieutenants were busy forming up their companies, some barking orders with military volume, others being a bit more tepid. The men had spent a few days on a ship, and there were quite a few lieutenants who cut their men some slack. The men still had about a mile to march to their barracks, which was on the southern outskirts of the city.

As far as his own men were concerned, there were three types of the 1st battalion that had flooded into the harbour. There were the off-duty men, sitting in front of the many cafes, having a beer while they watched the infrastructural marvel unfold. They would point and gawk when they saw another artillery piece being brought ashore, or when another banner landed, or when a company of ‘exotics’ would march past. These were the men who would try to get a peek under one of the Highlander’s kilts, and who would get a good kicking afterwards. The second type of men were the on-duty guards, marching through the harbour in double-filed columns of ten rankers, usually headed by a corporal. They marched up and down the harbour and would break up any fights that flared up. The disembarking men were understandably cranky, and it was easy to ignite them. When they got the chance they would help load crates of supplies onto carts, or they would help drag horses from the rowing boats. The third type was the busiest type: lieutenants and sergeants from the 1st battalion trying to manage the absolute chaos of a few battalions disembarking at the same time. They spent their time pointing out assembly grounds, pointing their counterparts from the other battalions in the right direction, and generally running to and fro, much to the amusement of the soldiers of leisure enjoying their beers.

A loud crack rocked through that part of the harbour. The colonel looked up, and saw that a particularly overloaded cart had broken its axel. The crates toppled over and fell all over the floor, with fruits and vegetables rolling across the cobblestones. A red-faced lieutenant in black uniform tried to stop some crates from falling over, but to no avail. This all under a cacophony of laughter from one of the cafes, where a few soldiers of the 1st battalion were rolling across the floor laughing. The colonel rode his horse up to the cart, where he took off his black tricorn hat as a greeting.

“Good afternoon, lieutenant!” he said, smiling friendly. The lieutenant turned to him immediately. It took him a moment to recognise Horatio as a colonel, since he wasn’t wearing his uniform. However, the man in almost completely white dress on the white horse was easy to mark out, and the man sprang to attention.

“Good afternoon, sir! I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again, sir”

The colonel smiled, and shook his head.

“The gods have a rather strange kind of humour, lieutenant. Let’s not split hairs over it. What is your name?”

“Lieutenant Ferson, sir. 44th battalion, 2nd company” he said quickly. To the side, the 1st battalion men were still rolling on the floor laughing. The colonel yanked on the reigns of his horse and rode it towards the café, where the soldiers were now desperately trying to get up. One of them, a corporal, got up first, and saluted.

“Sir!” he shouted, with his men quickly falling in line. They were all red-faced, which was only made worse by the disapproving glare from the colonel.

“Corporal...” Horatio said, looking sternly at the man. “Tell me, what did Salderman the Wise learn when he travelled through the kingdom of the Falling Monkeys?”

The red face of the corporal now approached a shade of purple. He recognised the name, as the colonel had given a sermon on the subject but two days ago. The colonel found it important for the moral fibre of the men that they were properly instructed in matters of the faith, so every few days he would give the men a sermon. Not all paid attention, of course, but his pop-quizzes on theology were almost legendary by this point.

“That… that…” he said, trying his damnest to remember what the colonel had said. The colonel shook his head.

“Try not to rupture a vein, corporal” he said. One of the rankers, a young boy, seemed knowledgeable enough, and there was a knowing smile around his face. The colonel pointed at him.

“Ranker, what did Salderman learn?” he said, now more like a school teacher than an officer.

“We should not laugh at the discomfort of others. We should share in them if possible” he said merrily, much to the distaste of his corporal.

“Very good” the colonel said, nodding. He then pointed out the broken cart, where a few rankers of the 44th were busy assembling the foodstuffs that had scattered across the street.

“I suggest you go share in the discomfort of your brothers”

There was only a moment’s hesitation, before the corporal struck his heels together. “Yes, sir! As you command, sir!” With the speed of a cavalry regiment the corporal nodded to his men, and they started helping gather the cabbages and apples that could still be saved. The colonel smiled, pulled on the reigns of his horse and strode off, looking proudly at the business of his new subordinates, his new regiment. He rode off through the streets, along the central city promenade, where companies were marching diligently, some under drumbeat, some more as a tired mob. None of them took particular note of the architecture, which was almost entirely Mannarist. Most of the central city was built 120 years before, when the empire decided to expand its colonial infrastructure. Carts bounced up and down the cobbled roads, creating a supply chain that circulated through the entire mile between the harbour and the barracks.

Just before the colonel reached the actual outskirts of the city he took his horse east, down one of the many winding roads in this hill-built city. Normally it was quite a hike up-hill, but his horse was well-trained and managed the steep inclines beautifully. Before long, the colonel took his horse between two columns, and into the garden of the Governor’s Palace. He nodded at the men of the 1st battalion standing guard, gave his horse to one of the stable boys, and walked up to the front door. Before he could knock a particularly round butler opened the door.

“Baron Hevan, the governor is expecting you” he said. The Horatio nodded in a friendly manner.

“Thank you, August” he said, taking off his hat and walking in. The house was built in the style of Mannarist Architecture, which had been all the rage 120 years ago. Mannarist architecture was obsessed with optical illusions and forced perspective, as well as heavy usage of symbolism and colour. While the colours had worn off, one could not help feel small when entering the columned atrium of the governor’s palace. The colonel had not entirely shaken that feeling when he was approached by a man, his arms spread was wide as his old body could manage, and a voice to match the ageing governor.

“Horatio!” the man exclaimed, entwining him in an embrace. Horatio returned it gladly.

“How are you dealing with the… the… unloading?” he man said, struggling to find the word. The colonel nodded as the two walked past the rows of columns towards the dining room.

“The debarkation has gone according to plan thus far. A few hiccups, but that is common to any military operation. No-one to blame but the gods” he said, smiling. The governor nodded.

“If you say so, Father” he answered as they entered the dining room. A large table had been set there, adorned with all kinds of cutlery, plates and a row of silver girandoles. The room was still empty, apart from the servants standing seemingly in every corner. The governor took up a place at the head of the table, allowing the colonel to sit to his right.

“Now, we just have to wait for the others!” the governor said, with the colonel nodding in agreement.
Last edited by Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States on Sat Jul 28, 2018 7:20 am, edited 2 times in total.
The name's James. James Usari. Well, my name is not actually James Usari, so don't bother actually looking it up, but it'll do for now.

Lack of a real name means compensation through a real face. My debt is settled


Part-time Kebab tycoon in Glasgow.

User avatar
Cylarn
Postmaster-General
 
Posts: 14585
Founded: Nov 25, 2011
Left-Leaning College State

Postby Cylarn » Sat Jul 28, 2018 4:08 pm

Captain Ebenezer "Eb" Paschalis, Baron of Oscala
Officer Commanding, West Pfeiffer Imperial Carbineers
Docks of Halgomar
Year 20 HAIII


The new post.

A steady stream poured down the gangway, a stream of man and horse that steadily emerged from the bowels of the Dane. Men in grey uniforms, carrying packs and carbines, held by the stirrups their large warhorses and led them down onto the foreign land. The Imperial Standard flew along red pennets, listing in the evening breeze. The Carbineers made their way down, one by one, and took in the true scope of the land.

Many were mesmerized by what they were seeing. These were men of the Valley; landlocked men, who knew no true body of water aside from rivers and the rare lake. Being a majority of young men with little to no experience outside of the Valley, the whole saga of the past two days was an absolute adventure. Seeing the initial beauty of Dangomor - specifically the mountains in the distance that steadily rose from the coast below - painted the faces of the Carbineers with expressions of delight. As they waded from the surf onto the shore, the men and horses filed into a formation of three squares, the men standing idle and conversing with one another.

Just thirty yards away, a collection of mounted individuals watched as the Carbineers disembarked. Four of them - three men and one rather masculine-appearing woman - were clad in grey uniforms, with varying levels of distinction. A rather fetching red-headed woman wearing a straw sun hat and a dress of high quality sat atop a mare dappled in grey and brown, while beside her was a young boy in a white suit, mounted atop a black horse.

Eb himself was mounted atop a rather large and stocky steed colored in a solid chestnut. Eb's gaze from beneath the brim of his slouch hat was one of an unflinching lack of emotion. His brown eyes appeared almost dead, hands wrapped around the reins. Without turning his gaze elsewhere, Eb spoke, his voice carrying the deep brogue of the Valley.

"At least the men appear to be reasonably excited," he spoke. "I'm sure that after the tribulations we endured, they are excited to be atop stable ground."

His companions all chuckled, masks of agreement shaping their faces. The brown-haired female officer, however, maintained a stern expression.

"And where will the good Colonel be placing us, sir?" she asked

"The southern outskirts; that is where our encampment will be. Orders are vague as to where we are, but I expect our men to take advantage of what decent space we can find before the infantry arrives at base."

A short man, with a physique built for professional racing, decided to speak up.

"All the more incentive move with haste, if I may sir."

Eb nodded in agreement.

"You are correct, Lieutenant Rasch. All the more incentive."

With a clicking vocalization and a soft kick to the side, Eb and his mount started down the beach, towards the battalion as the last of the Carbineers joined their companies. The others followed behind, with the Lieutenants joining their companies and Sussana and Hondo staying behind Eb, who positioned himself before the battalion. The Carbineers noticed - and all became quite as they anticipated the command to fall in.

"FALL IN!" Eb roared in a confident, booming command voice. The battalion followed in kind, with the enlisted ranks quickly mounting their horses with second-nature finesse and locking their attention onto their Captain.

"FIRST COMPANY, REPORT!"

"ALL PRESENT AND ACCOUNTED FOR!" an answer returned.

"SECOND COMPANY, REPORT!"

"ALL PRESENT AND ACCOUNTED FOR!"

"THIRD COMPANY, REPORT!"

"ALL PRESENT AND ACCOUNTED FOR!"

"CARBINEERS, STAND AT - EASE!"

Eb lowered his voice from the command posture, although remaining loud enough for three-hundred men and women to hear him.

"We are a long way from home, and thank Dorado and the Canon for our safe voyage. Dangomor is a fine place for us to serve, and I expect a rewarding assignment for us all. This is Day Zero, and I expect all you men - and our privileged women - to suitably allocate yourselves into the dynamics of this place. I will spare a long speech, but we must make haste to the garrison and locate suitable lodgings. Company Commanders, ensure that your troops are well-established and well-provisioned once we arrive."

Eb directed his horse to turn around in a 180.

"CARBINEERS, ATTENTION!"

"ON ME, MARCH!"

At the speed of a disciplined canter, the battalion started on its way to their new home. The Carbineers, thanks to the advantage of being a mounted unit, arrived at the garrison with much haste and quickly claimed an unoccupied barracks hall - an ugly but functional three-story building - as their new lodgings. Sussana and Eb managed to wrestle themselves a nice bungalow a few buildings down from the Carbineer barracks.

As much as Eb would have loved to settle in before departing for the planned dinner, that would had to be a task best left to the servants.




Some time later, as Eb and his sister and son arrived at the Governor's mansion for dinner.


"Is the escort particularly necessary, Eb?" Sussana chimed in as she dismounted from her horse.

Eb rolled his eyes at his sister's question as he passed the reigns of his steed to one of the Governor's footmen. Eb had a sister who was vivacious and full of pomposity and promiscuity - at least in his eyes.

"Very necessary, Sussana."

"I have a dagger, Eb. I can defend myself."

"That is not what I mean, Sussana," Eb stated as he followed Hondo up to the front door.

"Then what do you mean, Eb?"

"What do you think I mean, Sussana?" Eb stopped at the open door, turning to face his younger sister.

She gave a smirk.

"You presume that I will abscond with one of your fellow officers, who will shower me with gifts and adore me - until the day that I grow tired of his affections and seek another man. You presume that this will be a constant cycle that will breed a maelstrom of scandal. Am I reading you well, Ebenezer?"

Without word, Eb stiffly motioned for her to step inside, clear irritation on his face.

"Just go inside, damn you!"

Eb was confronted by the uncomfortable looks of the footmen as he entered the mansion. He took stock of their expressions, and straightened up his uniform. After clearing his throat, he painted his face with a smile and made eye contact with one of the men, holding out his slouch hat and pistol for the man to take. The Captain wore a variant of the Carbineers' grey uniforms, with the lower buttons undone to reveal a white waistcoast and shirt, divided from white breeches by a red sash and black belt. The Sjambok was unsuitable for formal dining incursions; thus Eb chose to carry a silver saber of premier craftsmanship. A rack of three medals was worn on his upper left breast, while the famed Grass Crown was worn around his neck. A pair of silver epaulettes adorned his shoulders. Well-groomed and in good health, it would appear to a bystander that the only unhealthy thing about him was his rambunctious sister.

"I believe that we are ready to speak with the Governor."

The footman, without word, led the trio to their destination. Hondo took in the surroundings before him, a twinge of disappointment in his eyes at the extravagance.

"Quite merciless of expense, yes Father?"

Eb could not help but chuckle at the comment his son made. Hondo was much more comfortable outside, in the mud and rain and sand, than he was within the confines of luxury. It did not bother Eb in the slightest.

Before he could speak, the footman motioned for them to wait, as he opened the doors to the ballroom, stepping inside. Eb waited patiently for the footman to call them in.

"I present to you Captain Ebenezer Paschalis," the footman stated.
Last edited by Cylarn on Sun Jul 29, 2018 6:14 am, edited 3 times in total.
✎ Member - ℘ædagog
If you are serving the US and its allies right now overseas, thank you for what you do.
Recipient of the Best Crime RP'er Award and the Best Crime RP Award for 2013 in P2TM. Recipient of the Best Crime RP'er Award of 2014 in P2TM.

User avatar
Vlach
Bureaucrat
 
Posts: 44
Founded: Jan 21, 2018
Ex-Nation

Postby Vlach » Sat Jul 28, 2018 8:04 pm

Virgil J.L.P.M. de Hohenfriedberg
Captain of Hohenfriedberg's Riders
Aboard HMS Diligence
Year 20 HAIII

A gentle sway, slight rocking in the waves. The oak creaking, sailors busy unloading crates of supplies and other goods for the city of Halgomar. A sliver of a ray of light slipped through the cracks of the wood, landing on the face of the esteemed captain. An eye peaked open, quickly followed by a groan. Virgil sighed, raising himself upright. Surmising to himself, he thought "Must be in Halgomar now..finally I am free of this dreadful ship!". Standing upright, a sway to his movement he slowly lumbered to dress himself. "I won't miss this ship but I will be missing the captain....the man could hold his drink with the best of them!" Virgil muttered to himself, the alcohol on his breath even smelt by himself. That would explain Virgil's headache, as he was still quite hungover! Virgil moved to his bucket of water, splashing himself to help sober himself up. Dragging his somewhat lifeless body to his uniform that was draped across the chair in his "study", he quickly dressed himself knowing well that he would be most likely meeting quite a few different people and that he should be looking quite dapper.

Fully dressed in his black Hussar uniform with a white cape embroidered with gold on his shoulder, Virgil took a step out on the deck of the ship. Immediately he was hit with a wave of light, practically blinding himself. Shielding his eyes, he adjusted to the light and marched forth. His lieutenants had already taken initiative and ordered the unloading of men and supplies. He could hear the chants of his men singing in their native language, singing the regiments marching song as they worked. A synchronized "J'aime l'oignon frit à l'huile, J'aime l'oignon quand il est bon. J'aime l'oignon frit à l'huile, J'aime l'oignon, j'aime l'oignon!" as they unloaded crates and coaxed horses off the boats. Virgil quite liked the tune and found it quite hilarious when foreigners expected the war chant to be about defeating their enemies, how they would be shocked to find out they were singing about onions!

Scouring the harbor, Virgil noted that it was filled with ships of all different shapes and sizes, some foreign and some Dallic. The region was soon to be a hotbed of foreigners, whether that be good or bad Virgil had yet to decide. Across the ship he spotted his first Lieutenant, Antoine Bassano. Bassano is a battle scarred veteran of his brother's battles in the lands of Acc, a long scar streaking across his face. Virgil's brother had saved his life in these lands, giving Bassano an unwavering loyalty to the house of Hohenfriedberg. "Bassano! I shall be heading off for the dinner with the other officers, send for my horse." Virgil ordered, to which Bassano nodded and saluted before heading off to either fetch the horse himself or to order someone else. Regardless, a few minutes later a young man appeared leading the young Duke's horse. Virgil smiled before stepping forward, stroking his horse's neck. "Oh how I've missed you my Bucephalus!" he exclaimed, before mounting his white stallion. "Hyah!" Virgil exclaimed, speeding off down the ship's ramp and down the docks, his cape flapping in the wind. "Oh sweet land, how I've missed thee! Surely I shall have to have a glass of wine to celebrate!" he thought to himself, riding past the different men of the other battalions.

Soon enough, and after quite a few smiles from the local ladies, Virgil found himself at the gates of the Governor's Palace. He could see a few horses being lead away to the stables. Virgil took this as a good sign, as he was not too late and not too early. Hopefully they had brought out the wine by now. Dismounting, he lead Bucephalus to the nearest stable boy he could find. "You there! Take care of my Bucephalus!" Virgil ordered, marching through the doors. Down the hall he could see a man with what seemed to be his family speaking to a guard. "Suppose I shall have to wait my turn then." he muttered to himself, taking his cap off before handing it to one of the scurrying servants.

User avatar
Rodez
Diplomat
 
Posts: 634
Founded: Oct 18, 2016
Father Knows Best State

Postby Rodez » Sat Jul 28, 2018 9:32 pm

Captain Cibor Marczynski
Officer Commanding, Cybulskan Volunteers
Docks of Halgomar
Year 20 HAIII


The gangplank descending from the deck of the Czarny Węgorz was a low rumble of blue jackets as the Cybulskans disembarked at their new post.

That rumble, Captain Cibor Marczynski knew, denoted a sentiment that ran common in his battalion - indeed, he shared it himself. None of them were particularly happy to be here. No one in the Blackfeet was tripping over themselves to serve a far-off overlord that hadn't deigned to send so much as a single company or warship to support his subject's years-long war for survival against the indigenous Kurundish tribes. Halvast III was a . . . less than appreciated figure where these men were from.

"Captain?"

Cibor turned to face Lieutenant Janusz Biskupski, commander of his 1st Company. Biskupski bore only one ear from a decade-old encounter in which a Kurundish brave had sliced it clean off while the poor bastard was in their captivity. The fact that he was alive at all made him eminently hardy, and his prior service in that war and in Acc made him Cibor's most trusted subordinate. "Yes Lieutenant?"

"Do you think they take scalps here?"

Spitting into the sea and chuckling bitterly, Cibor shook his head. "l think tastes are a little more . . mainland here, Lieutenant. But if you find a rebel . . ."

"Understood sir. Am I also correct in assuming that we have a barracks to report to?"

Cibor nodded in agreement. "That's right, Lieutenant. Barracks are on the southern edge of town. We'll make our way their shortly."

The disembarkation continued for a little longer as the Cybulskans and their gear were unloaded, although there wasn't much of the latter to begin with. Thank the Sisters we travel light, Cibor reflected. Other than their weapons, blankets, firestarting equipment and three days' field rations, there was nothing to really disgorge from the ship.

In half an hour the Blackfeet were arranged in a mass on the beach. Each lieutenant reported in at full strength, to Cibor's relief. No one had fallen over the side and drowned, or deserted.

"Czas Marszu!" Cibor boomed. The Cybulskan command, literally meaning marching time, got the colonials in a rough column. Cibor had no concern for the general disorder, considering that his men were not here to march or prance around like peacocks. At least if this Colonel uses us correctly.

The Blackfeet got moving quickly enough for his liking and were soon trudging down the coastal road towards Halgomar. They arrived at the garrison relatively quickly, being some of the first infantry there, and soon claimed a barracks hall for themselves. Cibor stayed to ensure his men were settling in properly, before leaving for the Governor's dinner.

Cibor soon found himself strolling through the streets of Halgomar, instinctively pulling his blue coat about himself as a gust of March wind whistled by. It was not particularly cold, in fact it was April or May weather for Cybulska, but the colonial captain found himself preforming the instinctive action all the same.

Attired as he was in a blue coat, mottled green-brown cloak, ragged hunting shirt stained with dirt, black breeches, deerskin moccasins, rough brown beard and both hatchet and knife tucked into his belt, Cibor bore a closer resemblance to a woodsman or an escaped convict rather than an Imperial officer. He received a handful of strange looks from the townspeople and returned them variously with wide grins or glowering stares, depending on which amused him more in the moment.

He reached the gates of the Governor's Palace and was confronted by two guards who instinctively stepped forward and lowered their muskets. "Shove off," one growled.

Cibor spat and, digging into his coat pocket, retrieved his official orders, handing them to the dumbfounded guardsmen. "Let me in or I'll scalp the both of ye."

It took a moment for them to verify that, yes, this man was a captain and not a local thug. But they let him in.

Cibor strode across the wide courtyard. He took note of a stable boy tending to a number of fine horses, including a delightful-looking white stallion. Not the first one here then, he mused.

An attendant led him through the main foyer and down a hall to what appeared to be the ballroom doors, which were open only slightly. Cibor saw a man, a younger woman and a boy step inside as a "Captain Ebenezer Paschalis" was presented on the other side. That gave Cibor a small start. They had actually been introduced, though very briefly, when Paschalis had made a study of the Cybulskan frontier wars some years ago. He didn't know much more about the man, although he heard that Paschalis possessed a good reputation these days. Hearsay was a tenuous guide, though.

A lavishly-dressed officer stood closer to the door, clearly waiting his turn to enter the ballroom. Probably cavalry. Cibor gave the man a small nod but did not initiate in any conversation.

A passing footman glanced at him and did a double take. "Who in the blazes are you? The kitchen is that way," he pointed surreptitiously down the hall.

Cibor spat on the fine wooden floor, an act which froze the footman as if he had been physically struck. "Captain Marczynski," he growled. "Here for the dinner."

The footman looked Cibor over once more, standing unrepentant with his wild beard and dirtied shirt, gave a small shudder, and moved along down the hall.
Formerly known as Mesrane (Mes), now I'm back
+9300 to post count
First joined April 2014

A bigger Chicago Cubs fan than you

User avatar
Pasong Tirad
Powerbroker
 
Posts: 7887
Founded: May 31, 2007
Left-wing Utopia

Postby Pasong Tirad » Sat Jul 28, 2018 11:07 pm

Eyes Up Here, Gentlemen


Captain Alastair Strachan, Laird of Crask
4th Battalion, Crask Highlanders
Halgomar


The Highlanders were seasick until the very end. Even as they sighted land, even as they were entering the Bay of Halgomar, and even as their tiny boats were rowing onto the jetties, nauseous men and women from Crask could be seen hurling into the ocean. The three hundred kilted men and women all breathed a sigh of relief once they got off the jetties into the city. No more standing on something that wasn't attached to the earth, hopefully for a while. It took another hour for all of their equipment to be unloaded from their ship, but once the platoon serjeants had everything in order, they were standing at attention, waiting for their captain to give them orders. They were all begging for rest - some calm before the actual work begins.

Alastair disembarked last. His lieutenants were already onshore making sure everybody in their unit and everything they owned was accounted for. The young laird stepped off last to make sure nothing was stolen and that nobody had hidden themselves away in some corner of the ship. Luckily for him, and for their families back home in Crask, everybody was off the boat. Perhaps they'd prefer walking back home to Sutherland.

The Craskman made sure he was wearing his most fashionable attire. His hair slicked back into a ponytail, his glengarry bonnet cleaned of any dirt, his belt properly fixing his kilt, and his plaid properly wrapped around his waist and shoulder like a cloak. No parades for their battalion yet, but he needed to look prim and proper, for tonight he was going into the jaws of the lion that is the Dallic aristocracy. He was to meet the governor, their regimental colonel, and the dozen other battalion captains later tonight. He couldn't be seen looking like the savage that they already think Sutherlanders are - which made absolutely no sense to Alastair. Sutherlanders spoke the same language, they virtually looked like they were Dallic, they had the same technology (firearms made their way into Sutherland around a century after its introduction into the empire), similar castle designs (at least they did, a few centuries ago), and Lowland Sutherlanders have even eschewed from the "land spirits" of the Highland pantheon, believing instead in Sutherlandized Dallic gods and goddesses.

"Alright lads," he shouted to his men, who stood in attention as soon as they heard their captain. "No parading today, no marching in uniform. All I ask is ye' hold the banners high. They need to see the bear of Crask. I'll be with you all in the evening. Off you go, then." And with that, the battalion started marching off, save for the three lieutenants. "We have a lot to do. Lieutenant Keith, we need all the information we can get on the men we're going to be fighting with. I'll handle the pleasantries with their captains, you take a look around at the men in the other battalions. Ear to the ground."

"Aye, Captain," and with that, Francis Keith went off. Not exactly inconspicuous in his kilt and his bright blue bonnet, but was all they had.

"Master Drummond?” Alastair said. He never called the great veteran Malcolm Drummond by his rank - it never made sense to him, the man was in all ways but one his superior.

"Sir?" the old man ("old") answered.

"See those wagons full of firearms and powder barrels? They're heading to the Imperial Armory here. I need you to head over there and see if they can spare us as many muskets as we need. Ask the serjeants to figure out how many of our men don't have a musket, see if one of them can help you at the Armory as well. Everyone needs a musket. I donnae care if they have a pistol or a blunderbuss or a crossbow, everybody needs a musket. I'd love it if our men could have other options besides fighting with axes. If we can get them before tomorrow, all the better."

“Bayonets too, sir?”

"Aye, and enough powder and shot for us to train with wouldn’t hurt - but the muskets are the priority."

"It’ll be done," said the veteran.

"Clachnaben guide you." And with that, Malcolm Drummond walked off, following the slow-moving battalion, and screaming his head off about the location of one of his serjeants.

"Lieutenant MacEwan, find the men some proper accommodations within the barracks. Try to make sure they don't sleep on the floors tonight. Actual beds for all of us would be great. Get them to prepare for the prayers once they're well rested. Once you're ready to begin the ceremony, don't wait up on my behalf. Remember, don't disturb the earth. Dead logs, twigs, dried leaves, tinder, that's it."

"Sir," answered Camden MacEwan, who followed Drummond and the battalion. This left Alastair alone now to walk the half a mile from the docks to the Governor's Palace. He was sure of where he needed to be going, however, because it wasn't that difficult to spot the towering structure uphill from the docks. Off he went on his own. His personal equipment being brought up in one of the wagons that followed the battalion. Luckily for him, if this was some sick punishment, and he was to meet his end at the top of that hill, he would have a whole arsenal of weapons to defend himself with - a musket with a plug bayonet, a pistol, his targe, a broadsword, his dirk, and the sgian-dubh he has tucked away in his sock. Not much in the way of defense, but Alastair figured that nobody would go through this much trouble just to assassinate the youngest son of a laird from a distant, unintegrated province of the empire.

Halgomor looked very foreign to him. The buildings were attempting to emulate a storied past that Alastair had no access to. Buildings would have columns that weren't actually columns - instead they were engraved into the walls. The buildings themselves were trying to trick him with windows that weren't there and plinths dedicated for statues that were empty. It was chaotic and contradictory and Alastair thought the Dallics shameful for attempting to fool its own people. Sutherland architecture was very much still trying to crawl out if the medieval - large, imposing stone castles that still had murder holes for people to shoot arrows from, rickety wooden cottages with thatch roofs that easily caught fire, and circular city layouts, with the plaza at the center flanked by the temple and the laird's residence.

Alastair was lost in his own thoughts of home that he failed to even realize the people around him who were staring at the man in the short dress. He had seen enough of these when their ship had a layover in some far-off imperial port. Alastair didn't care - trousers were too hot to wear anyway. Before long, however, he was at the gates of the Governor's Palace, and the two guardsmen standing there were eyeing his kilt instead of letting him inside the compound. "Eyes up here, gentlemen," he said, and the two young guards immediately came to their senses and asked him for his papers, after which he was let in and led off to the door to the banquet hall by a rather hurrying servant.

"Before we enter, sire," the servant said, "you'll need to... erm... your weapons, sire."

"Sure you'll nae part an officer with his sword?"

"No, sire, just your... other armaments."

"Ah, of course." And so, into the open arms of another servant, Alastair deposited his musket, his plug bayonet, his pistol, his horn filled with gunpowder, and into the palms of another servant he emptied his sporran filled with shot. "I'll want these back, eh?" And as he attempted to enter the banquet hall again, he was stopped a second time by the same servant that led him to the door.

"Your... your shield, sire." Alastair laughed - a little louder than he should have, too. He gave his targe to the servant that led him there, and off he went. As the door opened, the door servant announced his name, butchering it all the way: "Captain Alas-tire Strak-han, Layered of Crask."
Last edited by Pasong Tirad on Wed Aug 01, 2018 11:31 am, edited 4 times in total.
"If there is no friendship with [the poor] and no sharing of the life of the poor, then there is no authentic commitment to liberation, because love exists only among equals." - Gustavo Gutierrez



User avatar
Absolon-7
Chargé d'Affaires
 
Posts: 420
Founded: May 11, 2014
Democratic Socialists

Postby Absolon-7 » Sat Jul 28, 2018 11:29 pm

Captain Hugh Lawson Clay
Officer Commanding, Wolves of Iron Battalion of Foot
Year 20 HAIII


The trip could have been worse. Back in his homeland of Warudo, Clay was spending a few months of leave at his family's estate with his lovely wife. It couldn't compare to a noble's palace like homes but it was decent enough for a nouveau riche family like his. His grandfather had been particularly lucky when it came to fish-mongering and that modest wealth had passed down to his still living father. He had suddenly received a message from a courier that he would have his first deployment has a Captain soon which excited his wife greatly had been disappointing to him. Some back water of a province called Dagomor. He arrived at Warudo's capital city, Richmond, and was assigned a new battalion of recruits. Only the lieutenants and most of the sergeants had seen action before. He did his best to train them as preparations for departure were made and by the time a galleon had been selected to transport them he could say that the recruits had promise.

There were several cases of seasickness but luckily there were no serious cases of disease and none his men had jumped ship to desert. Arriving at the port of Halgomar had gone without incident. At roll call his officer's reported no one missing thankfully. He ordered the ranks to form columns and as the gray mass of soldiers made their way though town he kept getting glances from the natives. Suspicious glances. But who wouldn't be suspicious of a group of tall, black haired men in uniforms walking through your city. Captain Clay himself was travelling on horseback with his wife riding close by in a carriage he had payed for the service of when he landed ashore. He preferred marching alongside his men but he had found he had grown fond of this particular black horse, affectionately called Ambrosia. It had been given to him as a gift by his father for his promotion and he was surprised by how well behaved the beast was. Truly fascinating.

By the time his battalion had arrived at the barracks it looked he was already beat to the race there by a few other battalions but there looked like enough room for his men to find comfortable spots. He ordered his lieutenants to let his men relax this night for they were in for intermediate training in the coming days and he gave his black steed to a nearby stable-boy to but in the stables. He walked over to his wife's new carriage and opened the door to escort her out.

"Oh why thank you dear, I do love how you're still quite gentleman to me even after courting me," spoke his wife Ada with her fair pale skin accented by her shining black hair and green dress. A parasol was held on her left hand as she used the other to hold on to Clay's as she was let down. Shortly afterward a footman, presumably one of the colonel's guards, greeted them and requested to follow him as all captain's were invited to dinner with the Colonel. Before going, Clay ordered Lieutenant Chambliss to secure one of the remaining bungalows for him and his wife by ordering some of the men to hastily put their belongings inside. Those who volunteered would get extra meat rations. Captain Clay and Ada were then escorted by the guard to the dinner's location meanwhile Ada was all too excited for.

"Good heaven's this is the first time I've been to a noble's dinner. Do you think I look too much of a pauper, darling?" asked Ada in a worried tone.

"You look ravishing, Ada don't worry. Nobles aren't all they're cracked up to be. Back in the war one my previous noble-born colonels got half a battalion killed because he was stuck vomiting dinner that he was warned wasn't safe to eat. Cost me nearly my arms winning that bridge battle."

"Oh really?" said a dejected Ada. "Well I hope this fellow doesn't do anything like that."

Clay smiled at her easily read face. It still had the same youthful beauty of the time they were adolescents. He had certainly struck gold. They had finally arrived to the dinner's location and Clay found himself looking over his attire for a self inspection. It was the same gray double-breasted jacket at his men except made with finer materials and a few decorations and epaulets to denote his superior rank. It might not have been as gaudy as the uniform of other officers but he preferred function over form anyways. His mustache, goatee and slicked back hair were also in good shape and his sharp features indicated a man of good health. He had left his cap in the care of his Lieutenant Chambliss as it would be rude to wear it to dinner. Before he arrived it looked like a highlander had made a big entrance for himself. Waiting for a bit Clay and his wife then were greeted by a servant who asked for their orders and to see his imperial orders. After that the door servant made his entrance known.

"I present to you, Captain Hugh Lawson Clay of Warudo," formally declared the door servant.
Last edited by Absolon-7 on Sun Jul 29, 2018 12:43 am, edited 2 times in total.

User avatar
Provisional Niev
Spokesperson
 
Posts: 132
Founded: Feb 24, 2018
Ex-Nation

Postby Provisional Niev » Sun Jul 29, 2018 4:56 am

Captain Rupert Carlington
3rd Cavalry Battalion, Carlington County's Imperial Cuirassiers
Halgomar


For having spent mere days on the vessel, Rupert had made his quarters quite comfortable. Apart from the cozy bed with the cotton sheets, there was a coffee table, armchair, drawers, and his favorite fitment of all, the lengthy mirror. While most of his clothes and field furniture was packed in chests and coffers to be carried to whatever accommodation he would find himself having at the point of destination, he still could not choose what to wear among the few outfits in his drawers, or how to wear them. He walked back and forth along the wooden wall to gain some perspective how loosely fitted his black riding breeches really where, and to his dismay, decided to go with the white ones his Lieutenants were going to wear as well. The curtains had been pulled down in the Captain’s cabin he so generously had been allowed to use, and so it was with a surprise he found the Sun not only up in the sky, but land within sight and his officers gathered outside of his room. He regretted telling them that they were not to disturb him whatever the matter and invited them inside.

“Are you telling me we have arrived at the harbor?” Rupert asked, with a satisfied smile on his lips, pouring up what was left of the wine he had not finished last evening, spreading himself out on it as he lay down on the bed. Apart from his white breeches intended for the uniform, he was dressed casually in shirt and silk stockings.

“Indeed we are here!” Exclaimed Lieutenant Becker excitedly and clapped, continuing with notifying Rupert that he’d “notified the men to ready their horses for disembarkment and put on their uniform.” Rupert knew his men had been taught to help each other put on the cuirass by now and expected himself to be the last member of the battalion without his uniform on.

“Send my dresser in here, would you kindly?” He asked Lieutenant de Campiegne, who leaned against the wall near the door, and waved him goodbye from his cozy seat in the bed as he followed suit. His dresser, Louanne, had previously been one of his tailors, but after he found liking for her, she’d become a close aide and company of his. As she stuck her head in through the door threshold, he sat up and waved her in. Rupert opened another bottle and poured it into five cups, forgiving his impoliteness with a toast to the battalion’s fortune with the gathered officers and dresser. He then helped Louanne take out his cuirass, boots, hat, gloves, cravat, belt, waist sash and saber. Monty, the most stern of the four officers, reminded them that he ought to oversee his company’s disembarkment, and to Rupert’s disappointment, the three of them left to get their men and horses onto the shore. He did not let that ruin his exceptional mood for this morning, however, as he enjoyed Louanne’s company, much to the credit of her commendable ability to compliment the choices for the uniform Rupert had made and how well they fit him.

After giving Louanne a parting peck, Rupert stepped out of his room in full uniform, barring his tricorne hat, and with his hair still clean and orderly from its bath treatment the previous day. The vessel he had resided on carried little but himself, supporting staff of the company and him and equipment, as well as a few of the many horses transported. Instead, most soldiers had quartered in the other ships, and he really had no idea about how they were situated on the larger ships. The journey had been slowed by the constant rowing of officers between the ships, as Rupert had insisted he would not spend a single evening without his Lieutenants, who happened to be his best friends and selected for that very reason. Some fights had broken out between the men here and there, he’d heard, but little else could be expected from a lot headed for their first stationing in his opinion.

Disinclined to wait for the docking of the other ships to unload the horses, crates, and whatnot, Rupert ordered his one to be the first to approach the harbor. After all, his vessel was the smallest in the little squadron, a formerly commissioned sloop-of-war owned by a friend of his family. The narrow ship was the only non-transport ship, and would subsequently have far less to load onto shore, which made Rupert consider himself quite the bright mind as he’d be able to arrive well before his men and oversee matters from the harbor. As a ramp was placed and fastened between the vessel and the pier, Rupert stepped out onto the pier in full uniform and basked himself in the sunlight, letting his restless legs feel the unsteady wood beneath him, never having spent more than a full day on the water before this trip.

As one of his horses was helped onto the ramp and pier, Rupert took over in guiding it to the Halgomor street facing the water. What struck him first was the smell. He’d spent some time in the country, particularly around Carlington estate, but this was a different kind of rustic, and for a town nonetheless. He didn’t let the questionable smell discourage him, but got onto his horse and looked over the houses, which didn’t look too unfamiliar from some districts in the Capital he’d visited, and then onto the other ships docked, unloading soldiers by the dozens and more each. He gazed out to his own ships, noticing a few rowing boats approaching the harbors as well, one in which the banner of his battalion was raised. He smiled, proudly, adjusting his posture in the saddle and looking down to his unofficial adjutant, Sergeant Mouve.

“When can we expect to have our force in full lined up on horseback?”

“I’m sure it won’t take much more than an hour.”

Mouve said it confidently, and Rupert nodded agreeing.

“That is so very splendid, Sergeant.”

Rupert glanced over some other troops in formation and decided he would return to harbor once his troops had gathered there, requesting Sergeant Mouve to oversee the operations from land with full confidence. He rode into town with one of the few soldiers that had been on his ship and enjoyed the view from horseback, having expected much worse from what his Father had told him about Dangomor. The city wall, houses, Dallic-looking soldiers and taverns with open doors made him feel comfortable about this stationing. He left his companion guarding the horses on the street and took into the tavern, presenting himself in full to the keepers and reserved as many rooms as they could spare with what money he happened to have on himself. They gave him a quick view upstairs and compared to some places he’d stayed the night at in the Capital, this would serve as suitable accommodation in reserve for him and his officers while they were in town. Their accents confused him but they communicated with each other well enough. With a promise of returning with sufficient coin for the end of the month to sign a contract for the rooms, he left the tavern, but only after tasting the local beer offered to him which reminded him that he would do well to stick with wine. They rode back to the harbor, passing by company after company from different battalions, the other more strange than the next. He recognized the gray-clad carabineers in mounted formation heading the other way as Eb’s men from West Pfeiffer and after that a pack of blue-clad men with rifles and rough look. Rupert assumed they were colonial troops, and rode passed them as well.

When Rupert returned to the harbor, he was surprised to find his soldiers unmounted and in disorganized mobs. Busy stretching, spending their money on the drinks in the harborside cafés or fighting each other playfully with their fists, he realized he had to do something. Riding through the group forcefully and questioning his subordinate officers, who’d gathered and were discussing something, he found out that only fifty horses or so had been brought to harbor as of yet and that it would take another hour to mount a whole company. Rupert sighed but did not let his disappointment discourage him. In fact, for a battalion where no more than twenty men had ever seen combat and five or so having participated in it, much worse could have been expected.

“Lieutenant de Campiegne. I want you to have your best man ride forty men from the first company to the barracks on the other side of the town as soon as possible. There, they shall prepare the living quarters for all three companies and suitable accommodation for the horses. You will remain here until your entire company has enough horses to ride off, and only then will you join your men in the barracks.” His second-in-command lifted his hat as if that gesture was a sign of respect or understanding.”Lieutenants Becker and Monteville. I place my trust in you that you will oversee the rest of the operations here. Maintain order among the men, and bring the entire stock of horses and supplies to the barracks when it has been brought ashore.” Having made himself understood and shown resolve, as he saw it, Rupert felt happy. He also found Sergeant Mouve, and instructed him to transport his personal belongings to the tavern his accompanying soldier had been to with him, for the time being.

Before Rupert could do much more, a woman clothed like most servants you’d find in Dallic courts arrived.

“Captain James Carlington?”

She said it with only a little doubt in her voice, seeing as he was the only one mounted.

“Captain Carlington I am, but I should inform you that I go by Rupert, rather than James. How have I earned your attention, my dear?”

He adjusted his belt and sash and then tilted his head to ease his view of her.

“I’m instructed to inform you that the Governor and Colonel request your presence at the Governor’s Palace for a dinner with the other officers. Do you wish me to guide you there Captain?”

He smiled and realized his uniform was suited rather poorly for a function at the Governor’s Palace and sought to change before he’d make it there.

“I sincerely thank you for your offer. However, I find myself with a number of dutiful tasks remaining to be settled and shall make it to the Palace as soon as time allows. Assure the Governor I will not be late.” He dismounted and made his way onto his ship, and was happy to find his quarters as they had been when he left them and Louanne remaining to dress him for this event. His cuirass went off, and after a session of adorning himself for dinner, Rupert disembarked once again.

Soon enough, but possibly in the nick of time, the 4th son of a Dallic Count of old Imperial blood entered the Palace alone, taking of the riding boots he’d worn only for the way to the Governor’s Palace and putting on the soft white leather shoes he’d kept in the saddle bag. In a powder blue coat with round, golden buttons, matching breeches, waistcoat and white silk stockings, he was dressed better than could be expected of a man of his sort. He took off his hat as he was greeted by the Palace guard, and it took little time for him to identify himself as Captain Carlington. The interior could be liked with many houses he’d resided in or visited, and he truly felt like this faraway land was similar enough to be called Dallic in all aspects he could think of. He passed by a servant scrubbing a small section on the floor near the rug, flanked by a distressed foot guard whom he nodded to. He did not have to take too many steps in the ample building before he was shown into the ballroom, where he was announced.

“Captain James Augustus Rupert Carlington of Carlington!” The announcer declared, and he stepped through the doors with a smile anyone who did not know him would think was exaggerated beyond limit.

User avatar
The Grim Reaper
Issues Editor
 
Posts: 10443
Founded: Oct 08, 2011
Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby The Grim Reaper » Sun Jul 29, 2018 7:54 am

Captain Valentin Rosicrucio de Dangomor
Officer Commanding, The Native Scouts Battalion, 5th Battalion/22nd Regiment of Foot
Halgomar
The Morning of the Disembarkment


Valentin took a long draw from his hip-flask, a hardy-looking thing which carried a deceptive . Running the liquid in his mouth, he savoured the drink as steam poured from his mouth. His second-in-command, Lieutenant Valdemar 'Walter' de Pauli, sipped brandy from a tavern mug. Valentin was not a drinking man, but he had learned quickly in moving to Dagomor that it was not a good idea to drink the water. Water everywhere was a risky proposition, but whilst he had lived in the Empire, his family had supplemented wine with a rainwater cistern and a sand filter. However, in Dagomor, he had known of people who had contracted terrible parasites from swimming, and he had seen the quality of drinking water. So he had taken on the practice of drinking herbal tea, water in which various dried clippings were boiled and then strained out, along with any detritus that may have persisted. It was an open secret amongst his troops - it went unmentioned that when they had occasion to drink together, he invariably took tea instead of alcohol, and there was mutual appreciation for the fact that it was not brought to attention by either party.

The two reclined at a cafe in an alley next to the barracks, where they had set up camp for the moment. They had chosen a table in the cafe's sun parlour, with a view of the arriving troops, but with windows thick enough that they could speak in peace. The Native Scouts had already been comfortably quartered in advance of the regiment's arrival, and Valentin had taken the precious little time he had already had with them to allow them to acclimatize to military life and the city at large, for the benefit of the many who had been recruited from countryfolk. Otherwise, however, Valentin's Volunteers had had ample time to settle in, and their participation in the disembarkation was taken at leisurely pace. The most eager of his troops had been committed as runners and guides for the other battalions, with a few executing on the cart-routes and keeping the records planned out meticulously by Valentin.

It took a few minutes for Valentin to break the relative silence. "I managed to billet Dorothy till tomorrow at a fisherman's cottage on the docks, so she could liaise with our regiment's disembarkations. I made arrangements with the owner to put him up at a pub for the night, and he agreed to set out early today and return late tomorrow night."

Valdemar nodded sagely, waiting to make sure Valentin had finished his thought before changing the topic. "You're set on titling our junior commissioned as ensigns?"

"Yes. The norm that the Colonel seems to prefer is 'second lieutenant', which is the more modern styling, but I prefer the more naval styling. I may have to sell commissions, but anyone who wishes to carry the title Lieutenant under my command had better prove themselves competent, noble blood or no, regardless of whether they can afford it. I won't have any upstart nobles flying too close to the sun."

"It won't be very long until they notice that all your lieutenants are of common birth."

"Come now, you all paid for your commissions just the same. And you have a noble name. De Pauli is solid stock - haven't you had ancestors in the Canon?"

"Yes, but I'm a bastard. I'm a De Pauli in name only. You know that."

"Our ensigns won't."

"They'll find out."

Valdemar and Valentin watched the soldiers moving past, decked head to toe in the various discordant uniforms of the 22nd Regiment of Foot. Suddenly, one spied them in the parlour, and broke ranks towards them, although clearly in no rush. "Say, Val. Isn't that one of our battalion runners?"

"Yes. Actually, I believe that's Maria's runner. I've had her set herself up across two Officers' rooms - one for herself, and one for me. She's using mine as a secondary battalion office, while I see about securing...alternative accomodation."

"A secondary battalion office?"

"Ah. Yes. We're a reconnaissance battalion, we need as much space as we can get."

Valdemar raised an eyebrow. He knew that Valentin's primary concern was having somewhere alternative to conduct business - practically, it would do him no harm to put some distance between the Colonel's eyes and himself, and he knew that even the most token resources and assets could be used for benefit. But they were on good personal terms, as were all of Valentin's lieutenants, and they knew that quite frankly, Valentin simply enjoyed living in Halgomar. It went without saying - not that Valentin did not want to, but because they could know who was listening - but Valentin wanted him and his battalion to stay as connected to everyday civilian affairs as possible.

Valdemar chuckled. "You've billeted your officers across the city, and we've only been here a day. If this becomes a long-term garrison, you'll be moving on to billeting our soldiers in different residences within the week."

Valentin smiled. "It'd be good for them. It may keep them out of the brothels, at least."

"No force in the world, Valentin. No force in the world."

The bell at the door rang, as Maria's runner walked in. He waved at Valentin and Valdemar; he was met with a salute from Valdemar, and a stoic nod from Valentin. Breaking out into a toothy grin, he tossed a sealed letter onto their table, before making his way to order at the counter. Valdemar glanced at Valentin, uncertain, noticing the intricacy of the seal but not yet well-versed in memorizing their owners. Valentin ignored the glance, knowing exactly what the letter was - Maria's second-in-command confirming arrangements for the Officers' dinner later tonight. Her second had used his own seal for the letter, an unusually complicated affair that far outstripped his meager family name in both complexity and in its impressive visual distinctiveness. Valentin attributed no small amount of the second's professional success to the seal alone, noting that the man had spent virtually his entire military career in secretarial postings - although, he could not help but approve of the man's continued efforts to make the best of a mediocre asset, as the man had developed an impressive grasp of both speed and execution in calligraphy. Hiring him had cost the enlisted man's equivalent of a small fortune split between Valentin and Maria - a package that, of course, included a further-embellished metal stamp-seal.

Breaking the seal, he flashed the beginning of the letter to Valdemar, who quickly put the complexity of the seal together with the familiarity of the regimental letterhead. Valentin read the letter out loud for Valdemar's behalf. "Governor's Palace for dinner...a small, private affair for the Captains. Some will be bringing family. Strictly no uniforms. No word on gifts."

Valentin pointed at Valdemar, rolling something over in his mind as Valdemar watched patiently. "The Colonel would not appreciate a gift too ostentatious. He may be a noble, but he's as aware as anyone of his reputation as a faithful man. And it would not do well to upstage my fellow captains with a gift too lavish. Nor do I have any particular interest in stoking his ego, or that of the governor."

"So?"

"I want to see if we can get away with taking him a gift on behalf of 'the people of Dagomor'. Something small, tasteful, but very local. That would help keep face for the other officers. We can get the Governor something from my residence, too."

"We?"

"Yes, I'll take you down there myself. I'm billeting you at my residence for the night - I prefer not to travel Halgomar after dark, and the barracks are closer to the Palace than home is. Wouldn't do for us to lose our Captain to a street brawl on our first day."

"Quite the billet for a mere lieutenant."

"The owner was very generous. Word is he might be interested in billeting all his officers at the de Dagomor Estate."

Valdemar stood up, picking up his beret. "Thank you Captain. Will the battalion be able to spare both of us?"

"Indeed - Maria is co-ordinating the record-keeping at the barracks before we hand over to regimental command, and Dorothy is taking what of the battalion we could convince to volunteer to help organize the disembarkments. When you've set yourself up in my residence, I want you to start making arrangements to introduce yourself and our battalion's NCOs to the locals. You can use that time to brief them, as well. And now that you mention it, it would be worth thinking about billeting some of our NCOs in my neighbourhood. Just have a mind towards it, Walter."

Valentin motioned to the runner. "You were from Maria's company, weren't you? Very well - ask her to be my guest to the dinner tonight."

Valdemar pursed his lips, hiding a smirk. "How indecorous of you, sir. To think that I'm the bastard."

"If I was being intentionally indecorous, I would take you. It is merely my privilege as a gentleman to take a woman as a guest, and merely my choice to pick my guest on the basis of business rather than pleasure."



Captain Valentin Rosicrucio de Dangomor & Lieutenant Marusya 'Maria' Antonov
Officer Commanding, The Native Scouts Battalion, 5th Battalion/22nd Regiment of Foot, & 2nd Company, 5th Battalion
Halgomar
Arrival at the Captains' Dinner


Maria and Valentin walked side by side down the pathway to the Governor's Palace. Valentin was accustomed to bringing one or the other of his Lieutenants to formal functions. Keenly aware that the act was often one disarming of his fellow guests, it was nevertheless more reflective of his diehard respect for his Lieutenants rather than impropriety on his part. Practically, however, this also had the secondary benefit of allowing him to make use of both of their considerably greater ability in any unexpected fight on the streets of Halgomor.

Behind him trailed a squad of Native Scouts - he knew, of course, it would be inappropriate to bring them into the palace, but the company was nice and he had realised it would be a good way to make himself known to the people of the neighbourhood. They sang out the battalion's shanty, Bully in the Alley, a work-song about getting drunk after a hard day's work and passing out in the alley behind the pub, calling out for help to return to the battalion. It was convenient that his own nickname, 'Val', featured prominently in the shanty as the subject of the cries for help in place of the original Bob - so too was the name of Sally, the character's object of adoration in the original shanty, substituted with the name of the singers' lieutenant, a particularly comical choice for Valdemar's company.

Sounding much like a rowdy mob, Valentin was well-aware that some would, of course, take offense. However, this concerned him little - it would make him memorable, at the very least, and this would be nothing but a benefit should the regiment become successful. If the regiment failed, of course, there would be far larger concerns than public image.

The servants at the palace gathered to watch the racuous singing as it approached, issuing as it did from the drab clothing shared by the retinue - a stark contrast to Valentin's immediate predecessor, the Hussar Captain Carlington and his costume, not to mention the shanty itself. They had worn the formal dress of their battalion, but it was itself a minimal complement, consisting of boots, beret, and cravats, with each wearing their cravats in a colour of their choice lightly trimmed and corded in a colour representing their company.

Valentin and Maria both wore tasteful formalwear, certainly not imbued with the means of the top-flight nobles Valentin had grown up around, but still distinctive in their good nick and craftsmanship. All three of Valentin's lieutenants had bought their commissions on loans from Valentin, having proven themselves with combat experience and as complementary personalities, and he had furthered their ascent by outfitting them with the assets necessary to ensure they would at least be permitted entry to all but Dagomor's highest society circles, fashion included.

Valentin had newly acquired his wardrobe upon his arrival in Dagomor, and was in any case particularly favourable towards modern trends of wear. His clothing was darkly coloured, at the very cutting edge of noble fashion, and which he found gained a better response from those of humble means he saught to ingratiate, as well as fitting in better with the limited dresswear of his troops and the fashion choices of his peer Captains in the 22nd Foot. He wore a deep black hunter's frock coat, custom-tailored as formal wear with trim and gold buttons, following the silhouette of his men's hunting coats but adding to its woolen construct ample amounts of high quality silk. Daringly informal for the nobility of the time, Valentin tempered its effect with a more traditional evening cloak, woven from furs that he had collected through many hunts during the mustering of the Native Scouts.

Maria too wore modern dress, although in her case, a necessity given the nature of women's fashion. As a commoner, she had not had the practice with court pose necessary to gracefully wear the corset, and so it was necessary that, like Valentin, she took inspiration from the lower classes. For her case, her wear was styled on that of a cavalryman, in the guise of the riding habit. With a tailored jacket and shirt, her buttons and trim imitated those of Valentin's - her buttons, like his, carried the miniature coat of arms that Valentin himself had been granted with the name de Dagomor.

The two both wore thin cravats, in the style of neckties - Maria wore the red of her company, whilst Valentin's was black. All of Valentin's commissioned officers wore lace-edged cravats, rather than the more coarse cloth cravats of the enlisted, but Valentin's own and those he had gifted to his lieutenants were lace in their entirity. They also each carried a gift. Valentin brought a white lace cravat from his personal stores, handmade in the Dagomori countryside by the weavers who supplied his battalion with their cravats. He had been informed that morning of the Colonel's love for the colour white, and it was the easiest gift he had at hand that could be identified as something authentically Dangomori. He had beseeched his preferred tailor to trim the cravat in a hurry at no small cost, adding a white-gold-styled fringe and texture that suggested the symbols of the Canon. Maria brought a gift for the Governor, a book on modern military innovation from Valentin's personal library. Whilst it was of no particular value or rarity, it was an extremely recent edition, obtained by Valentin from a personal acquaintance in the Empire proper, and he was reasonably confident the Governor would not yet have a copy.

As the two arrived at the gates of the Palace, his identity was already exceedingly obvious to even the most inattentive servant, and Valentin certainly expected that at least one would be familiar with his face and his mythos. Not a word was exchanged as he showed them a letter carrying the Colonel's seal, addressed to him, and was quickly let in. He could not quite place the looks that he received from the servants, but wavered between 'confusion', 'awe', and 'disdain'.
Last edited by The Grim Reaper on Thu Aug 02, 2018 8:34 am, edited 2 times in total.
If I can't play bass, I don't want to be part of your revolution.
Melbourne, Australia

A & Ω

Is "not a blood diamond" a high enough bar for a wedding ring? Artificial gemstones are better-looking, more ethical, and made out of PURE SCIENCE™.

User avatar
Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States
P2TM RP Mentor
 
Posts: 16537
Founded: Feb 20, 2012
Scandinavian Liberal Paradise

Postby Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States » Tue Jul 31, 2018 3:27 pm

“Please, sit, sit!” both the colonel and the governor said, frantically gesturing every time a new officer came in. The colonel was a bit more frantic than the ageing governor, who had landed himself the province for being both too popular not to be promoted, but too old to entrust a more valuable province too. His age had also given him weird ideas normally reserved for secret salons, and it was best to keep him (and his considerable fortune) away from the homeland politics of the Twelve Principalities. However, the governor had allowed for a fair amount of home rule in Dagomor, especially in Vigo, which had undoubtedly let to indifference to the Imperial Three-times-Threecolour handing over every city.

First to enter was Ebenezer Paschalis, a leader of mounted infantry. Carabineers, a more recent innovation of the Imperial armed forces. Some men were gardeners turned soldier, much like the colonel, who saw soldiering as a side-job to their normal ventures. Then there were soldiers turned gardeners, who tried their best to use their combat intuition to navigate the myriad halls of the Imperial Capital. Then, there were gardeners turned gardener, like the governor, and soldiers turned soldiers. Paschalis was the last kind. The colonel knew there was honour in all of these groups, but that the last two could be the most intense, and could have the most in them. The only thing to fear from them was their inflexibility, and the colonel surely hoped that Ebenezer would be at least a little fun to talk to.

“Pease, sit, sit!”

Then entered captain de Hohenfriedberg. Dispatches described him as an easy-going man, a youthful man who enjoyed his youth to the fullest. The colonel understood that very much, although he hoped the young captain would act a bit more in line with the teachings of humility and hard work that the Canon found central in their teaching. Of course, the colonel would have plenty of time to talk to the white-haired youth, as there was little else to do here. It wasn’t like the cavalry would perform many charges soon. Many days would be spent leaning back in lounging chairs basking in the sun, playing pool or ball games, and he hoped De Hohenfriedberg would enjoy that a lot.

“Please, sit, sit!”

Captain Cibor Marczynski. Now, even though the Canon taught respect for strangers, the colonel was not entirely looking forward to this man’s company. A rough colonial, not accustomed to refined ways of the aristocracy, but above all, not kind and gentle like one would learn from birth if highborn. The biggest problem is that he would probably not learn anything by being in the vicinity of nobles. He was a man who would spend his time with his soldiers, not with his fellow captains. The colonel had a hard time thinking of him as a captain. Rather, he would look at the colonial as a senior lieutenant, and he guessed the colonial would see himself as the same.

“Please, sit, sit, Sibor” he said, mispronouncing the name.

Some people were just shy of nobility, as the colonel had learned during his time as a theologian. He met many priests who had come from humble origins who he would call more noble than the people they laboured under. The other side of that coin, however, were people who were a bit too noble for their standing in society. A prime example of this was the Laird of Crask, who was technically a noble, but who came from a savage and martial culture. The man himself was pleasant enough, if a bit rowdy and unrefined. He and Cibor would probably get underway quite well, seeing as they were both semi-savages. The colonel would be reluctant to use either of their forces outside of actual combat, where they would probably excel.

“Please, sit, sit!”

Technically, Clay wasn’t nobility, and the colonel knew that. Looking at him, however, it was hard not to picture him as one of the Old Knights of the Iron Crown. A stoic man of few words who would hold back instead of interfere, observe until he had made a judgement. I was a shame that he would never rise above the rank of captain, seeing as he was not of noble blood, because there was much promise in him. His Wolves of Iron knew strict discipline, a bit harsher than the colonel would dole out, but harsh enough to keep the men in line. The colonel especially liked his strict views on drunkenness.

“Please, sit, sit!”

Rupert! The colonel had actually met his family before. Nice family, beautiful estate. The boy was a bit arrogant, but it was hard to find anyone in the nobility who wasn’t aware of his or her privileged birth. Rupert would at least be fun. A socialite, learned in the intricate ways of court, with a few connections. He would have gossip at least. The Canon was silent on gossip, but it condoned knowledge, so gathering any kind of knowledge was probably moral. At least, that’s how the colonel justified his hunger for rumours. This would be a fun lad to go riding with, or to walk along the Halgomar Promenade. Since he led a battalion of heavy cavalry, he would probably not be used much outside of parade, where heavy cavalry was always a bonus.

“Please, sit, sit!”

The latest arrival was both a blessing and a curse, the colonel thought. The man entered with a female lieutenant at his side. While the gossip was usually unwarranted, many more conservative voices raised the issue that there might be inappropriate intercourse between male and female officers. It was probably nothing, but the reputation of Valentin made it all the more reasonable. If anyone of the regiment would sleep with his own rankers and officers, it was this man. A shame, the colonel thought. So much in him, so much ambition and promise, thrown away over youthful revolutionary ideals. Having him there was dangerous, the colonel knew. The mere presence of a heretic dissident could spell doom, if political enemies tried to make the connection. Not that Horatio had those ambitions, but he was also thinking about his fellow noblemen posted in Dagomor.

“Ahhh, captain, please sit, sit…”

As Horatio looked from man to man to woman, he nodded slightly. At the clap of the governor, a gaggle of servants brought in a few appetisers, combined with fruit juice on orders of the captain. The appetisers contained beef, fish, wild boar and goat, but no beef or chicken. The Dagomor believed that no animal was to be eaten that could not care for itself, so the only chicken farms in the area were held by Dallic emigrants. Domesticated pigs, too, were looked down upon.

“We are awaiting a few more guests, of course” the colonel said, gesturing towards the door. “Officers and others, but that will not stop us, will it?”

The governor shook his head wildly, and his grey hairs jumped about him. The colonel smiled.

“So, how are you?” he began carefully. “How is home?” he said quickly, beginning his first fishing expedition for the most salacious facts of the Dallic empire.
The name's James. James Usari. Well, my name is not actually James Usari, so don't bother actually looking it up, but it'll do for now.

Lack of a real name means compensation through a real face. My debt is settled


Part-time Kebab tycoon in Glasgow.

User avatar
Kowloon-California
Spokesperson
 
Posts: 194
Founded: Apr 04, 2011
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Kowloon-California » Tue Jul 31, 2018 11:12 pm

Captain Altan Jalair
Jalair Jezzails
Halgomar


The wooden plank hit the pier with a heavy thud and off stepped a pair of heavy leather boots. Captain Altan Jalair took his first steps on Dangomor and marveled at the mountain of green before his eyes that rose from the silvered blue seas. This was the first time he had ever been overseas, and his eyes were treated at every turn by some new marvel or the other.

Already many other battalions had arrived and were well underway in the disembarkation process. Although Halgomor was not a large city by any means, its dock had sprung to life with the influx of new arrives. Men wearing uniforms that ran the gamut from dark somber jackets to ostentatious gilded works of art. Columns of men marched steadily off of their ships, each unit announcing their arrival with their own distinct marching songs. Directly next to the Jezzails' own ship, Altan could see the Crask Highlanders disembark, their shrill bagpipes providing quite the spectacle to the locals who watched on.

The voyage had been a difficult one, and indeed the first battle that Altan had fought was on the waves. The battalion was comprised of brave men all around, but even the bravest of Altai warriors curled themselves into a ball and prayed for their mothers when subjected to the immense power of the roiling seas. To say that seasickness was an issue would've been a massive understatement. They had boarded a ship after marching for hundreds of miles overland, but still had many more miles to go before meeting with the other battalions at the initial rendezvous point.

After their first storm, the morale of the men had taken a vicious beating. Spirits were down, and men hardly seemed to be able to do more than lift their heads up to puke, much less assemble on deck for their daily drills. Altan would've preferred to have been able to say that they overcome their issues, but the truth was the voyage had been miserable from start to finish.

"Battalion! Form up by company commanders! We will move out in five minutes!" shouted Altan.

The ragged battalion slowly fell into a loose semblance of formation as they huddled around their commanders and checked themselves to ensure that nothing was left behind. For those who carried genuine jezzails, long barred, hand-crafted muskets, held on with a close grip. Compared to most of the other battalions the Jalair Jezzails were rather underequipped. Only a full half the men carried firearms, and of that number only the members of third company carried the precious jezzails. The rest worked with more standard dimension muskets.

That wasn't to say that his battalion wasn't still a beautiful sight. Although seemingly antiquated in both dress and equipment, these three hundred men were his soldiers, and Altan couldn't have been prouder. Every rifle, every bow, and every spear was ultimately his investment, and he made sure that each man took good care of what they had. The muskets, though lacking in uniformity, were generally all finely crafted by skilled Altai artisans, who took the time to often engrave custom designs onto their work. The bows that the company had were well oiled and protected underneath leather covers. They differed little from the weapons once held by their ancestors on the steppe. While a trained musketeer could perhaps fire three or four rounds per minute, a skilled Altai composite arrow could still do the same damage many times over in the same minute.

In combat, those with muskets would form the front ranks and fight as a standard line unit. In between reloads, the archers would provide covering fire and supplement the firepower of the battalion. Should enemy cavalry threaten the line, the musketeers would fall back a row while the spearmen rotated to the front. Together, the unit would fight as a pike and shot block. The spears were somewhat shorter than that of real pikes, but was still a versatile tool. It was also not unheard of for archers to poison their arrowtips to increase their lethality.

Altan himself was clad in a traditional fur and leather coat, but with a fine Dallic belt holding together his outfit at the waist. On the top of his head sat a traditional fur and leather cap. It was a humble ensemble, but perfectly suited for the elements, and a fine uniform to fight in. Many of his men were also dressed in a similar fashion. Judging by the climate, they would soon shed those uniforms for a lighter Altai tunic, known as a deel.

A young man, or perhaps boy, of no more than eighteen years came running up to Altan as he stood on the busy pier. His uniform identified him as a member of the local battalion assigned to guiding their forces.

"Welcome to Halgomar sir. When your men are ready I can take you all to the regimental barracks. In addition, the governor requests your presence for dinner this evening. The other captains have already gone ahead, you'd best hurry before you are late," said the soldier.

"Thank you, we'll get moving right away. When you get a chance, please also take this gift of fermented mare's milk to your captain. It's no stronger than a Dallic beer, but very fortifying for the soul. We call it airag." said Altan, handing over a wineskin to the young soldier.

He turned to his assembled battalion and shouted for his lieutenants. "Sukhbataar! Take third company and get them settled into the barracks first. I'd like to stay here and make sure we have the rest of our supplies in order before we leave. If you can, make sure we have a hot meal cooking by the time the rest of the battalion arrives."

Sukhbataar was someone the battalion was very lucky to have. The truth was that the Jalair Jezzails had a long ways to go before they could live up to the reputations of the old Altai horse masters. Nearly half the regiment grew up in the city, and knew no more about riding, hunting, and orienteering than any other Dallic citydweller. For that matter, neither did Altan. Yet Sukhbataar was raised in the steppes of Gobi, the great plains that surrounded Altai, and with him came a company of hardened steppe nomads who formed the elite third company. Having someone around like him to teach the younger men the ways of their people was a priceless gift.

Sukhbataar gave a wave, and with him the men of third company shouldered their long barreled jezzails and marched out with their Dangomori guide. They carried with them as well heavy packs filled with small pots, bedrolls, waterskins of fermented milk, and other implements for living on the road. It wasn't exactly light, but it was mobile enough when on redeployment. Eating dried horse meat and drinking fermented milk was a symbol of Altai's former imperial conquest, and Sukhbataar was adamant that Altan made the effort to keep to their traditions. On this occasion however, the battalion would be enjoying some fresh cooking courtesy of Sukhbataar and third company.

Altan turned to his other company commanders and ordered the rest of the men to stay until all of the battalion's ammunition and other goods were finished unloading. As the sun grew ever dimmer, Altan realized that he was on the verge of missing the evening dinner. As a merchant by trade, he knew when to be firm about the details of logistics, but the prospect of a good meal and networking was too important to be passed over lightly.



Governor's Mansion
Halgomar


Entrusting the rest of the battalion's move-in to his second, Temujin, Altan donned a fine Altai tunic of light blue silk and tied it off with a stylish red sash. Afterwards, he hurried through the streets of Halgomar with only his curved Altai sabre at his hip and a small box filled with gifts for the colonel and the governor. Altan had prepared several bolts of white silk cloth, which had come from his own business in Altai, as well as a fine leather wineskin containing more fermented mare's milk.

It took some time before Altan finally found his way to the Governor's palace, but thankfully with his rather unique style the governor's servants spared no time in ushering him inside. It was his first time outside of Altai, but he could already tell that he was something of a curiosity to the servants. He was from a land too far away and exotic for them know what attitudes to assign, but they clearly felt distinctly uncomfortable with how to treat what seemed to be a storybook character come to life, complete with boots that ended with an upward curve.

When I get the opportunity, I must purchase some proper Dallic noble clothing or they'll never accept me as one of their own! Thought Altan, as he was guided through the ornately decorated mansion to the dining room where the others had already begun. There was no way to avoid the awkwardness of being late in Dallic society, but Altan preferred to think of himself as simply adhereing to the principle of being fashionably late.

"Altan of Clan Jalair!" announced the butler, speaking at a voice volume that suggested he was only giving lip service to the idea of interrupting a meal for the sake of introducing a mere savage.

Altan bowed his head cautiously, not knowing if anyone truly even cared about his arrival, and took a seat where there was empty room. He found himself being treated to the beginnings of what was undoubtedly going to be an exquisite meal. Delighted that he had arrived before the main course, Altan spared no courtesy and began to greedily feast upon the wild boar and goat, making sure to be extra loud in his slurping and smacking in appreciation of the fine food.

This was his first time in the company of Dallic nobility, and Altan knew that he had to be the finest example of class in order to gain the acceptance of his superiors. Let no man think that Altai was not a great and powerful civilized realm in its own right!

Turning to the closest officer seated beside him, a man wearing a tunic that seemed to end far too high - the Highlander Captain Alistair Strachan it had to be, and remarked "It's about time we got a fine meal! I don't know about you my friend but human beings were not meant to float on ships! If this is how we'll be eating here in Dangomor, I think we will have a merry time indeed!"

User avatar
The Grim Reaper
Issues Editor
 
Posts: 10443
Founded: Oct 08, 2011
Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby The Grim Reaper » Wed Aug 01, 2018 6:26 am

Captain Valentin Rosicrucio de Dangomor & Lieutenant Marusya 'Maria' Antonov
Officer Commanding, The Native Scouts Battalion, 5th Battalion/22nd Regiment of Foot, & 2nd Company, 5th Battalion
Governor's Mansion, Halgomar


"Ah, how generous of you, Horatio. Ah -" Valentin took off his cloak, draping it over the back of his chair rather than handing it to a servant. Pulling something out of the now-revealed inner pockets, he presented the item to the Colonel.

"As the resident native officer, I felt it was my responsibility to bear a gift from the locals for you, on behalf of the regiment. A lace cravat in the style of the native scouts; of Dagomori make from fabric to weave. I was informed that you had a preference for white, and so I had this prepared by my prefered tailor, a man in the city whose work is of good quality and traditional Dangomori pedigree. The fringe is a subtle effect - the silhouette under light should be reminiscent of rays of sunlight. My Canonical education is not to the degree of your own lofty achievements, but I believe this should have the desired visual impact whilst remaining tastefully minimalistic. A show of skill, rather than wealth."

Turning to the governor, Valentin nodded his head.

"I wonder if you have heard of me, Mr. Governor. I have not been in Halgomar for much time, as I have been mustering troops, but I do keep my home here. I spent some time trying to acquire property in Frisda, and eventually found that Halgomar was a more convenient place to reside. At any rate, my townhouse here represents the vast majority of my means now, and I'm sure you'll become familiar with it in time - I may not be spoken of in the high circles of the Principalities anymore, but my home is the fruit of good fiscal management with what means I could bring with me. There is no inconsiderable monetary benefit to being free of the burden of noble country estates and vast staffing requirements. But I do keep some connections with my city of birth, and one of them allows my guest to offer you this."

Maria stepped forward, nodding her head with some uncertainty, mirroring Valentin's gesture.

"Good evening, Colonel, my Governor. This is a copy of A Treatise on the Logistics of Small-Unit Operations with Rifled Weaponry, a work by a former professor and mentor of the Captain. It is an early printing, and to my knowledge it is the first of the texts to arrive in Dagomor. The premise of the work is very hypothetical, given the recency of innovations in rifling, but the author uses it very capably in the general sense - as a demonstration in tailoring logistical consideration to strategic and tactical innovations. It is a gift from myself to you, as a resident of Halgomar since my birth." Maria spoke slowly, and deliberately - she did not struggle with the words, and seemed comfortable discussing the book, but it was clear that she had carefully rehearsed her speech, with precisely demure gaze and posture. For what had been said of the Captain's disciplinarian tendencies - or, more accurately, lack of - it seemed that his Lieutenants, at least, were more acceptable in good company.

Valentin offered Maria his hand, helping her into her seat. He surreptitiously used the moment to bring the tablecloth over her legs, and shifted some of her silverware ever so slightly. The intelligent observer would have quickly noticed that the latter was a signal, as she smiled and let her shoulders drop, relieved that he had indicated the cutlery appropriate for this course. The placement, of course, was immaculate, and was perfectly indicative on its own, but Maria nevertheless obviously appreciated the surety.

He took an approving look at the fruit juices - far sweeter than the bitter herbal tea he preferred, but he was always pleased to have something non-alcoholic around. He was similarly approving of the appetisers, as whilst he himself was of course familiar with the more varied meats of the Dallic emigre, he generally tried to adhere to the local palate.

As the Colonel launched into his inquiries, Valentin decided to be quiet for a moment, interested too in hearing stories of his former home. He peered towards the sidebar between the two commoners near him, Captains Jalair and Strachan, not wanting to interrupt the main conversation, and gently whispered something to Maria, who nodded back to him.

Maria watched to see if there was a moment she could interject herself into the conversation between the two, her practiced and refined demeanor giving way to a more natural military cadence, albeit reserved and attentive. She, like her counterpart Dorothy, had no reputation for ladylike behaviour, as Valentin had selected all three of his lieutenants on the basis of their combat experience, but she was clearly making an effort to defer to what remained of Valentin's noble reputation.

She directed her comment towards Jalair and Strachan, quietly but confidently. "I've never sailed before - so, you wouldn't do it again? I've never had an inclination towards the sea, although Lieutenant Dia y Maurin of my battalion is from a fishing family. She still dries and salts fish excellently. The Captain speaks very highly of the quality of the hunt in Dagomor, too - he used them to recruit and train our NCOs. The fur cloak he wore today is the product of some of those hunts, actually. Do either of you intend to participate in any such local activities?"
Last edited by The Grim Reaper on Thu Aug 02, 2018 8:34 am, edited 2 times in total.
If I can't play bass, I don't want to be part of your revolution.
Melbourne, Australia

A & Ω

Is "not a blood diamond" a high enough bar for a wedding ring? Artificial gemstones are better-looking, more ethical, and made out of PURE SCIENCE™.

User avatar
Pasong Tirad
Powerbroker
 
Posts: 7887
Founded: May 31, 2007
Left-wing Utopia

Postby Pasong Tirad » Wed Aug 01, 2018 8:54 am

In the Company of My Equals


Captain Alastair Strachan, Laird of Crask
Crask Highlanders, 4th Battalion, 22nd Regiment of Foot
The Governor's Palace of Halgomar


As Alastair entered the large dining hall, larger than any other dining hall he'd ever been in in Sutherland (and he's been in several), he was unfortunate enough to be early, and so he had no choice but to cozy up in a spot near the governor himself. Luckily for him, he seems to have been seated right next to two other colonials. He was sitting in between Captains Marczynski (that name had to be from a colonial, so thought Alastair) and Jalair. The latter, much to Alastair's amusement, devoured the appetizers in front of him rather quickly - much like a proper Highlander would at a feast - probably believing that this was how the Imperials composed themselves during feasts. "It's about time we got a fine meal!" said Captain Jalair whilst picking at some meat with his fingers - as all meat should be eaten, not with silverware, which should be used for coinage, not dining.

"I don't know about you my friend but human beings were not meant to float on ships! If this is how we'll be eating here in Dangomor, I think we will have a merry time indeed!" Strachan, in his delight to find another non-Imperial, was ready to continue the conversation and tell the man a beautiful tale of Sutherland haggis. However, he was stopped before he even finished saying his first word by the woman in front of him, on the other side of the table. The Imperials seem to have thought it necessary to separate themselves from colonials even at the dining table, perhaps believing that non-Imperial nobles, while still nobles, were of a lesser class than they were.

"No, milady," Alastair answered, lowering his voice so only those around him can hear and attempting to be as polite as possible while the colonel spoke to some other captain. But his face no doubt betrayed the contempt he has for Imperials - at least, he thinks the lady is an Imperial. When dressed the same, the Dangomori look no different from the Dallics - and the Sutherlanders would look no different from Imperials if they wore trousers. "If given the option to keep my feet on the earth or boarding a ship, I will nae choose a ship for the life of me. Nor would any of my men." That last sentence, Alastair knew to be untrue. They had all chosen this over a prison - although, that's not exactly a high bar to climb over.

After answering her with a slight tinge of hostility, he could feel the awkwardness around the table. So, not wanting to provoke the Imperials on the other side of the table, Alastair continued speaking: "I would love to have some of your lieutenant's dried fish, milady. In fact, we can make you some of our own dried fish if you'd be so kind as to supply it for us. And lamb. I would love some lamb offal, milady. Captain Ja-liar (he knew he butchered the poor captain's name as soon as he said it), Milady, if either of you ever make yer way far sou' to Sutherland, we'll show ye both how to eat a lamb right proper. Heart, liver, lungs, and all. Food is nae a luxury, and nothing must be wasted. We eat so much lamb, our enemies use it against us and call us Sheep Fuckers." He knew it wouldn't have been "very noble" of him to swear, but he cared little for it. He wanted to show the Imperials that he could be a proper aristocratic gentleman as well as the savage that he knew they all think that he is.

Upon seeing the mood lighten, he remembered that hr had forgotten to properly introduce himself to the lady. He extended his hand across the table to offer it to her. "Alas-stare Stra-han (he said his name loud enough and clearly enough for others to hear, especially the servant by the door - he didn't want another soul on this table to mispronounce it), Lair-d of Crask - well, at least I think I still am laird, if the empire hasn't demoted me yet." He ended that sentence with a chuckle, attempting to soften the blow of his slightly underhanded remark. He also wondered if she would be allowed to shake his hand. He had heard tales from home of Imperials being, as the Clan Father put it, "rather puritan."
Last edited by Pasong Tirad on Wed Aug 01, 2018 8:57 am, edited 1 time in total.
"If there is no friendship with [the poor] and no sharing of the life of the poor, then there is no authentic commitment to liberation, because love exists only among equals." - Gustavo Gutierrez



User avatar
Cylarn
Postmaster-General
 
Posts: 14585
Founded: Nov 25, 2011
Left-Leaning College State

Postby Cylarn » Wed Aug 01, 2018 9:20 am

The governor was quick to send the Paschalis Ensemble to their seats, without much to offer in the way of introduction as the footman kept announcing names. Sussana was caught quite off-guard to this, well-adjusted to the intricacies of court life, her face painted with confusion and her steps just a bit more hesitant than normal. Eb and Hondo, on the other hand, kept a brisk pace to the table.

Eb pondered on the governor for a moment, allowing his body to focus on the singular task of walking to the table, as he cycled through his thoughts. An ancient man, ancient enough to desire a meal over courtly gesture. That's not to say that I am not hungry, either.

His eyes caught the table, ordained with only the finest accoutremonts befitting a man of the governor. His eyes went to the lack of wine bottles visible on the table. Hm, wine is usually to be expected at these functions. I hope soon that we receive some. As he pulled Sussana's chair for her, Eb cracked a faint, almost cautious smile at the lack of shaking in his hands. Perhaps I can maintain through the event.

After seating Sussana and Hondo, Eb took his own chair, within the vicinity of Captains Strachan and Jalair. He took note of their distinctive dress. Tribal pride. Can I really fault them? The governor clapped, and a coalition of servants brought around a feast of appetizers worthy of any man.

Except Ebenezer Paschalis.

The choices of meat were contemporary to what Eb had already heard of the province, and he settled on a hearty plate of fried sardines and hunks of boar. He reached for one of the decanters filled with a purple elixer. Eb poured some into his glass and set the decanter down before taking a long sip.

Betrayal.

Eb had been expecting wine, not fruit juice. Keeping up airs, he finished his gulp and set the glass down, reaching for his fork as a cacophony of licking and smacking came from another part of the table. Eb winced in clear annoyance, looking down the table at Jalair. Loud eating...eating like an animal in the Arris jungles. Was it prudent for Eb to chastise a fellow captain in a civil atmosphere? The officer bit his lip and turned his attention to his food.

It only took a few bites for Eb's attention to be grabbed once more; this time to the word 'Fucker.' He knew the accent, and switched his gaze over to Lord Strachan, as he propositioned a female officer of the Native Scouts for an excursion to his native homeland. Eb was no stranger to foul language or hard work - but he had not advanced as far as he did by ignoring every cosmopolitan platitude available.

Another matter was his relation to the Empire. He made no secret, no attempt to hide his cards on the matter. Eb took a bite of his boar, finished it without much fuss, and spoke up. His eyes settled on those of Alastair.

"I'm sure it all hinges on whether or not you can tow the line in the Hinterlands, Lord Stray-han," Eb directed to the Highlander, wondering what veiled insult the Highlander might find in his words. "May I ask if this is your preliminary commission?"
✎ Member - ℘ædagog
If you are serving the US and its allies right now overseas, thank you for what you do.
Recipient of the Best Crime RP'er Award and the Best Crime RP Award for 2013 in P2TM. Recipient of the Best Crime RP'er Award of 2014 in P2TM.

User avatar
Rodez
Diplomat
 
Posts: 634
Founded: Oct 18, 2016
Father Knows Best State

Postby Rodez » Wed Aug 01, 2018 10:28 am

Captain Cibor Marczynski
Officer Commanding, Cybulskan Volunteers
Governor's Mansion, Halgomar
Year 20 HAIII


Moments after the Colonel butchered his name, Cibor found himself seated next to Alastair Strachan, the Highlander lord, and Altan Jalair, Captain of the steppe-folk from far-off Altai. Almost impossibly far from Cybulska, Cibor mused, considering that our little ice-box is itself a five week voyage in good weather from the Dallic mainland.

For a mere moment, Cibor allowed himself to imagine that he could pass the dinner in peace with men who at least wouldn't be looking down their noses at him. He gingerly selected some cod and slices of boar from the arranged platters, while pouring himself a glass of fruit juice. Taking a sip, he concluded that it was quite good. Not unlike our apple cider. The boar and cod also proved themselves to be masterfully seasoned dishes. His knife and fork danced around the plate with practiced gusto.

Then they started talking.

"It's about time we got a fine meal! I don't know about you my friend but human beings were not meant to float on ships! If this is how we'll be eating here in Dangomor, I think we will have a merry time indeed!" That had been Jalair, the nomad captain. Soon he and Strachan and de Dagomor's female lieutenant were engaged in a booming conversation about the defects of sea travel and the intricacies of Sutherland cuisine. Cibor got the impression that the Highlander was trying entirely too hard. Why does he care so much? These people don't give a shit about him.

Ebenezer Paschalis, with whom Cibor was very vaguely acquainted, jumped into the discussion. "I'm sure it all hinges on whether or not you can tow the line in the Hinterlands, Lord Stray-han," Eb directed to the Highlander, wondering what veiled insult the Highlander might find in his words. "May I ask if this is your preliminary commission?"

Cibor winced ever-so-slightly. Whether or not Paschalis had meant any harm by it, there was a certain risk in Strachan taking it poorly.

Cibor winced again when he recalled where he was sitting. Stuck as he was in the vicinity of Strachan, Jalair, de Dagomor and Eb Paschalis and his party, and only a few seats down from the Colonel and the Governor, he realized that sooner or later he would have to talk to someone. His hope had actually been to catch up with Paschalis, but that was now dashed. Without much subtlety, he began casting about for someone to rescue him from this impending imbroglio. If he committed to a different conversation, at least he wouldn't be asked for his opinion on Sutherland lamb, Twin Sisters willing.

His wandering gaze passed without hope over officers and persons far too distant to talk to, eventually bringing him back to right where he was. Cibor glanced for the first time at the woman and boy who sat next to Paschalis. The former was actually quite pleasing to look at, with remarkable red hair and a fine dress. Cibor surmised that she was some manner of mistress, or perhaps a cousin. Certainly, she was too young to be the mother of the boy, who bore enough resemblance to Paschalis that he was marked definitively as the man's son.

Taking another bite of boar and remembering, just in time, to chew and swallow before speaking, Cibor turned to both the young woman and the boy. With a flick of his green eyes and a quirk of his brow, he indicated his dinner companions. "Quite the show, eh?"
Last edited by Rodez on Wed Aug 01, 2018 5:20 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Formerly known as Mesrane (Mes), now I'm back
+9300 to post count
First joined April 2014

A bigger Chicago Cubs fan than you

User avatar
Provisional Niev
Spokesperson
 
Posts: 132
Founded: Feb 24, 2018
Ex-Nation

Postby Provisional Niev » Wed Aug 01, 2018 10:32 am

Captain Rupert Carlington
3rd Cavalry Battalion, Carlington County's Imperial Cuirassiers
Halgomar


Upon entering the dining hall, his eyes were met by quite a few onlookers, but far from the full lot he’d expected there, and so he sighed in relief that he was not late. He switfly passed through the room, appearing by the Governor and Colonel, and made his introductions in person.

“I am delighted to find myself in your home, Governor. It is an exquisite palace of the greatest Dallic architecture!”

Rupert shook his hands and went on to praise the Governor’s record as a public servant, a record he’d known nothing about before his Father had written extensively on it, and given some explanations to how the Man had ended up in this far off corner of the Empire. He then turned to the Colonel, who’d also remained seated and turned to Rupert as he placed his hand on his superior officer’s chair.

“And Baron Hevan, I must begin to exclaim the delight I intuit serving with you will be like!”

He glanced at the white attire the Colonel was wearing, living up to Rupert’s worst expectations of a colorless cleric.

“I would also, in the capacity of Captain of the 3rd Cavalry battalion, inform you that my men have arrived safe and sound to Halgomar. Apart from these news, I shall not bother you with military matters. After all, we find ourselves around a dinner table.”

He positioned himself between the chairs of the two, gaining enough attention to go on.

“Gentlemen”, he nodded, to each of his co-Captains seated at the moment, “and Ladies, of course”, he added, smiling to both the family members of his colleagues present and, in a more discreet fashion, those among the servants in the room.

“I will not take up your attention for long. I must first express my hope that our service here shall prove fruitful and that we will spend the coming time together in partnership. You may be familiar with me by name from before we encountered each other. I should however, as a symbol of our coming companionship, advice you to call me Rupert when we find ourselves out of duty in moments like these. It is the name I go by among friends, which I am happy to call my fellow Captains, and our Colonel, and Dangomor’s splendid Governor. Thank you.”

He bowed, very lightly and quickly, before seating himself closer to the middle of the table, besides a man with a rather humble uniform and facial hair, who was in turn sitting with a woman that’d accompanied him. Letting them introduce themselves, it turned out he was sitting with Hugh Lawson Clay and his wife, Ada. The descriptions of the Captain’s record had caused Rupert to imagine him as harsh and unattractive, and even more imaginative when it came to what his wife would be like. They both turned out to be rather good-looking, although deceivingly dressed like common folk wearing the best they could find for the company of nobles. He did not let this premise discourage him from bombarding them with questions.

“How did a dainty couple like yourselves find love with each other?”and “What do you both think of Dangomor so far?”, as well as one directed solely to Hugh, “What can you tell me about the fields of battle?”, were some of the questions asked between Rupert’s chewing on a skipjack skewer. He’d drink some of the fruity liquid served now and again, but started questioning if it had any sort of booze rate that would sustain his tipsiness. He looked around to see if the others were drinking any of it and prepared himself to ask, but assumed the wine would be served once the main course had reached the table, a complete guess from Rupert’s side on what the local customs could have been. In his homelands, among his kind of people that is, wine would be the first thing served and the last thing brought away from the guests.

Rupert remained largely unaware of the conversations around him, since they were far less active than if he'd participated in them. Still, it was unlike him.
Last edited by Provisional Niev on Wed Aug 01, 2018 10:32 am, edited 1 time in total.

User avatar
Pasong Tirad
Powerbroker
 
Posts: 7887
Founded: May 31, 2007
Left-wing Utopia

Postby Pasong Tirad » Wed Aug 01, 2018 11:26 am

In the Company of My Equals II


Captain Alastair Strachan, Laird of Crask
Crask Highlanders, 4th Battalion, 22nd Regiment of Foot
The Governor's Palace of Halgomar


"I'm sure it all hinges on whether or not you can tow the line in the Hinterlands, Lord Stray-han." The man in front of him, the one with the family, said this. He made no attempt to hide his apparent displeasure at Alastair, but it played right into the man's hand. To get a reaction - any reaction - out of the Imperials would have made his night.

And 'lo and behold, his night was made. "May I ask if this is your preliminary commission?" the captain asked.

Alastair retracted his hand, and gave the captain a genuine smile, for fear of antagonizing him and the other captains too far. "Aye, milord," Alastair answered. He was now living under the assumption that anybody in this room, save the two colonials seated right next to him, were of the Imperial nobility, and therefore he was being respectful enough to call them all lords - a positively feudal thing to do for the enlightened society of the Dallics. "It is indeed my first commission." He was satisfied with the captain's underhanded remark. That's it, Alastair, he thought. You're done, now tone it down. Keep your head down, you dolt.

"Under present circumstances, I'd say it's a fairly lucky posting. If our lairds, Suilven rest their souls (the arch-spirit that watches over the lands of Sutherland), were as united as your princes..." He paused. He remembered now where he saw that captain. He saw him, his family, and his battalion dismounting from the docks. He was leading a battalion of carabineers. Mounted musketeers. "...then perhaps we would be facing each other in the battlefield. And that, milord, is something I pray will ne'er happen. I would nae want to wish that fate upon even my worst enemies." That was true. He hoped the captain would take the cue, and leave Alastair to his own devices. The Sutherlanders had no renowned history of fighting with cavalry, and it was Dallic cavalry that broke and routed their armies in their rebellion. The captain may have even been there, though Alastair was not sure.

"Quite the show, eh?" the captain next to him said. Alastair chuckled at the man's words, and went on to devour a piece of boar. He had only remembered how hungry he was, having hurled anything left in his stomach early in the morning.
"If there is no friendship with [the poor] and no sharing of the life of the poor, then there is no authentic commitment to liberation, because love exists only among equals." - Gustavo Gutierrez



User avatar
The Knockout Gun Gals
Senator
 
Posts: 4737
Founded: Aug 06, 2012
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby The Knockout Gun Gals » Wed Aug 01, 2018 6:40 pm

Eliza de la Vista
Captain of Eliza's Imperial Infantry
Docks of Halgomar


The women of the Imperial Skirmisher's came down upon the docks of Halgomar as their ship reached the docks. In the front, Eliza and her officers, three of which led each by her lieutenants. Eliza de la Vista, one of few women who led their own battalions, and one which such ladylike appearance in spite of her current occupation as a captain. Born in the Vista family of Morzetown, her father, Duke Fernando, put her into the charge of one of many battalions in Halgomar through his connections in the military, since Halgomar is not exactly the most dangerous garrisoned province. The ship disembarked, not long after that Eliza walked down from the docks and led her women to unload their belongings, while the heavier loads came from the men of the ship and of the docks, both whom surprised, seemingly slightly annoyed, or weirded by the presence of an all-female battalion. Not a lot of all-female battalions in the empire. Once the belongings of the women were on the ground, Eliza came up.

"Form up! Battalion, to the barracks!" and in which the battalion formed up and walked to the barracks altogether. Even the sight of the all-female battalion struck the men in the barracks, as some perhaps even looked at the beauty of the women. They are still women after all. "Ah...I presumed Captain Vista?" asked the man in duty, the officer handling the barracks' management and the troops' quarters.

"The one and only, officer," as she nodded in respect. Despite the conservativeness in the military and the empire, competence and discipline in the military comes first, sometimes. This, is one of those times. "Ah, yes, of course. I'm here, beside handling your troops in the living conditions, also inquires that you have to come to the Governor's immediately, there's a dinner banquet there and you've been late."

"Indeed, I am. Excuse me while I'm going to dress up," which she did. The rumors about her having a lover or some lovers inside her own battalion circulated, but they kept their mouth shut. She is, after all, still a captain. And a noble one, at that. A heiress, as well. Not a good combination if they want to still alive if they not keep their mouth shut. Eliza soon dressed up in her formal attire, no longer in military uniform. Nobility and manners above military duty, in this one. It's a formal dinner banquet, after all.

She arrived at the Governor's soon after, in her side is Lieutenant Victoria Thompson and her regiment of Imperial Infantry, dressed differently and in military uniform. When the butler asked about her presence, Eliza nicely responded, "She's here as an officer of mine, she's my lieutenant and she's my aide. My father insisted on me bring one in this case. In case of....something bad happened to me," which the butler received well. Perhaps, they are both lovers and Victoria here is in a more personal duty, but she will remained outside for the remainder of the formal dinner. Unless she is to be called by Eliza herself.

The butler announced her presence, "Captain Eliza de la Vista, of the Vista!
The Knockout Gun Gals wrote:
TriStates wrote:Covenant declare a crusade, and wage jihad against the UNSC and Insurrectionists for 30 years.

So Covenant declare a crusade and then wage jihad? :p

User avatar
Nations United for Conquest
Negotiator
 
Posts: 5090
Founded: May 06, 2016
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Nations United for Conquest » Wed Aug 01, 2018 6:50 pm

Captain Kasch Fletcher
Commander of the 44th Light Infantry Battalion
Dagomor Imperial Province
Year 20 HAII



The familiar sound of wood creaking and moaning against the heavy weight of loads placed upon it and the soft blue waves of the sea lapping against it in a rhythmic pattern were among a few of the many sounds currently springing across the bustling dock of the Capital of the Imperial Province of Dagomor. All around ships of all sizes and services, from simply cargo vessels to the interesting and somewhat out of place, depending on who was asked, sight of an old sloop that had seemingly changed out a few of her guns for a crew of man clad in the uniform of a land warrior. It was an odd spectacle to behold of an infantry battalion arriving on a ship dedicated for the art of war upon the high seas, but that was least of the currosities currently unfolding around the docks. Between the many ropes and sails of the gathering ships, local fisherman busily about their trade upon the sides of the docks where small ships could be seen resting upon doicks that pertruded out from the main landing like the roots of a plants across the ground in which it was planted, were the gathering of men, and a surprising bit of women, from many different trades, stations, and even nation it would appear by the strange attire that many had found themselves clothed in as their toiled away upon the docks unloading grates full of goods and food among other more serious provisions as illustrated by the frequency of crates with with imposing label of 'explosive' or 'shot' that were found in large letters upon the sides of the crate for all to see. But these were soldiers after all and as much was expected by them. Many still had their rifles, muskets, carbines and in some stranger cases bows and spears, as was the case of a ship off to the side of the port, currently flooding the docks with strangely clad men who seemed to be out of some old tale that a grandfather might tell of the old expeditions to the lands surrounding the Empire and beyond her own borders.

Off to one side, not far perhaps from the strangest clad men and their archaic weapons they carried were another ships full of strangely dressed men, these instead carrying much larger weapons, in the form of swords of old and wearing what appeared to be dressed of some kind, in a resemblance almost to skirts. The appearance of such burly men in a strange uniform, nevermind the 'bags' they seemed to carry, which might resemble a pincushion if one were asked to describe their appearance, had drawn the attention of many, almost as much as the men carrying the weapons of their ancestors long past, and the only reason for such being the very nature of the men, which seemed to simply be begging for the attention of those around them, in some sort of self-fulling way. Like it was needed that these men be recognized for whom they were and not to be cast off as simply another arriving Battalion, if such would even be possible if the men were all mute and their hands tied in station behind their backs. Besides the two hiccups of the outlanders arriving, most battalions seemed to reside in a normal military function, with the exception of a few militia units who might as well had been from the surrounding townhouses if it were not for the fact they looked completely foreign to the surrounding buildings, and secondly were disembarking rather than embarking upon the grand ships of sail which had just arrived in the port with her sister ships, though it was likely all such were from different postings and groups, as all Battalions currently arriving in the backwater province were new to the area, with the exception of a particular Captain among them who seemed to be missing from the action at current. No doubt finding some way to avoid it with the advanced knowledge of their arrival.

The confusion of many different arriving Battalions, all unto a unfamiliar landing was the perfect recipe for something to go amiss among all that was currently unfolding; Sergeants and Lieutenants running across the docks, their footsteps causing a creaking noise, in conjunction with the many carts and enlisted footmen busily loading and unloading them, that grew to a crescendo that would make one think the landing itself was close to collapse, were it not for the sound of yelling and laughing, the latter coming from the many troops of the home guard, or rather that of the Province's Colonel, laying about and scoffing at their newly arrived comrades in a most distasteful manner, though most seemed to occupied with their own business to pay even a bit of mind to the men who were acting as if a ship of exotic animals from Acc had just arrived for the pleasure of their viewing and there's alone in that regard. Though, one would not be able to argue that among the strange uniforms and dressed of the men who had just arrived, painting a dull sort of rainbow as many wore simply grey or tan clothing, indicating that most were of some militia or light infantry battalion, accented with the appearance of the dress wearing men and their archaic coupling, gave off a most interesting picture and aura, that would certain make for a popular piece should one of the locals have a thought of painting it. It might even catch a fair price in the Imperial Capital itself, though it was at the same time hard to think who enjoys seeing a seemingly disorderly mess unfold before them? It was not as if it were the arrival of the esteemed divisions of the inner provinces, such as Imperial Grenadiers whom always brought the cheering of the masses upon their parades on their many events within the Imperial Capital itself.

The disorderly order of chaos on the landing of the capital's docks could not last forever, and at some point it would have to be broken in some regard, as whatever spell had been cast on those arriving would soon have to wear off for the men upon the docks were no doubt pushing the limits of whatever magic currently protected them. Suck a breaking of the spell came in the form of a loud cracking sound that shot throughout the landing like the firing of musket does to woodland creatures when fired off in the quiet of the evening forest. Looking up from their work one would be able to spot a single wagon not far from a ship where it has just disembarked a moment before, loaded to the brim with an assortment of all goods from simple cloth and blankets, to large crates not only labeled as rations but with that of tools as well, with some extra spades and picks thrown upon the top of the cart as well in an disorderly manner. Elsewhere one could spot a few muskets laying haphazardly off the side of the cart and a few packs of a soldier had been thrown on as well, no doubt by those whom were loading it as all the soldiers around it appeared to have been relieved of their packs for the task of loading the wagon. And it was no doubt this overloading of the cart that had lead it its eventual failure in performing its role of moving said items to the barracks and staging area of whatever Battalion it belonged to. Looking past the load on the top of the wagon one would easily spot the source of the break as the axle which had seen to the powering and steadying of the cart, that being the rear axle and snapped near clean in half, only be held together in a small arc by a few threads and fibers of wood that seemed ready to break apart and fall in two at the simple breathing of a man observing it too closely. Standing next to the wagon itself was young man, perhaps of his mid to late twenties releasing a disappointed and likewise annoyed sigh at the luck that had befallen him and his compatriots around him. The man himself had a somewhat muscular build, not quite that of a soldier but one of a man who was used to hard labor all the same, albeit of a different kind than that of soldier for the most part. His skin reflected this in the nearly bronze tan the man held, only fading into a lighter color upon the occasional breeze that made parts of his uppers arms and torso show, as he had currently rolled his sleeves up quite a bit to deal with the hard labor unfolding around him. His hair was of a darker color and less shiny than that of his skin, a dark brown like that of the Western Imperial Chestnut tree, a poplar wood used in furnishings of the even the high Princes in the capital, and cut back in an orderly and military manner, though at current was in a mess about his forehead from the sweat of his labor. His eyes carried a dark green color, like that of leaves in mid summer and they sparkled like that of the ocean around the landings, albeit in a cleaner shade of green that the waters filled with the guts of fish and other rubbish. His attire was no different than the men who stood around him; possing a darker grey overcoat upon his back covering a simple set of seemingly loose fitting light grey pants and shirt, the latter of which had been rolled up past his elbows like that of his overcoat and compariots around him. He carried no musket, and instead had a single holster across his chest and falling at his right hip, indicating him as an officer, as those around him did not carry the same armament.

No sooner than the man had let out a sigh at the misfortune that had befallen him, did a figure steadily make his way towards himself and the cart which had broken down off to the side of the landing, luckily for most not blocking any sort of foot or horse traffic on the large landing, one of the more grandeur things in the province it would seem. The man rode upon a grand steed that placed his at least a whole body over the men who were still gathered around the cart, attempting to collect the crates that had fallen in an orderly manner, as well as removing additional ones from the wagon as to allow repairs to be made in some respect; at least enough to allow for them to reach the staging area in somewhat good time. The newly arrived man wore a soft face upon his head, in a way that almost made him seem quite young, those to the keen eyes his body would tell a different story of a man at least ten years or so major to those who stood around him and the cart. His face was also lacking in any kind of weathering, be of a well kept style, as opposed to those around the cart whom wore faces of many years in the hot and demanding suns of the Empire and the lands both close and far to it, as he too lacked a tan colored skin of the men. The mounted man's hair was mystery but was likely cut short to the point where it no longer matter, as illustrated by the white and no doubt powdered wig that sat upon his head in the most orderly manner. Almost as orderly as his clothes which seemed unwrinkled and freshly cleaned; having an under shirt of a white no different from that of the wig upon his head and an equally white overcoat that almost painted him as a member of the Canon, though most may have joked he looked more like a blank tapestry than that of a man, given the uncanny matching of white found in both his face, clothes and mounted stead. He carried no weapons upon him, though then again, neither did many of the men on the landing who were busy unloading the carts, though he did instead where a light smile upon his lips as he approached the stricken men around the cart in an attempt to appear kind as he greeted them.

"Good afternoon, lieutenant!" called out the mounted man to the that of the brown haired young man instructing those around him to raise the cart in a fashion as to allow for the fixing of the axle, as it would be too time consuming to replace it given the current position in which they rested and the steady stream of men moving too and fro around them. Though at the sound of a voice calling out to him, the young man turned to find himself nearly face to face with the mounted man, should he have been off his horse.

Looking up at the strange fellow it took a minute of the young man to understand whom he was, but given the lack of other mounted men, and the fact that many of the soldiers around; those patrolling rather than unloading had paused to gander at the mounted man, made it all clear he was a man of some authority, though of what the young lieutenant could not tell at the moment. Caught a bit by surprise, the young lieutenant whipped around like a top that had been spun by some small child and shot back a series of quick responses, partially to hide his ignorance of the man's status and equally to have him hopefully leave him about to his business of fixing the wagon, "Good afternoon, sir! I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again, sir"

The man seemingly oblivious to the ulterior motive behind the young lieutenant's response began to further barrage him with question, taking away from his ability to assist his men in any fashion with the wagon. Having been delighted with such an answer the man turned to more personal matters of conversation, calling out to him in a jolly voice once more, "The gods have a rather strange kind of humour, lieutenant. Let’s not split hairs over it. What is your name?"

Returning in much the same tone as he had previously, his men now fully finished in assembling the missing perishables and crates that had been thrown from the wagon earlier, "Lieutenant Ferson, sir. 44th battalion, 2nd company" came Ferson's flash of a response, as he watched the colonel turn his horse and attention towards a group of men laughing so hard upon one of the cafes you would have sworn a lung would come out flying if they did not stop.

No sooner than the man upon the horse had departed did the form of another man appear alongside that of the young Lieutenant, catching him by the same surprise as the mounted man, as it would seem, the newly arrived man had someone managed to find a place alongside the broken down wagon without alerting any of those near it, though it was not to say the men working on the wagon were particularly on the lookout for strangers of any kind approaching their position. They frankly had a bigger mess in front of them, and there were enough soldiers that only a fool would attempt at thieving from them in their current state. The new man was slightly taller than the Lieutenant, not to the point where he was looking down on him with a cocked head, but far from eye level at their current positions, no more than a step or two apart from each other. His build was similar to that of the Lieutenant, but he appeared slightly more widely than his comrade, and was wholeheartedly built more like a soldier than he was a farmer, though a similar tan could be found upon his exposed forearms, like that of the Lieutenant. However, his tan was far lighter in color, perhaps of that of a light cup of tea, rather than the shining bronze of the Lieutenants. This was a result less of the man's time in the sun, as he appeared a bit older than the lieutenant, and his face wore a more weathered expression and carried his fair share of cuts and scrapes upon his arms and legs, but rather was a result of a difference in birth. It would be easy to tell by looking around that the newly arrived man didn't quite seem to fit in with those around him, his face and body features of a different style than was common in many reaches of the Empire. His face itself carried a set of light blue eyes, almost resembling sapphire, especially when the light of the sun played off them, as it was doing now, and we wore a calm look about him. Something reflected in his lips, as they had cocked into a slight grin as he had no doubt been watching the situation around unfold before him. Though, portions of his face had been a mop of light blonde hair, nearly a creaming white in some respects, that fell about his head in a thin curly mess, not helped by the work of unloading crates and the beaten up old Straw hat that sat loosely upon his head. As for clothes, he wore a simply uniform like that of the Lieutenant, though while Ferson had rolled his sleeves up past his elbows, the newly arrived man only exposed his forearms, cutting off the rest of his upper arms and elbows from view, though fine lines of sweat would still be seen cutting across them like faint streams after a spring storm.

Still holding the element of surprise in his favor, the newly arrived man let out a dry sort of laugh and he began to speak out to the young lieutenant who at current had been letting out a sigh of his own towards his most recent interaction, "I haven't seen you straighten out like that since our meeting with the duchess!" called the newly arrived man, his sly grin cracking to allow for the passing of a short burst of laughter at the expense of the Lieutenant.

The young lieutenant turned to find himself face to face with the newly arrived stranger, though a look of of both relief and relaxation passed across his face, though it was hard to tell as his features hardened, and his face twisted a bit like leather as his eyebrows both raised a bit over his eyes. "You know how I am around clergymen, Cap'n." He answered back in an almost sarcastic tone, though with just enough steadiness in his voice one could be sure there was truth to be held in his words. "Besides," He continued, "The man got the jump on me, and you know that's not easy to do."

"Yes, yes I know Henri" came a reply from the man in a bit of an odd accent, as his face returned to that of a steadfast expression as he squatted down to help one of the other soldiers lift the wagon, so that a plank could be inserted under the bed of the wagon, to allow for repairs to begin. As he rose back up to a standing position with a bit of a grunt he turned to face the young lieutenant once again. "So," he began yet again, "What did you think of him...The Colonel?" his eyes and face holding the steadfast expression.

"That was the Colonel, eh?" was the first set of reaction from the young man before he turned to look on at the mounted man, now seen to be the colonel, yet again as if simply looking at him would reveal more to Henri as he looked on. "I suppose he strikes me as would a colonel, I would think. Charismatic you could say" he continued as if almost unsure what the Captain was really asking of him, thus he turned his head towards the man only to catch him shaking his head from side to side, eyes closed as if disappointed in a way.

As he stopped the movement of his head, his eyes flashed open to reveal an icy color, the color seemingly becoming even more opacity than it had before, if such was even possible, and revealing a piercing glare that took the Lieutenant aback, even though it was not directed at himself, but rather at the Colonel who seemed busy instructing one of his men to assist with the wagon for what he could only guess was some trivial matter. "Charismatic isn't the right word Henri" came a steady and unshaken reply from the Captain.

"What do you mean by that, Fletch?" was the natural reply of the young lieutenant as he stared at the Captain with a question and curious look.

"He doesn't possess the Charisma of a Military Man. The man has an aura of a powerful man." Explained Fletcher, almost as if he were teaching the man on the subject.

"I'm not sure I follow." Came the confused reply of the man, as he directed the newly arrived Corporal from the Colonel's own Battalion to help the others with securing the run away crates and food that had gone with him.

"A man in power makes people wish to stand around him" he said as he released a small sigh, the color generally returning to his eyes, as he sat down with a hammer and a few steel nails, intent on patching together the axle in some form for their departure to the staging grounds and barracks. "A man in command, makes people wish to follow him. That is a difference between a man who should lead and a man who should watch" he continued. And between a man who does things with his thoughts in mind, and he who does with the thoughts of others He mused to himself with a slight, though seemingly melancholic chuckle under his breath.

"I'm sure I quite understand that Cap'n" he said as he turned to look as the Colonel rode away towards some unknown destination, "But, I'll keep it in mind going forward." He then turned back towards the Captain who was underway strapping some nails to the broken beam of wood which represented the axle of the cart, and watched as the newly arrived Corporal accidently kicked a box of fruits, sending the beam which held up the wagon out of place, and causing the back end of one of the nails to bite down firmly across the Captain's hand.

Seemingly oblivious to the fact that his hand had been slice open, though the cut itself wasn't too deep despite running across abreast of his palm and threatening to relieve him of a finger had it cut slightly higher upon his hand, he simply raised himself up and turned towards the young Corporal, his face devoid of either anger or pain, and unsettling calm at the thought of a cuthand. The young Lieutenant and the two men near him looked much the same, going about their own business with the wagon, restoring it to a state of being raised once again, as Fletcher began to speak towards the young Corporal, in a calming and friendly voice, his face even cracking a bit of a warm grin and his eyes relaxing, "Go along lad, we've got this all covered, isn't that right men?" he called, glancing about his with a slight shimmer of pride on his eyes as they sat in their sapphire state. "Damn right, sir!" came the fervent reply from the two men, one in his late twenties and the other perhaps in his early twenties, as two large smiles came across their faces, in the split second they looked up from their handy work.

The young corporal looked confused and lost in a way, not meeting the eyes of the Captain and instead looking towards his hand where a small stream of red was funneling down the man's hand, mixing with his sweat, and falling to the dried and near colorless wood of the landing, where it splatter like a heavy rain drop leaving a leaf in the early hours after first rain fall. He simply nodded at the Captain's words and scurred off towards the Cafe once again where he was joined once again by his comrades. At his disappearance the two men and the lieutenant behind him began to let out a slight laugh, a smile cracking across the Captain's face as he ripped a piece of cloth from one of the boxes and fastened it around his hand, the brown cloth of the blanket, in color and not from dirt surprisingly, began to quickly fade into a shade of dark red.

The Captain was the first to speak as the laughter died down and the men returned to work, his voice still unphased and echoing out in his typical strong deep sound, accompanied by his foreign accent, "You think I spooked him a bit?" Came the question in an almost innocent like manner. After a long sigh, the Lieutenant was the first to answer. "I think spook might be a bit understating that Cap'n. Though, I imagine he at least now has a story to tell his buds" spoke the Lieutenant casting a slight glance back towards the cafe, ignoring the stares of some of the Colonel's, the First Battalion, men. The lieutenant then spoke again, his voice more relaxed than energetic or full of laughter as it had been but a short time earlier, "How's about you go find Doc and get'im to patch you up. The men and I'll do this for ya."

Fletcher just shook his head at the suggestion, instead squatting back down besides the broken axle, hammer in one hand and nails within his mouth to avoid using his injured one for the moment. "Go on and gatzer ze men" came the respite from the Captain as he continued to hammer in the metal nails with an astonishing speed for a one handed man. "I figured you'd say something like that..." was the seemingly disapproving voice of the Lieutenant as he walked away down the landing to find the reminder of the Forty-Fourth Battalion, who in reality had already finished unloading and were gathering under their respective Company Commanders. No sooner had the Lieutenant left than did Fletcher stand from his current work with the axle, a clean bunch of nails hidden deep within the wood that would hopefully keep it steady until they had reached the barracks. As he stood to begin helping the two men besides him load the heavy crates upon the wagon's back once again, did he catch the sight of several birds flying about in the air. One appeared to be a larger bird of a brownish color, likely a hawk of some sort, perhaps even a Whittler's Hawk, common to the Imperial innerlands, but slightly rare in these reaches of the Empire. The other birds were much smaller and of a black variety, and were quite busy diving at the larger bird in what seemed like an attempt to drive it away, and to some success. No doubt he flew too close to the birds' nest he thought as he continued with the loading of the crates.

----------


Having arrived at the barracks, seemingly without further incident to the surprisement of all given how things had gone on the docks, even going so far as to have one of the Sergeants muse if only our equipment was half as sturdy as our men upon helping the Captain finish the repairs to the Wagon a short time earlier; the Forty-Fourth Battalion yet again found themselves in a mess of wagons and soldiers as it would appear there was a great struggle for barracks and officers quarties, a slight disappointment given the current weather they were having and the long strolls it would require of the men to reach the drill fields each morning for certain activities of the earlier morning hours. Here and there some familiar faces and uniforms could be seen, like those of the Highlanders and their colorful if oddly patterned dresses and the simply clothing of the steppe people that had been seen unloading their archaic and unusually fashioned weapons earlier. There was also the loud sound of hooves upon the loose dirt and gravel roads, as the few cavalry detachments that had arrived seemed to be a bit lost navigating the tight streets around the barracks and the seas of men around them. But this was of little concern to the Forty-Fourth, who had already claimed a small barracks off the side of the soldiers quarters, and nearest to the training fields, as to cut down on the time it would take to move between the two when it was time for such action. Elsewhere, a set of officers quarters had been snagged near to the Barracks, and as requested by Fletcher upon the first floor by a young and relatively quiet Lieutenant by the name of Jameson, who had ridden out a short time ahead of the main force and by some miracle had found the required space and defended it against attempts of other Battalions to take it from his hands. Whether this was up to the merit of the politeness of nobles, or a savage element in the young lad of no more than his earlier twenties, remained to be seen and told when it was time for the men to gather for their dinners.

Having finally been able to settle down, their goods be sent to various storage areas, and the men offloading what little they would keep off their bodies, mainly personal artifacts, as everything each needed for his soldiering duties as a Light Infantryman rested safely in a small pouch that each wore across their body as one would a messenger bag. Within in it were several pockets and spaces reserved for such items, as shot, powder, flint for the lighting of fires, dried rations for their marches and other materials that were to be used in the fields of battles should they need them. The pouches themselves had come at no expense for the men of the Battalion nor their officers, instead being the parting gift of a young Duchess who had overseen the colonial territory they found themselves in for the five years, six for the original members of the Forty-Four before the appointment of Fletcher as it's head, and who had taken great interest in the strange qualities of the Battalion and their commanders. As such, the bags had been a gift as they were to be sent out to a new station, and seemingly they had worked well in the few exercises the men had committed to before boarding the grand ship of sail for the first time in Five Years to set out for a new land. Most of the soldiers, instead, found themselves unloading the battalions materials, such as the extra boxes of shot and powder they had brought with them themselves, not wishing to have to rely on the local armories for too much of their goods, not telling how long some of it has likely been kept and not wanting to risk an accident to the men on behalf of someone else's misjudgement and mistakes. Though some had moved from the unloading of the crates, many of which were now beginning to show signs of being the Battalion's speciality gear, rather than that of simple Shot and Powder, instead containing and myriad of fruits and vegetables as well as other items such to be found as seeds and tools of all shapes and sizes, from hoes to the occasion plow that had been brought along, usually requiring a wagon of its own to make, giving off the appearance of something besides a light Infantry Battalion and perhaps a Line Infantry battalion.

Though, rather than unloading as he had been before, too busy helping moving the various crates into the soldiers barracks among other things, such as helping to move the plows to a position where the pack horses could easily be moved into to latch up, Fletcher soon found himself simply off for a small stroll back towards the circle of wagons that had formed near the barracks claimed to be the Forty-Fourths, a young Jameson Long helping to make sure everything went relatively orderly, when an older man began to approach Fletcher. The man's face was rough and covered with a myriad of cuts and scrapes, some caused by sword and bayonet, others by brambles and thorn bushes alike, and carrying a distinct feeling of age and strength simply by looking at it. A squinting face held a pair of crisp hazel eyes that seemed to have a dash in green upon them, reminding one of perhaps Hazelnuts as they mature upon the branches of a tree, and carrying a deep cutting look like Fletchers own Sapphire set of eyes, though both held a warm quality to them, especially in the case of the older man's who's were naturally a more earth tone than that of Fletcher's. His hair was of a dark brown color, not unlike that of Lieutenant Ferson, who at current was doing rounds of the soldiers already established within their bunks and likely preparing themselves for the night's dinner. Like Fletcher, the man wore an old and between up straw hat that held back a bit of hair, long like Fletchers but without the curls and instead in a straight slicked back like manner, that was lost mostly under the Straw Hat upon his head. Such hair also extended down towards his jawline were a thick, though short black beard could be found, with a few grey hairs showing themselves every once and a while, though the man would prefer the term 'Silver' rather than that of an oldman's grey. His attire too was identical to Fletcher's being in the same Battalion after all, and still retaining the rolled up sleeves, this time in the same fashion as Fletcher's, only showing a portion of the forearm, rather than that of Ferson's preferred style of above the elbow.

As the older man approached Fletcher was fast to recognize the form of the older man and called out to him as he neared. "Ah, Gregor!" he bellowed, his deep voice ringing out towards the old man like the thundering of a cannon, rather than a sharp pitch of a musket being fired, as he nodded towards the approaching figure.

Now having reached about a few steps distance from Fletcher, the old man relieved the orient wooden pipe from his mouth, letting out a puff of grey color smoke and to free his mouth for speaking, as he placed hi hands behind his back, less in a manner of formality and more of habit. "Good to see you as well, Cap'n." Came the reply in a voice equally as deep, though more gravelly and without the accent Fletcher carried with him in all manners of speaking. "How's the hand treat'in you?" came his next spit of words before return the pipe to his mouth to take another breath of whatever mixture of herbs could be found in it.

"You can drop the formality Gregor, we're both off duty here and far from the eyeshot of neither officer nor colonel" He spoke with a jolly spirit in his voice, even as he continued. "And would there seem to be a problem with my hand?" came an innocent reply, as he did not even bother to look down toward his hand where a fresh white bit of cloth had already turned dark red as the brown cloth had before though this one seemingly only had a brown tint, perhaps indicating that the bleeding at stopped for the time being. Though despite such facades, he possessed a slight wink towards the old man who let out a soft laugh as he removed the pipe from his mouth.

"Quite the spot you've picked for us, Lesnik" spoke the Older Man as he tapped out a slight bit of ash from the end of his pipe and watched as it was carried away on the slight breeze drifting westwardly through the barracks. "I'd expect no less from a man of your stock. Come, tell me what do you have instore for us this time?"

"It means quite well to hear that from you, sir" came Fletcher's reply, as he turned to guide the man out on a stroll across the grounds that lay around them. "I suppose it would do to have the corn about here, around fifteen by twenty should do good for the men, though it will be sometime before we shall have a chance to plant it would seem. Some fall squash and Summer Melons should do fine about here" he said pointing towards another large slot of land, the Old Man simply nodding before interjecting on his own, "Some Groundsman Fruit would sit well with the men too I would think" and was answered Fletcher no sooner than he had said it, "I was thinking it might do some good, though I worry about whether the soil can handle it..." he trailed off, rubbing a bit of dirt between his hands.

"We'll liable have to dig a new well or two, I might suggest having the men search for one in the morning hours tomorrow" continued the Old Man, gazing across the field at no particular point, as if imagining what the field would look like in a few months, or even years time depending on the length of their station. "That's well, though hold the men off on digging for a bit. I have a suspicion the Colonel wishes to make a show of his new Regiment and I do not wish to over exert the men in the coming day, especially after such a voyage as ours." The Old Man nodded once again, "I agree. I will gather a part of men to search for a sight of a well, and begin the sectioning off of land for plowing in the 'morrow"

"How's about then we see to the finer details of the land tomorrow, say over a drink." Came Fletcher's reply, "Any recommendations?"

"Surprise me. You were always a better choice of drink, but making it a Whiskey, hardy if you can." He replied, "That is if 'Ole Ferson hasn't drank the last drop of it!" he continued with a hearty laugh that was shared by Fetcher as well, as the two men stopped their stroll to part ways.

Though as the Older Man began to walk way, off towards the Barracks and Fletcher towards the Officers Quarters where he had certain business to take care of, he called off to the man with parting words that had seemingly escaped his mind during their conversation, "Ah, Gregor. If you would, I have informed the men personally that I will not be able to join them for dinner tonight, but if you could save me some of your Smoked Fish" known as a delicacy in the Battalion, Gregor having seemingly perfected the art of cooking fish over their many escapades in the Colonies where it was a popular dish and having received some as a reward for assisting a local Fisherman earlier in the day, "I'll be sure to repay you with a fine Whiskey, even if I must fit Henri for it!" he continued, to which the old man nodded his head and laughed before continuing off for the barracks to begin the preparing of dinner rituals among the men of the Forty-Fourth, Fletcher himself finding himself within the confines of his Officers Quarters, where he found two men waiting for him, seemingly, if it were not for the fact they paid little attention to his entrance.

----------


The room of the Officers Quarters were as one would expect of an Officer's being much better toff than that of the rankmen among the battalion, not that Fletcher cared for much of it, as it was unnecessary and would more happily find himself sleeping in a tent among his men than a closed off area like this, though he was at least relieved to find it was on the first floor of the Officer's Quarties, not wishing to have repeating the incident with Eisenberg, and remembering it caused him to instinctively look down at his hands, were the one not covered by a blood soaked cloth appears to look like a dry piece of leather that had been worn down by many years in the sun and dust, though with a certain touch to it that seemed to indicate that it was not the result of hard work, like that of Old Man Gregor's leathery old face. Looking about the room, ir was fairly largely sized with a grand staging area in the front where a few chairs and a large desk could be seen, with a small room set off to the far back, that was no doubt the sleeping and more personal quarters of the private officer's quarters, with hints of a large bed suited better for three people then for a single one and a large dresser and mirror some style, though a half shut door prevented him from seeing most of it. Even back on his manor Aswen, he had not found a room such as this, even in his father's personal quarters, which he only entered upon inheriting the manor for himself years ago, and he felt almost at an unease being in such a room, as even in the Colonial station he had refused board among the colonies overseer's manor and instead spent many a night battling the heat and stinging bugs within the company of his men, all to his delight, and he would have likely felt even more restless, had it not been for the two other men who were present in the room, though seemingly paying little attention to their newly arrived guest.

One of the men was Lieutenant Ferson, whom after no doubt completing the rounds of his Second Company men, had settled down in the Captain's room, despite having on of his own, the Colonel likely finding the idea of the Officers, even junior boarding with the Rank to be distasteful in his so called up and proper mind, and was quickly sucking up an old looking bottle of what was no doubt Whiskey like an apple tree in the mid summer's heat. His attire was the same as it had been before, not even bothering to change after the work of unloading the supplies of the men, and likely to avoid changing clothes until they fell from his body in tattered rags, should he be given the option to by those around him, who even being farmers and their sons, might complain about the man's stench. Thought for the time he seemed occupied with simply devouring the fine bottle of Whiskey, no doubt at least a decade old, as if it were simply a glass of water, though it was no to say he was not enjoying it for its worth. Across the room, occupying a chair near one of the many bookshelves in the room, stacked to the ceiling with all manner of books, a number on theology, though many about the provinces culture and history, a fine touch for the newly arrived Captains to enjoy in the coming days, sat another man, a few years minor to Ferson and quite a number more to Fletcher. He was a shorterfellow and not quite built like either Fletcher or Ferson, though it was plain to see he was no push over either, despite some possibly relating him to a twig of a tree in his size and a blade of grass in demeanor. His face was tanned like Ferson's and sat in a similar way, indicating he too was of Dallic birth, though it was doubtful he hailed from the Western Reaches given his build. His eyes were of a light brown, like that of dry dirt one might find on the many roads criss crossing the provinces outer areas where foot and horse traffic was often scarce, but though they lacked the piercing qualities of Fletcher's or the sparkle of Ferson's but rather a hungry and keen look, like the young man was taking in all that was around him, whether it was to be seen or noticed, as the two often finding different meanings depending on the situation at hand. His hair was a light brown mess, much the same as his eyes and was laying loose, though short about his head, in a manner similar to Ferson's but lacking the part of the left side, and instead just hanging about in a mop of straight brown lines, like a bramble bush in the early winter days, but without the thorns. His attire was similar to that of Ferson and Fletcher's though he had discarded his overcoat, which lay on the back of the chair he sat in, and instead wore his undershirt without the sleeves rolled at all, hiding his arms, though if they were rolled, one would find he held a strong 'farmer's tan' where as his forearms carried a lighter shade of the bronze that Ferson wore, but his upper arms and torso were of a much lighter color, like one who had no spent quite as long in the sun, and rightfully so, as he had only joined the Battalion some two years ago, though his keen eyes and quick mind had earned him a commonision in Fletcher's eyes fairly quickly.

Upon entering Fletcher was the first to say a word, as both men seemed contempt with going about their business of drinking and reading, respectively. "What is this?" cried Fletcher upon noticing the bottle near Ferson, "Wasting such a fine Whiskey on yourself?" he continued to a deadpan tone to his compatriot

Though it would seem the man picked up on it, for he shot back at Fletcher nearly as quickly, "Aye, well if you weren't so late to getting here, I might have waited for you. But that would have done injustice to this fair bottle of drink, and you know I can't disrespect the wishes of someone as gorgeous as she" he called back to Fletcher, in a proud tone as he took yet another sip from his glass, leaning a bit back in his chair, his eyes never leaving to meet Fletcher's

"Funny, considering the opposite is what landed you such a fine bottle..." he trailed off in a playful tone, moving to take a seat down the table from Ferson and he allowed the jab to settle in and await a response from the man. "Fine fine," came the response, a sense of defeat in his voice, "just shut your trap and having a drink" he continued as he slide the bottle towards Fletcher, who began to poor himself a glass as he retrieved a piece of parchment and a quill from the nearby desk that would likely serve as his place to dish out reports and the like when the time came and they were requested by the Colonel.

Soon enough, however, it would seem that he had recovered from the earlier jab possed against him by Fletcher and took to glancing over from his seemingly favorited spot on the hall of the room and instead on the parchment of paper where a storm of words were leaving the quill of Fletcher's right hand, the one without a cloth wrapped around it and seemingly his good one, at least at the moment as no much can be said about a hand with a gash across it, and began to attempt to read the words on his strange angle of approach, and upon seemingly discovering the source of the paper's purpose, let out a short humming sound in the direction of Fletcher, who didn't seem to flinch or look up from his work, nor did the young Jameson still buried nose deep in his book, titled Fishing Techniques of the Dagomor Fisherman, not the most creative title for a book it would seem.

Seeing no reaction from Fletcher, Ferson now blurted out a phrase in a sarcastic, but cutting sort of tone towards Fletcher in a teasing like manner, "Writing to your betrothed, I see." He paused as Fletcher looked up, about to say something but cut him off before he could shoot any sort of reply, and continued in the same manner, "Alas, it seems our mighty Captain can last but only a few short weeks without hearing of her." Seeing as the person in question had written some number of letters ahead of time, and it was often the Captain would be found reading them upon the voyage. Ferson simply smiled as a look of annoyance passed across the Captain's face, something which was not easy to achieve, but it had seemed the young lieutenant had found a trigger.

It was now the Captain who finally found room to talk, and after releasing a deep sigh as his face returned to a state of regular calmness, he began to speak yet again in a calm manner as always, "Alicia, is but a friend" and though it seemed like he was about to continue Ferson interrupted him yet again, "Ah yes, yes, a friend. You must be so delighted to find the only person who shares common footing with yourself" he jabbed in a sarcastic manner. "Well," began Fletcher, "at least I have found someone who shares similar sentiments on life and mind, though it would seem the task of finding one for yourself would be as hard as forcing Hibiscus to bloom in winter" he shot back with a smirk. "Now, how about a little tact, even in private quarters?" Fletcher spoke towards him in an almost rhetorical tone.

Though, as he was about to continue on with writing his letter, a voice hidden from view suddenly interrupted, followed by the opening of the door to the officer's quarters belonging to Fletcher, "You're the last person who should be lecture on the use of tact" came the voice. Looking up, both Ferson and Fletcher caught sight of a new man entering the room. Not wasting a moment the newly arrived man continued, "It's your lack of tact in any quarters that has brought us to this station, Fletch" was the reply, followed by a chuckle from both Fletcher and Ferson, as the statement was more or less true.

As they finished up their stunt of laughter they were able to pay attention to their newly arrived guest. The man was about as tall as Fletcher, though perhaps like Ferson just a tad bit shorter, however, he still retained a bit of height both over Ferson and Long the latter of which had not looked up from his book during the whole exchange of jabs and bickering between the men. The new man had a darkened and tanned face much like that of Ferson and appeared to be a few year major to the man, though year or two minor to Fletcher at the same time, painting him as the second oldest man in the room at current, and one of the older officers both in years of service and age among those in the Battalion as a whole, only being beaten by perhaps Fletcher himself, though he would not hope to match the years of soldier of his Captain no matter how hard he attempted to. His face was of a similar leathery manner to that of Gregor, but perhaps on the lesser side, as the Sergeant still had a number of years if not decades major to the lieutenant in more ways than one. His build was closer to that of Ferson's as well, of a farmer rather than the more soldier like build that was possessed by Fletcher, and far from the more schoolish and military build of Long. His hair was a mope of messy curls in a shade of dark charcoal like color, a strong contrast to that of Fletcher's light, nearly white, blond hair, and was much more orderly, having a part to the side much like Ferson’s, though retaining the randomly placed stragglers like that of Long's cut. His eyes were of a solid green cut, like that of a rich orchard in the late summer season, just before they begin to bud, but not quite coming on with fruit or flowers, and they seemed to rest deeply in color, unlike the lighter eyes of Long and Fletcher, and unlike the two, seemed to burn with a fire in them, even if he was simply trading jabs with friends, or in the heat of combat, it was likely a look that never changed. His attire was much the same as his compatriots, with a long grey overcoat that had found the sleeves rolled up past his elbows like that of Ferson and different from both Fletcher, Gregor and Long. He seemed to wear a friendly expression on his face, with a slight grin cocked up towards Fletcher, who replied in turn with a grin of his own as the bottle of Whiskey was passed back down towards Ferson and then onto the newly arrived man, who's named would be Sawyer Korson, the last of the Forty-Fourth's Company Commanders, being the Lieutenant of the First Company, with Long picking up the third and Ferson the second.

As Fletcher finished off the last words of his letter, he looked up towards both Ferson and Korson whom were passing the bottle of whiskey back and forth as its level quickly dropped from half to that of a quarter, the first quarter already been sucked up by Ferson prior to the arrival of Fletcher within the Officer's Quarters. Placing the letter safely in an envelope where it would hopefully be safe both for its long journey to Einsberg and from the peer eyes of Korson and Ferson, Long was not the one to worry about, Fletcher began to speak as the bottle was passed his way yet again. "Why do I constant feel as though I am being stacked against when you two occupy the same room?" he asked in a sarcastic manner as he took a sip from from his glass, before pouring himself another.

However, it would be Long who would answer this time, casting a quick shot off towards the group without ever allowing his eyes to leave the pages of the book, that seemed to be moving from side to side faster than the contents of the bottle were leaving it, "Likely, 'cause neither would stand a chance against you alone, Cap'n." The young lieutenants voice came across unbroken and in such a deadpan manner that all were silent for a minute before Fletcher released a small chuckle which was met by the light nodding of a head from Ferson in an approving manner and a slight shrug from Korson in a similar manner of action. It was then that, closing the book, seemingly finished with it already, that Long now looked towards his fellow officers and spoke yet again, "Also, if I believe I am correct, the Colonel requested a dinner with all Captain's. Did he not?" The question was more statement than anything and caused all eyes to fall on Fletcher who released a bit of a disappointed sigh upon hearing the news, though it was not new to him.

"True enough, Jameson. Seems I got a bit too caught up saving this bottle from Henri" he cast a glance down the table before continuing, "Though it seems I will have to leave such a task in Sam's hands, even if I still feel weary for that poor bottle. I'm sure the Duchess would feel the same" he mused as he sat up from his seat and made his way over to a small chest that held a series of clothes, mainly uniforms of the same variety that he currently wore, though he instead traded his light grey jacket for a darker tan one, though he still retained his beaten up straw hat upon his head, and the rest of his outfit failed to change in any respect, as he even rolled up the sleeves of said overcoat.

Upon placing the coat on his shoulders and rolling the sleeves to the length they had been previously he had kept them at. Such an action drew immediate attention from Korson, "Ah, dressing up are we?" he mused as if it were a strange event to see the Captain take, even if the newly adorned coat was even more banged up than the uniform he had been working in all day since their arrival on the landing. "Well," began Fletcher matching the tone of Korson perfectly, "I have no doubt that even the Colonel can't stand to stare at dress uniforms the entire day, and besides." He paused casting a slight grin in the direction of Korson, "He'll be with us for a while. No need to quench him like a blade on the first night, or I'd say he may turn brittle and break!" which earned a bit of a chuckle from Korson and Ferson, the stoic Long unwavering as he selected yet another book from the shelves and turned to devorer it's pages as well.

And with that, he was off from the Officer's quarters and out towards the Colonel's or rather the Mayor's manner where the dinner was to be held, as he had learned from Long, upon equesting of him such information, the junior officer knowing much more about the event then himself. Though as he passed by the rows of barracks and out towards the manor, a gust of wind kicked by him, bring with it the smell of many fires, no doubt his men as they began to prepare their meals, most preferring to cook outdoors than rely on other means of preparing food, and most of the food present being grown or raised by the men eating it, and for a moment he stopped to take in a whiff, wishing he himself was among them like all the nights previous for the past five years, realizing in fact it was the first in such a time he would not be among them. It was then, as he turned back to the path that the faint sound of singing could be heard off in the distance of his men's encampment...

A recruiting sergeant came our way
From an inn near town at the close of day
He said 'my Johnny you're a fine young man
Would you like to march along behind a military band
With a scarlet coat and a fine cocked hat
And a musket at your shoulder'
The shilling he took and he kissed the book
Oh poor Johnny what'll happen to ya?
National Information
Leader - Prime Minister Alaro Kuhn
Capital - Gesno
Population - 325,581,223
Currency - Krot ($)
Roleplay Information
OP Gatelord - [OOC]
The Coming Storm - PLANNED
TBA FE RP - PLANNED

THE DEMOCRATIC SOCIALIST REPUBLIC OF OSKANO
COBALT NETWORK MEMBER
Est. 1663

User avatar
Nations United for Conquest
Negotiator
 
Posts: 5090
Founded: May 06, 2016
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Nations United for Conquest » Wed Aug 01, 2018 6:51 pm

OOC: Continuation of above post

----------


Finding his way to the manor wasn't much of an issue for the Captain, who had made great haste to reach his destination, under the assumption the sooner he arrived the soon he could leave, as he no doubt assume he would be one of the later guests to arrive to the dinner, having been lost track of time both with Gregor and the Ferson, though he personally did not mind and would have prefered more time with either the latter or former, likely granted both if he had stayed for dinner, as the circle around Gregor's fire was always the largest, for he cooked the best food and was always joined by Fletcher, who's tales were often a lifting time for the men, no matter how many times they had heard them before, nor how recently the experience had been for any of them, it seemed fresh hearing it from the Captain, with his own side comments and such. Though it was seemingly not to be, for before too long he found himself in front of a large manor, no doubt the Mayor's as described by the many men and women whom he passed on the many roads that lead to the grand estate, though it was hardly imposing, having much the same style and age of architecture as the other buildings in town, and not quite being as grand as the one he had seen previously in Einsberg, prior to his departure from her ports for this land. Then again, even to a simple man and minimalist like himself, most manors would seem to pale in comparison to that of a Archduke's, besides of course those of the Princes and that of the Capital City. Looking about the grand plaza of the manor he found the sighting of quite a few horses, causing him to wonder which were of cavalry and of footman, himself possessing no horse besides for the act of plowing; and act which would be pulled hard in the days to come if Fletcher and Gregor were to have their way, though he planned on pushing through with it, regardless of any objections, thus he felt he would not bring up such a topic, for he saw no reason to debate.

Instead, as he arrived towards the front of the manor he was met with a young officer, who upon seeing the many dressed in beaten old clothes, armed with a set of pistols and a hatchet, as well as a large tree branch, seemed both visibly distressed and disgusted, though he could tell the former was likely for a different reason than his attire, which was no doubt a bit too rustic for and officer of the Colonel's Battalion, though the reason behind the former piqued his interest slightly as he approached, his face relaxed in an emotionless state, his sapphire eyes falling on those of the young Officer, causing him to perk up a bit as his piercing glance fell on the young man. Though unsure at first, the young man finally spoke up, with a hushed and worried tone of voice, "You're not one of Captain Cibor's men, are you?"

The questioned seemed like one the young man was afraid to answer, though for a moment Fletcher himself was confused as to the nature of the question being asked and the events behind it. Pausing for a moment, he ran over in his head what he knew about a man by the name of Cibor, and while he could recall very little, he knew for a fact the man was a colonist, or from the colonial areas in the north. Thus after it did not take long for Fletcher to piece together a reasonable idea of what had happened, and nearly had a chuckle to himself which seemed to cause the young Officer to go a bit pale in the face. Instead Fletcher simply shook his head softly, his curly blond hair falling from under his straw hat a finding a place upon his face, causing him to momentarily allow it to fall back on his next, caught only by a thing strap of leather which was there to prevent its flight in the event of a gust of wind, and simply pushed his hair back into place before lowering his hat once again, and turning his attention to the Officer once again, "No, I am Captain Kasch Fletcher of the Forty-Fourth Light Infantry Battalion" he spoke in a calm voice, handing his invitation to the Officer who seemed to regain a little color, until he realized that this man too was a Captain of a Battalion that would be stationed here, and lead him to the entrance of the dinning room, where he was waved off by Fletcher not wishing to make too much of a scene upon entering, to which he stepped in with the near silence of step he had shown previously in his actions against Ferson on the landing earlier in the day to great success.

Though as he entered into the large dining room, it would seem that it had not had the desired effect as several sets of eyes looked up at the sight of the weerily and beatenly dressed man who seemed to have just stumbled into the room. Casting a quick glance across the room from right to left, his eyes cutting across the room sharple, he caught the familiar faces of several men from the Landing earlier in the day, chief among them that of the Highlander Captain who's name escaped him, and the man from the steppe people whose name he did not even wish to make an attempt at pronouncing, the Officer at the door already having enough trouble with Kasch, which was one of the simpler Aswenian Names that existed. Looking elsewhere he could spot a rough and unkempt man, undoubtable to a greater degree than Fletcher, though the two appeared close, with their stoic exteriors and slightly worn clothes, though the man who was no doubt Captain Cibor, was in a much rougher state than Fletcher. Elsewhere a few unfamiliar faces could be seen; a man who from stance and the way he carried himself was no doubt that of noble blood, and judging by the uniform he wore, perhaps one of the Cavalry Battalions that he had known would be arriving that day. His sharp gaze would eventually find itself resting on the Colonel, still dressed as he had been a few hours prior to his arrival, and a new older man that was no doubt the mayor of the Province, given his age and seat at the table, and was a man that the Captain possessed little information on, not that he seemingly cared much, as the Mayor would be far from any battles that broke out, or perhaps not, should his fears come to fruition, but he cast off such thoughts for the time being, and instead with a confidence stride may way from the far end of the table, away from the conversations unfolding around him, which did not concern him. A fact he wished to remain constant, though he was no naive enough to think such could be true. Rather, he simple took his seat and began to dig into the meal provided to him with the same simplicity as if it were a meal among his own men, only pausing for a moment as he tasted an oddly sweet tinge to what he had thought would be wine, but likely was no more than simple grape juice.

Suppose I should search for another avenue of escape he mused to himself, And, have the men plant some Grapes and Hops of their own!
National Information
Leader - Prime Minister Alaro Kuhn
Capital - Gesno
Population - 325,581,223
Currency - Krot ($)
Roleplay Information
OP Gatelord - [OOC]
The Coming Storm - PLANNED
TBA FE RP - PLANNED

THE DEMOCRATIC SOCIALIST REPUBLIC OF OSKANO
COBALT NETWORK MEMBER
Est. 1663

User avatar
Absolon-7
Chargé d'Affaires
 
Posts: 420
Founded: May 11, 2014
Democratic Socialists

Postby Absolon-7 » Wed Aug 01, 2018 9:13 pm

Captain Hugh Lawson Clay
Officer Commanding, Wolves of Iron Battalion of Foot
Governor's Mansion, Halgomar


He was greeted warmly enough by the governor and colonel which helped make a good impression on him and hopefully his wife as well. A series of servants brought over a bountiful amount of appetizers. Clay was specifically looking forward to the beef as it was always a favorite treat of his. Whenever he felt he had earned it, Clay would have stopped by a local market to buy smoked beef from the butchers. He didn't know why but it had such an appealing flavor to him. Not surprisingly, given the colonel's nature, there was lack of alcohol at the dinner. In its stead, was several blends of fruit juice which he didn't mind. It wasn't every day you got to consume something so sugary. Looking at his wife, she appeared to be enjoying the food immensely. It was actually quite adorable to see her struggling to eat a rather large piece of beef with her utensils barely holding it up to her face.

It looked like the rest of the captains were busy fraternizing, personally Clay dreaded the ever closer moment he would have to do the same at this dinner. Small talk and pleasantries were always a series of pesky bumps on the road to him. One officer made a courteous announcement for who he was and sat next to Clay and his wife. He introduced himself as Rupert Carlington and Clay and Ada introduced themselves in turn. From reports, Clay remembered that the man was in a cuirassier regiment and was a quite lackadaisical noble. Clay wasn't surprised at this. If anything he was envious of cavalrymen who had such a glorious position but all too often squandered away their honor on debauchery. Hopefully, this one was different or at east knew when to withhold gratification. He seemed pleasant enough by asking quite normal questions.

“How did a dainty couple like yourselves find love with each other?”

"Nothing too spectacular Rupert, she was mah tutor's daughter when I was a lad of fifteen and we had a friendship that sorta turned into romance," said Clay in a quite dry manner.

"Oh hush now Clay, don't be so modest," playfully scolded Ada, "Now Mr.Rupert, he was such the romantic once he fell in love with me. Or rather I fancied him first but it took him a year or two to realize. But in a sense he is right. Our love's development was more of a well tended tree than a fast growing weed."

"Well, that's one way to put it," said Clay slightly embarrassed.

“What do you both think of Dagomor so far?”

"Well, I haven't seen much of it seeing as I went straight from a galleon to a carriage and then to here," explained Ada placing a finger on her cheek as she was deep in thought, "But from what I have seen, Dagomor seems quite quaint and rustic which I quite like."

"The roads could be a helluva lot more tidy," said Clay.

“What can you tell me about the fields of battle?”

Now this question was intrigued Clay as it was one topic he didn't mind being passionate about. He also found out a lot from this single question from Rupert. Most importantly the man had never seen the taste of battle presumably. Good time to describe a preview then.

"Battle's what ya make of it Rupert. Some glory hogs see it as some real life game of chess. Other folk are more akin to desribin' it as an inferno of smoke and blood," explained Clay who now changed his deadpan tone to a more somber one, "There's nothin' that prepares you for the first time you plunge yer sword through a poor soul's chest. Some men never get used to it and others find it enlightenin'. As for me, I see it as both equally. Also, if you're near artillery there's a chance you'll go deaf eventually. So I'd stay clear of them."

User avatar
Cylarn
Postmaster-General
 
Posts: 14585
Founded: Nov 25, 2011
Left-Leaning College State

Postby Cylarn » Thu Aug 02, 2018 7:12 am

Pasong Tirad wrote:
In the Company of My Equals II


Eb restrained himself from a smirk at the final words of Lord Strachan. Highlanders were the premier footmen of yore; they could advance through arrow and rain, lose a hundred men, and yet never find a battle line that they couldn't break through. Hundreds of battles dot the annals of Highlander lore, and it was these exploits that motivated many young men from Crask to declare an insurrection against Dallia. Armed like their predecessors, they discovered the lines they couldn't break by sheer force of arms.

Eb sensed that he was picking hairs. No need to stoke tension on the first night. It was time to shift the focus - or find somewhere else to jump in.

"And it is for the best that it be not the case, Lord Stray-han," Eb replied, as he poured yet another glass of juice. "Trust me, however, when the next war comes about, we may perhaps hear songs of Highlander deeds."

He leaned in slightly, towards Lord Strachan. His voice was faint, but clear enough for the Highland lord to hear over the raucous conversations around them.

"And, by Dorado, bless the Highlands for Usig Beatha."

The lack of alcohol was starting to become a concern.

Rodez wrote:Captain Cibor Marczynski
Officer Commanding, Cybulskan Volunteers
Governor's Mansion, Halgomar
Year 20 HAIII


"Quite the show, eh?"


Sussana snapped her head to bring her attention to Cibor. She gave him a cursory stare, bereft of judgement, and took a sip of her juice.

"I have seen much better than this, Captain," she replied to the Cybulskan officer, before holding her hand out to the man. "Sussana Paschalis, dear sister of the Captain Paschalis who desperately needs a drink."

She chuckled at her joke, and made a motion towards Hondo, who was staring at the rough-looking colonial with a strong hint of boyish admiration in his eyes. Sussana opened her mouth to introduce her nephew, but he had no intention of following through with her introduction.

"You're a Blackfoot!" Hondo enthusiastically declared. "My father says that no one fights savages or nature quite like the men of Cybulska!"

Absolon-7 wrote:“What can you tell me about the fields of battle?”

Now this question was intrigued Clay as it was one topic he didn't mind being passionate about. He also found out a lot from this single question from Rupert. Most importantly the man had never seen the taste of battle presumably. Good time to describe a preview then.

"Battle's what ya make of it Rupert. Some glory hogs see it as some real life game of chess. Other folk are more akin to desribin' it as an inferno of smoke and blood," explained Clay who now changed his deadpan tone to a more somber one, "There's nothin' that prepares you for the first time you plunge yer sword through a poor soul's chest. Some men never get used to it and others find it enlightenin'. As for me, I see it as both equally. Also, if you're near artillery there's a chance you'll go deaf eventually. So I'd stay clear of them."


War. There was something that draw the attention of Eb Paschalis. He looked down the table to see Captain Carlington in deep conversation with Captain Clay. The latter had a number of battle honors, but was sadly betrayed by his lack of noble patronage. He was an officer of foot, and his Wolves were noted to be a formidable line in battle.

Awfully poetic about the whole thing, however.

Eb tapped his right knuckle on the table, to gather the attention of the two men.

"It's a test of nerves, if I have my two cents," Eb spoke up. "All you can do is prepare yourself, and hope for the best. Combat is a truly visceral gamble, in every sense of the word."
✎ Member - ℘ædagog
If you are serving the US and its allies right now overseas, thank you for what you do.
Recipient of the Best Crime RP'er Award and the Best Crime RP Award for 2013 in P2TM. Recipient of the Best Crime RP'er Award of 2014 in P2TM.

User avatar
The Grim Reaper
Issues Editor
 
Posts: 10443
Founded: Oct 08, 2011
Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby The Grim Reaper » Thu Aug 02, 2018 8:43 am

Captain Valentin Rosicrucio de Dangomor & Lieutenant Marusya 'Maria' Antonov
Officer Commanding, The Native Scouts Battalion, 5th Battalion/22nd Regiment of Foot, & 2nd Company, 5th Battalion
Governor's Mansion, Halgomar


Maria smiled as Captain Strachan swore, now more toothily than she had all evening. She had clearly started to feel more comfortable with the conversation, settling into the more casual expectations of her new conversational partner. She took his hand without hesitation, returning the handshake confidently and firmly. If she had taken offense to his early tone, she showed no sign of it - of course, this was because she had been too anxious to take notice. "Lieutenant Maria Antonov; O.C. 3rd company, Native Scouts - Maria is fine. The pleasure is mine, Captain 'Alas-stare Stra-han'." She rattled off her rank and posting with the measured cadence only an experienced trooper could bring to bear, so consistent you could set a watch to it.

A moment hung in the air as she caught herself just too late, having finished her introduction. "Ah, a...Lair-d? That would make you a noble, then - ah, milord. Once your battalion has settled in, it would be my honour to introduce you to my compatriot's preferred fishmongers in Halgomar. I shall ask her if I may have some of her own preserves for you and your lieutenants, too. Lamb is not traditional for my people, but our battalion is mainly composed of people who were once of scant means, lieutenants included. I would love to see how your Sutherland lamb is butchered."

No sooner than she had finished speaking did Captain Carlington offer an unexpected speech to the table. Maria took it politely, unsurprised at the gentleman's spontaneity and pomposity - he was, after all, a noble. Valentin was altogether less amused. Maria was more concerned with the developing exchange between Paschalis and Strachan, although it was quickly defused. Up until now, Valentin had been silent - he had been watching the conversations around him, grabbing snippets here and there, more concerned with mapping out the lay of the land than contributing to it. That was what he had brought Maria for, to ensure that the battalion had some representation in the day's small talk. He visibly sat up at the announcement of Captain Eliza de la Vista's arrival, tapping Maria on the wrist.

"The female Captain." Maria remembered now. Maria knew there was another female captain in the regiment, commanding an artillery battalion, but Valentin's shorthand for her was as the artillery captain. To speak in the singular could only mean the one leading a front-line battalion. They were a later addition to the regiment's manifest, and Valentin had been surprised to hear of them. He had been hoping they would at least match him in controvery, and give him some additional freedom to pursue his more esoteric interests. No doubt he was excited to see how the other Captains responded to her arrival. However, he still seemed stoically reserved. Maria was trying to place his attention, to figure out what he was thinking. For all she had learned of him, though, she knew that there was an easy answer - he was waiting for someone to make a mistake. She wondered if he was taking notice of the fact that no-one had yet engaged the Colonel. She soon received her answer, as Valentin turned to him, clearly having had his fill of people-watching.

"To answer your questions, Colonel, I am well, and Dangomor is the same. The regiment seems to have arrived at a fine time. Frisda's theatrical season is soon to end, and it has been a very strong one. I attended a few shows that preempted the season prompted, and I have high hopes for them. In the off-season, their most successful shows will meander over to Halgomar - I imagine Frisdan theatre is not quite your cup of tea, but it is a terribly good way to acclimate the more genteel officers to the local culture. The hunts around Halgomar have also been uncharacteristically fruitful. I am no clean shot with a bow, but even I managed to take a good-sized boar on my last daytrip, by chance alone."

Valentin, of course, was not naive. He knew that there were changes in the tone of local politics - changes that the Colonel would no doubt be interested to know of. However, he had chosen to sidestep the topic for now. Given his reputation and current company, he felt it would not be prudent to move the conversation in the direction of religion, and at any rate, he could not prove his suspicions about the changing nature of the relationship between the Canon and Dangomor.
Last edited by The Grim Reaper on Thu Aug 02, 2018 8:44 am, edited 1 time in total.
If I can't play bass, I don't want to be part of your revolution.
Melbourne, Australia

A & Ω

Is "not a blood diamond" a high enough bar for a wedding ring? Artificial gemstones are better-looking, more ethical, and made out of PURE SCIENCE™.

User avatar
Provisional Niev
Spokesperson
 
Posts: 132
Founded: Feb 24, 2018
Ex-Nation

Postby Provisional Niev » Thu Aug 02, 2018 11:11 am

Captain Rupert Carlington
3rd Cavalry Battalion, Carlington County's Imperial Cuirassiers
Halgomar


Rupert found Clay far more amusing than he could ever have expected. To begin with, the couple's accents were incredibly fun. The two of them sounded like the parodies of peasants Rupert had watched in the courts of the Capital. Observing his wife adding onto his depreciatingly mannered answers was just what the more observant part of Rupert needed to accept the two of them. Clays' embarrassment over his wife's candor helped the latter and Rupert share laughter with each other, and he eased into talking to the two as they kept doing so. He concurred that they all had seen so little of Dangomor, but expressed how familiar it felt.

"I expected this part of the Empire to be an unsettled wilderness, and here I come to see a town in proper Dallic style. So far, the most exotic findings are some of the officers the two of us will be serving with. Like that one over there."

He rolled his eyes in the direction of Altan Jalair, whose appearance spoke for itself, he was a foreign man in foreign clothes.

"I hear he commands a host of men of his sort dressed only in a layer of cloth and deploy archers as field combatants. I am quite intrigued as to what he might add to our Regiment." He did not observe the Captain for too long.

Rupert did not hesitate before he asked the man sitting next to him about war and was satisfied with his answer. With Clay's utterance of 'Smoke and blood', and 'sword through a poor soul's chest', Rupert's eyes widened. Mentions of 'glory hogs' was not something Rupert thought applied to him, or more accurately, it was not the interesting description he had been looking for. His excitement did not end as the man he'd thought was Eb entered the conversation, their faces distinguishable fairly well along their side of the table. Rupert grimaced as he attempted the fruit juice again and placed the cup back on the table. His attention directed towards Eb nonetheless and the man's statement made an impression.

"I've done an awful lot of preparing!", Rupert burst out. "I appreciate your wise words be that as it may", he then added, taking another bite of the tuna, which was starting to feel a bit dry without a white wine. "You must be the Baron Pascala. I know you, of course, as Eb, from my Father's work and your own military matters alike. I am very happy to find myself in your company." He smiled.

He then gestured in a pointing manner to his two neighbors.

"I hope you have met Hugh Lawson Clay and his lovely wife Ada already."

User avatar
Rodez
Diplomat
 
Posts: 634
Founded: Oct 18, 2016
Father Knows Best State

Postby Rodez » Thu Aug 02, 2018 9:20 pm

Captain Cibor Marczynski
Officer Commanding, Cybulskan Volunteers
Governor's Mansion, Halgomar
Year 20 HAIII


Cylarn wrote:Sussana snapped her head to bring her attention to Cibor. She gave him a cursory stare, bereft of judgement, and took a sip of her juice.

"I have seen much better than this, Captain," she replied to the Cybulskan officer, before holding her hand out to the man. "Sussana Paschalis, dear sister of the Captain Paschalis who desperately needs a drink."

She chuckled at her joke, and made a motion towards Hondo, who was staring at the rough-looking colonial with a strong hint of boyish admiration in his eyes. Sussana opened her mouth to introduce her nephew, but he had no intention of following through with her introduction.

"You're a Blackfoot!" Hondo enthusiastically declared. "My father says that no one fights savages or nature quite like the men of Cybulska!


Cibor made a low sound that, to a casual observer, might have approached something like a chuckle, but did not quite qualify in the end. "I don't doubt that you have, ma'am," he said simply, as he took her hand and shook firmly. His accent was thick with guttural Cybulskan, but his speech was perfectly clear. As soon as the words left his mouth however, he winced inwardly. Probably supposed to say 'milady,' he thought, deeply annoyed both with himself and the infuriating protocols of Imperial high society. He was, at best, a neophyte with these sorts of things. The most homesick part of him recalled that at this stage of a dinner on the frontier, a duel would probably be getting underway.

He made no reply to her rib at Captain Paschalis, unable to determine whether it was said in jest or with any sincerity. Personally, Cibor was not too partial to the drink, only partaking in whisky or brandy on the rare occasions when he allowed himself to become outrageously drunk. Wine was no love of his. Glancing once more, briefly, at Sussana, the Cybulskan determined that, even if he had already made up his mind not to drink, this was not one of those nights.

Sussana gestured to the Captain's son. Cibor took in the look on the boy's face and smiled, for the very first time that night. It was a brief thing, equal parts juvenile and feral, lasting a mere second. In the way that his eyes flashed curiously and his gums revealed themselves slightly, he resembled a child. In the manner that his lips arched back and his beard stretched like a pelt, he echoed a wolf. But as soon as it had happened, the man who would not cavort with his imperial overlords had reasserted control.

Cibor looked the boy intensely in the eye, so as to extinguish any previous hint of humor. "Hard land breeds hard men," he said. "Your father spent a year-odd in my homeland, but I'm sure he's fought enough wars elsewhere to understand that such men are borne of a need to survive, rather than a desire for war. Anyway," he continued, looking briefly at Captain Paschalis, "he does my people an honor by saying so."

He took another bite of boar and realized that he was forgetting an expected courtesy. "And, erm, I'm sure his Carbineers are very fine soldiers as well." Swallowing, it struck him that he still did not know the son's name. "What should I call you, bo- young man?" he queried, recovering at the last moment. As he did so, Cibor glanced again at Sussana.
Formerly known as Mesrane (Mes), now I'm back
+9300 to post count
First joined April 2014

A bigger Chicago Cubs fan than you

User avatar
Kowloon-California
Spokesperson
 
Posts: 194
Founded: Apr 04, 2011
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Kowloon-California » Fri Aug 03, 2018 1:09 am

Captain Altan Jalair
Jalair Jezzails
Governor's Mansion, Halgomar


The evening's soiree continues at a furious buzz. Altan began by briefly answering the question raised by Captain Valentin de Dangomor's Lieutenant, Maria Antonov.

"I've never sailed before - so, you wouldn't do it again? I've never had an inclination towards the sea, although Lieutenant Dia y Maurin of my battalion is from a fishing family. She still dries and salts fish excellently. The Captain speaks very highly of the quality of the hunt in Dagomor, too - he used them to recruit and train our NCOs. The fur cloak he wore today is the product of some of those hunts, actually. Do either of you intend to participate in any such local activities?" asked Maria.

"I'm afraid my people are tied deeply with the land, and a life at sea is nothing something we can embrace comfortably. Though, as an enterprising man myself, there is no reason to believe why we cannot also adapt to the seas. For the time being, however, yes I'm indeed very looking forward to some hunting. I would wager that my Lieutenant, Sukhbataar, is the best hunter in the entire regiment!" said Altan.

Soon, however, the conversation drifted away from him as a heated exchange between Alistair and Eb began to escalate. Yet Altan's attention drifted off as he noticed Rupert Carlington, the haughty cavalry officer roll his eyes at Altan. That was perhaps the most obvious expression of disdain, but it was certainly not that first that he had seen after arriving for dinner. He lowered his head and momentarily focused on his food while thinking about the current situation.

Altan's first introduction into the high society of Dangomor was not going well. Somehow, he had long ago held onto an assumption that while he could not find a place amongst the aristocracy of Altai despite his wealth, life in the military could prove to be a chance for him to reinvent himself. Yet in the first minutes of his regimental dinner, he felt as though he was nothing more than an oddity amongst the high lords that graced their table.

I'm coming to a realization that the customs of the Dallic noble folk are very different from that of my people. He had dove into his meal with gusto to show his appreciation for the host's fine dining, and he had worn the finest silk Deel. Yet what was becoming painfully obvious was that Altan stuck out like a sore thumb. He wasn't educated on how high society carried themselves, but he wasn't stupid. He knew that the smirks and chuckles were at his own expense.

That was fine, because while he might not have been a warrior, Altan knew all too well what it was like to start from nothing. What it was like to fight for every scrap of respect. If necessary, he was willing to learn the new rules of the game and adapt. Pride in his own people's customs did not mean that he wouldn't adjust his own behavior to suit the audience. After all, adapting to the competition was what business was all about. Altan made a mental note to seek out a Dallic etiquette coach as well as a new tailor in Halgomar. If he was to live here for a while, he might as well spend some time learning how to mimic the aristocracy.

In the meantime, Altan came to and saw that another officer had arrived in the room, a female captain? It seemed apparent that if the regiment was going to fight together, the colonel would have to do one hell of a job to ease the tensions between the noble officers and those of humbler backgrounds.

Like hell that will happen, our esteemed colonel comes off as a stiff wooden plank! Thought Altan.

He decided to shore up his rapport with colonials in the room, seeing as their mutual status as minorities gave them a little something in common. In particular, Altan felt that the Highlander Captain was the kind of man who would get by quite well in Altai. The fact that he couldn't pronounce Altan's name precisely was the least of his concerns.

Altan leaned over to Strachan and gave him a good clap on the back. He whispered first, "Don't mind these damned Dallic nobility, they'll get their reckoning one day. When they need us the most, they'll come running and begging for real men to do all the dirty lifting for them."

Raising his voice again Altan said with a hearty smile, "If your boys are ever in the mood for a good feast, know that lamb is the national meat of Altai! Horses may be our life and blood, but I doubt there is a country out there that eats more lamb than we do! This meal may be fine, but I'm truly looking forward to trying what your people can do with lamb!" More subtly, he leaned over and offered his wineskin of Airag, fermented mare's milk, to Alistair.

"If you're looking for something to take the edge off, there's nothing better." said Altan.

Noticing Captain Paschalis' gripes about the lack of alcohol at the venue, Altan decided to take another risk as well. After all, it was a cardinal sin in Altai custom leave a man thirsty for a drink. To share was to please the gods. Altan raised his eyebrow and asked Eb, "Would you like some Airag as well? If you're thirsting for a good drink, you won't find a better solution. It's probably a bit more sour than the wine you're used to, but wine is wine! We're supposed to be comrades are we not?"

Next

Advertisement

Remove ads

Return to Portal to the Multiverse

Who is online

Users browsing this forum: Arenhai, Beiarusia, Bentus, Bruke, Egyptian 101, Elejamie, Frachen, Holy Tedalonia, Neo Rome Republic, Ralnis, Rykil

Advertisement

Remove ads