*image chap2b.png center Chapter 2: Wherein the cavalry officer trains his squadron of Royal Dragoons.

"I see. A most unfortunate outcome,
*if knight = 0
  Captain."
*if knight != 0
  Sir $!{firstname}."
*comment endif

His Grace, the Duke of Cunaris, a general-of-brigade in the army of His Tierran Majesty Miguel d'al Rendower, turns himself toward the light filtering through the open window to his side, arm muscles bulging with exertion as his hands clumsily manoeuvre his wheelchair around the massive oaken desk.

Cunaris had been a colonel and in command of your regiment at Blogia when an Antari lancepoint severed his spine. Now his body is dead below the waist, and you doubt that even his appointment to brigade command could sweeten that bitter news.

He is in command of all the King's cavalry, as well as being Colonel of the Royal Dragoons, which explains exactly why you are standing before him, giving your account of your ill-fated clash with the Antari not three days ago.

*if (cunaris >= 45) and (campmass = 0)
  "You were hard pressed. I suppose this sort of thing was to be expected," he remarks as he stares out the window, the sunlight catching on the sparse grey hairs in his unfashionably full beard.
  *if strength = 96
    "Indeed, I would think that it was your quick thinking that kept your losses as low as they were."
  *if strength = 90
    "Indeed, things could have been much worse. At least you made it back with the majority of your squadron."
  *comment endif
  
  Cunaris favours you with a gentle smile, the sort which you might even consider fatherly. "Surely, you cannot shoulder all the blame."
*if (cunaris < 45) or (campmass >= 1)
  "You were hard pressed. I should have expected such an outcome," he remarks as he stares out the window, the sunlight catching on the sparse grey hairs in his unfashionably full beard.
  *if strength = 96
    "Indeed, we should be grateful that your losses were not considerably worse."
  *if strength = 90
    "I suppose I should be thankful that you escaped with your squadron mostly intact."
  *comment endif
  
  Cunaris directs a pained grimace your way. "How much of the blame shall you accept, Captain?"
*fake_choice
  #"I was in command. The fault is mine, sir."
    *set idealism %+5
    *set reputation %-4
    *set cunaris %+5
    "Was it, Captain?" Cunaris's voice takes on a faintly amused tone. "You were sent into battle with half-trained men and no officers, save yourself. If you insist upon taking the blame for it, I shall enter it in my official report accordingly."
    
    Your commanding officer rolls his wheelchair up to you. "However, I shall still report that you did your utmost, and I am sure His Majesty will agree."
  *selectable_if (sgtauto = 2) #"We've already identified the root causes, and my Staff-sergeant is already working on it."
    *set idealism %+5
    *set cunaris %+5
    Cunaris's eyebrow rises. "Have you now? That is certainly good to hear, though I would keep an eye out if I were you. Commoners lack the sense of…finesse that we of more elevated background often take for granted."
    
    Your commanding officer rolls his wheelchair up to you. "I shall enter your swift reaction to the situation in my report. However, I shall expect better performance from your men the next time you are sent into battle."
  *selectable_if (sgtauto = 0) #"I am already planning to see that my men shall not fail you again, sir."
    *set ruthlessness %+5
    Cunaris's eyebrow rises. "Are you now?"
    
    You nod. "I plan to take immediate action to correct the deficiencies evident in my men."
    
    The Duke nods, though with a great deal of hesitation. "I see. I shall expect you to display judgement befitting a King's Officer and to keep the counsel of your senior non-commissioned officers, as well. I shall also expect better performance from your men the next time you are sent into battle."
  #"My bloody men were to blame, the useless scum."
    *set ruthlessness %+5
    *set idealism %-5
    *set cunaris %-10
    Cunaris's brows knit in a momentary flash of anger. "I would not, Captain, be quite so hasty in abusing your men thus. It is crude, it is ungentlemanly, and I shall not tolerate it, am I made clear?"
    
    You nod; it is the only thing you can do. The Duke, ever affable, suppresses his glimmer of pique in a moment.
    
    "Very good then. You command Sixth Squadron, so whatever deficiencies you may find in your men are your responsibility. It is also your prerogative to remedy them."
  #"We'll not fail you next time, sir."
    *set idealism %+10
    *set cunaris %-5
    Cunaris nods in agreement. "I should hope so, Captain." 
    
    Your commanding officer rolls his wheelchair up to you, his expression tinged with disapproval. "Of course, I should also hope that next we speak, you have a course of action in mind for ensuring it."
  #"We were sent into battle unprepared! The blame is not mine!"
    *set idealism %-5
    *set cunaris %-5
    Cunaris responds with a pained expression. "No, Captain, it was not." 
    
    Your commanding officer rolls his wheelchair up to you. "However, your command is the only cavalry squadron in the entire army at near full strength. I was rather hoping that your abilities would have been able to make up for the rawness of your men.
    *if strength = 96
      I am glad to see that they have, at least, been able to keep our losses minimal."
    *if strength = 90
      I see now that I was somewhat mistaken."
*comment endif

The Duke looks away for a moment, and when he turns back to you, his expression is set.

"With your report in mind, I shall do my best to give you the time to resolve the lingering issues within your squadron. I can, of course, make no guarantees regarding orders from His Majesty, but it will likely be months before you will be sent into battle again. I'll expect a report of greater success from you when that time is come. To stumble once is regrettable, to do so twice, with time to prepare, is unpardonable. Am I made clear?"

"Absolutely clear, sir," you respond. The implication couldn't be more obvious: you must return with a victory, or else.

Cunaris nods, his expression clearly pained at the harshness of his own ultimatum. "Very good, Captain. You are dismissed."
*page_break
You step out of your regimental commander's office with
*if idealism >= 40
  a renewed sense of purpose; with the uncertain reprieve you've been given, you must forge your squadron into an effective fighting force.
*if idealism < 40
  a renewed sense of dread; will you truly have enough time to turn your disordered, demoralised force into an effective unit? 
*comment endif

You do not even make it out of the corridor before you run into a familiar sight: thin, olive-skinned, hawk-nosed and angular, almost unchanged since the last time you saw him over three months ago. Unchanged, save by the red expanse of scar tissue down the left side of his face where an Antari warhammer had raked him at Blogia. 

He greets you as he approaches: Sir Caius d'al Cazarosta, your acquaintance from training, fellow Dragoon officer,
*if cazarosta >= 60
  and perhaps, after all you've been through together, even your friend, in his own strange, aloof way.
  
  "Good day, $!{lastname}," the other officer replies as you greet him. "You've returned from a sortie to the north, is that not so? Did the Saints see fit to send your new unit into action?" 
  *goto chap2b_cazcon1
*elseif cazarosta >= 35
  and…your friend? No, not your friend; a sometime ally who happens to wear the same uniform as you, and sometimes you wonder at the exact nature of the cold, analytical cipher living within the Dragoon tunic.
  
  "Captain $!{lastname}, it is…good to see that you remain well," the other officer hesitatingly replies as you greet him. "You've returned from a sortie to the north, is that not so? How did your new unit fare?"
  *goto chap2b_cazcon1
*else
  and your bitter rival, perhaps even enemy; a cold, unfeeling bastard in more ways than one. Still, he is your fellow King's Officer, and you must dignify him with the barest civility.
  
  "Captain $!{lastname}, I am glad to see you are well," the other officer replies as you greet him, his tone deceptively polite. "You've returned from a sortie to the north, is that not so? I trust that your squadron performed well?"
  *goto chap2b_cazcon1
*label chap2b_cazcon1

*if cazarosta < 35
  For the sake of politeness alone, you
*if cazarosta >= 35
  You
tell Cazarosta of the debacle from which you and your squadron have just returned.

"I see," the other dragoon says as you finish your recounting. "Most regrettable. I too have had…difficulties regarding the men of my new command."

Cazarosta had been made captain
*if knight = 1
  and knighted
after Blogia, on the same day you had, by the direct order of the King himself. However, unlike you, he is unlikely to rise any higher. He was born as a result of the illicit union between his baneblooded mother and a commoner. The result was an offspring of baneblood heritage but with none of its associate powers: a deathborn-bastard. 

Cazarosta's unfortunate mother paid for her indiscretion with her life, and as the result of her crime, Cazarosta himself had suffered its consequences for all of his. It was only due to his exceptional skill with the sabre and pistol and the patronage of his mother's powerful husband, the Earl of Leoniscourt, that he had been able to acquire a commission at all. That he had been able to make captain based on merit alone was even more extraordinary. 

Now though, the way up is barred to him; no Dragoon major would be willing to sell his commission to a deathborn, no matter how renowned. You can imagine that the prospect fills the other officer with no small amount of bitterness…
*if cazarosta < 35
  if he is capable of feeling anything at all.
*comment endif

However, now is not the time to be contemplating the nature of a man when he stands right before you. His eyes meet yours, flinty as always, as if expecting a question in reply….
*label chap2b_cazcon2
*choice
  *hide_reuse #"What difficulties have you had with your command?"
    The other officer almost seems caught off-guard by your question. "I beg pardon?"
  
    After Blogia, Cazarosta had been promoted to command what was left of Third Squadron, your old unit. It too had taken immense losses during the battle, both those troops which followed Captain Elson into his suicidal charge and those who stayed behind in the desperate defense of the Tierran left flank.
    
    "You said that you've had difficulties with your command," you explain. "Might I inquire in detail?"
    
    The other officer nods. "Of course. Third Squadron is short a great deal of things, chief among them carbines, saddles, and horses for the men. It appears," he gives you a pointed look, "that your command has received higher priority for such supplies than mine." 
    
    *if charisma >= 45
      You nod; that makes sense. Though the men in charge of provisioning the King's Army ostensibly give priority to more effective units, you have no doubt that the baneblooded officers in charge would be more willing to supply a squadron led by one of their own over a unit commanded by a deathborn.
    *if charisma < 45
      You nod, a bit puzzled at Cazarosta's implication. The other officer doesn't pause to explain.
    *comment endif
    
    "However," Cazarosta continues, "our chiefest shortage has been in men. While I do have a core of veterans at my disposal, the number of replacements I've available are only enough to raise Third Squadron to half-strength. Worse yet, the new men are taking to both military discipline and their assigned duties poorly."
    
    You nod in sympathy. It seems that despite the dismal level of readiness within your own unit, you're still the lucky one; at least Sixth Squadron is still nearly full-strength,
    *if strength = 96
      even after the minor losses you took.
    *if strength = 90
      even after its considerable losses.
    *goto chap2b_cazcon2
  *hide_reuse #"What are you here for?"
    Cazarosta looks to the side as you ask. "You mean at regimental headquarters?"
    
    You nod.
    
    "I am here to request that His Grace enter my squadron into consideration for any further active duties which may come up," Cazarosta replies.
    
    Your eyes widen a little at that. 'Active duties' is a rather silly euphemism attached to combat patrols, raiding duties, and deep reconnaissance; in short, anything liable to get men killed, especially untrained, unprepared men.
    
    "Are your men quite prepared for that?" you find yourself asking, almost involuntarily.
    
    *if cazarosta >= 60
      Cazarosta shakes his head. "Absolutely not. My men are entirely unready and unsuited for any sort of action. However, some hard fighting will sort that out shortly; those who the Saints would will to be proper soldiers shall live. Those that they would not shall die."
      
      *if ruthlessness >= 70
        You nod in agreement. There are times when Cazarosta's strange intersection of zealous faith and absolute ruthlessness leads him to strange results, but you can say for yourself that his thinking on this particular issue is quite sound.
      *if ruthlessness < 70
        You nod, if only to hide the chill rolling down your spine. Cazarosta's plan is terrifying, with an absolute disregard for the lives of his men. There are times when you find that you can avoid thinking about the horrible conclusions that Cazarosta's zealous faith and utter coldness allow him to draw….
        
        You do not relish being reminded of it.
    *if cazarosta < 60
      Cazarosta shrugs. "Perhaps not, but we shall not know for sure until they are put to the test. After all, men do not become veterans by training alone. Better that a few die in minor skirmishes than to face the prospect of throwing my entire untrained command into battle at our next time of crisis."
      
      You nod. You suppose Cazarosta has 
      *if charisma >= 70
        a point, yet his response seems so at odds with the rest of his character. 
      *if charisma <70
        a point.
    *goto chap2b_cazcon2
  *hide_reuse #"Good day to you, Sir Caius."
    *if cazarosta >= 35
      Cazarosta responds with a curt nod and passes you by.
    *if cazarosta < 35
      The other dragoon responds with a curt nod, almost satirical in its precision.
      
      "Good day to you as well,
      *if knight = 1
        Sir $!{firstname},"
      *if knight = 0
        Captain $!{lastname},"
      he replies, his eyes narrowed in malevolence as if they were chuckling silently at a joke made at your expense.
      *goto chap2b_cazcon3
*label chap2b_cazcon3

It is not a long walk to your lodgings, but in the late afternoon, the streets of Noringia are packed with the men of the King's Army. Before the war, the small port on the southern coast of Antar had been home to twelve thousand people. Now, even with most of the original inhabitants gone and after the losses taken at Blogia, the place houses three times that number of soldiers, clerks, supernumeraries, and the mob of camp followers, peddlers, and shady businessmen that invariably follow an army at war.

You require the better part of half an hour to jostle, shove, and squeeze your way through the mobs of Line Infantry orange, Dragoon grey-green, and Navy blue. When you finally arrive at the small but comfortably appointed room assigned to you as your personal lodgings, you find a folded sheet of paper, sealed with wax, waiting on your desk.

It is from your father.

The seal in the wax is unmistakable. It bears the ornate coat of arms of a noble house—your noble house—imprinted in the soft red material. The seal was stamped by the signet ring that your father wears as the Baron of…

*choice
  #Aldershall.
    *set house_title "aldershall"
    *goto chap2b_1
  #Reddingfield.
    *set house_title "reddingfield"
    *goto chap2b_1
  #Sanloren.
    *set house_title "sanloren"
    *goto chap2b_1
  #Ezinbrooke.
    *set house_title "ezinbrooke"
    *goto chap2b_1
  #None of those are right.
    No, you're right. Your father is the Baron of…
    *input_text house_title
    *goto chap2b_1

*label chap2b_1
You pick up the letter immediately and unfold it, your mind awash with feelings of…
*fake_choice
  #Excitement; I want to know what news my father has sent to his most beloved son.
    *set dadrel 3
    Writers and romantics so often say that it is killing, or property, or lying with a woman that makes a boy into a man. You know those penny-pedants speak naught but nonsense.
    
    In the first years of your life, it had been your father who taught you the ways of the saddle, the sword, and the pistol. It was with him that you went hunting upon your family's ramshackle estate. It was he who taught you the meaning of honour and of how to speak, stand, and behave as a gentleman.
    
    War, wealth, sex; none of those things made you a man. It had been your father, still standing tall and infinitely wise in your mind's eye, that had made you a man.
    
    In addition,
  #Trepidation; my father and I have an often strained relationship.
    *set dadrel 2
    You have many fond memories of your father. He was not stingy with his approval. However, you also remember many arguments. It was a rare time when the two of you agreed upon any given subject, and it was not unusual for the two of you to quarrel in the morning and then be reconciled by supper.
    
    Despite your occasionally rough relationship, he is still your father, and the harsh words and occasional fists which the two of you have hurled at each other have never been enough to engineer a total break.
    
    Besides,
  #Confusion; my father barely even spoke to me.
    You cannot, for the life of you, think of a single moment over your long years of childhood in which your father showed the barest affection for you. To you, he had always been much like a statue, distant and uncaring. If he spared the rod or words of censure, it was only due to his neglect, not his mercy.
    
    Why he would send any news to the son he has neglected for so long escapes you.
    
    In any case,
*comment endif
news from your father means news from the rest of your family.

What of the rest of your family, anyhow? What do you remember of them; your mother, for example?
*fake_choice
  #My mother and I are quite close.
    *set momrel 2
    Your mother must still be worried about you, but no less than you worry about her. After all, she is in her elder years now, and her health is a constant concern of yours.
  #Mother and I do not speak much.
    No, you have no particular affection for that distant, aloof woman who gave birth to you, yet still, you would like to know if she is still all right. 
  #Mother is dead, and she has been for quite a few years now.
    *set momrel 0
    Your mother died of some horrid sickness years before you joined the King's Army. For all of their talents, even the bane-healers could not save her. You think about her sometimes, less so as the years have passed.
*comment endif

What else? What of your siblings? Have you siblings?
*fake_choice
  #I have a younger brother and sister.
    *set siblings 2
    *set house_debt 18000
    Yes, a brother and a sister, both just entering adulthood, you remember now.
  #I have a younger sister.
    *set siblings 1
    *set house_debt 15000
    Yes, a younger sister. She should be thinking of getting married soon.
  #I am an only child.
    *set house_debt 12000
    Yes, you had only the children of your house servants for company. 
*comment endif

*if region = 1
  *set house_debt - 2000
You open the letter and set it down on the desk, pausing only to light a candle to hold back the advancing gloom of sunset. Then, you sit down and read it.
*page_break
*if dadrel = 3
  [i]My Beloved Son,[/i]

  [i]One could not encompass how much of a direct shock our army's late defeat at Blogia was to us. I must admit that I was in a state of great distress for an extended time, not knowing if you were live or slain. Thus, one might be able to understand the joy I felt when we received news of your survival and recovery from wounds. That you were able, as well, to cover yourself with glory, was a second blessing apt to turn a moment of thanksgiving into one of celebration.[/i]

  [i]The Saints have watched over you, my dear boy, and for that I shall be thankful to them evermore.[/i]
*if dadrel = 2
  [i]Son,[/i]

  [i]I must admit that we were in a state of great inconvenience when we received news of our army's defeat at Blogia. However, whatever worries we possessed were carried away by the news of your survival and of your elevations. I congratulate you, sir, on both counts. No doubt you are bound for greater powers, should you finally apply the lessons you ignored in your youth, of perseverance, grace, and gentlemanly conduct.[/i]
*if dadrel = 1
  [i]To Whom It May Concern,[/i]
  
  [i]I am given to understand that my son, one Lieutenant $!{lastname} of the Royal Dragoons, was wounded in the late action by our armies in Antar. If he is no longer among the living, please reply to this letter whenever convenient.[/i]
  
  [i]However, should he remain alive, please convey to him my compliments and inform him that I am in need of his aid.[/i]
  
  [i]The events of the last few years have placed great pressure upon our family. Please convey upon Lieutenant $!{lastname} that I, his father, expect him, as the only member of this house to profit from this war, to make the effort to alleviate House $!{lastname}'s hardships through any aid he may spare.[/i]
  
  [i]Your Obedient Servant,[/i]
  [i]Lord $!{house_title}[/i]
  *page_break
  It is all you can do not to crumple up the bloody thing in disgust. After all the years of neglect and cold, uncaring censure, he asks after you only to beg for money? 
  
  Still, someday you will become Baron $!{house_title}, and your father's debts will become your debts. Perhaps you should send that money, if only to alleviate the financial burden you will one day be taking on?
  *goto chap2b_2
*comment endif

*if dadrel = 3
  *if momrel = 2
    [i]Know that your mother prays for your safety with each passing day and that we most sorely await the very hour that you return to us, whole in mind and body.[/i]
  *if momrel = 1
    [i]Know that your mother cares for you and wishes for your safe return, though she does not often show it.[/i]
  *comment endif
  
  *if siblings = 2
    [i]Your brother has expressed his intention to join the King's Army, in emulation of your own shining exploits. Your sister continues to search for eligible suitors. Unfortunately, our current lack of funds renders both rather unlikely.[/i]
  *if siblings = 1
    [i]Your sister continues to search for eligible suitors. Unfortunately, our current lack of funds renders the possibility of her attracting a desirable suitor most unlikely.[/i]
  *comment endif
  
  [i]I am afraid that our family's acute lack of funds may become a constant shade over our heads in future. This war has not been kind to our financial state; some of our tenants have left to take up the King's arms, and the increased rates of taxation have also forced many others to leave for the cities, where more work might be found. The result is that the income of our estate has dropped greatly, to the point where it might barely pay the interest on our debts.[/i]
  
  [i]While any aid on your part would be most welcome, I must state without equivocation that one must not beggar oneself to pay the debts of his father. I trust your good judgement in this situation, but if you have the money to spare, it shall be most welcome.[/i]
  
  [i]Regardless of your decision on the matter, I am proud to remain,[/i]
  
  [i]Your Father[/i]
  *page_break
  He hides it well, but it is clear that your father is distressed over your house's debts. Perhaps you might manage to offer some small relief through your own not-inconsiderable income?
  
  Additionally, despite how much you might wish it, your father will not live forever. One day, he will ride with the Saints, and you will become Baron $!{house_title}. His debts will become your debts. Paying some of those debts off now might help later.
*if dadrel = 2
  *if momrel = 2
    [i]Know that your mother prays for your safety with each passing day and eagerly awaits the day when you return whole. I trust you will not distress her by refusing to do so.[/i]
  *if momrel = 1
    [i]Your mother is well and sends her compliments.[/i]
  *comment endif
  
  [i]Unfortunately, our lack of funds may prove an increasing problem in future. This war has not been kind to our financial state; some of our tenants have left to take up the King's arms, and the increased rates of taxation have also forced many others to leave for the cities, where more work might be found. The result is that the income of our estate has dropped greatly, to the point where it might barely pay the interest on our debts.[/i]
  
  [i]If you are able, I shall expect you to offer any relief you might be able to afford.[/i] 
  
  [i]I remain,[/i]
  
  [i]Your Father[/i]
  *page_break
  Perhaps they were not his only or even his foremost intentions, but it seems rather clear to you that your father is in desperate need of money. To even go to the step of asking for it from you is proof of that.
  
  Whatever your feelings on the subject of your family might be, though, there is also the fact that someday you will become Baron $!{house_title}, and your father's debts will become yours. Perhaps paying off some of those debts now might make things easier in future?
*label chap2b_2
*fake_choice
  *if region = 1 
    #I send back as much money as I can: thirty-five crown a month.
      Your income is quite substantial; a captain of dragoons makes fifteen gold crown a month. In addition, His Majesty awarded you for your heroism at Blogia with an additional lifetime annuity of 180 crown a year. 
    
      There is also the relatively meagre allowance that your father has been issuing you throughout your years under arms. Surely, they now need that income more than you.
      
      Since Grenadier Square already pays for your food, lodging, and equipment, you see very little reason not to send as much of the money that you earn as possible.
      *set house_income income
      *set income 0
  *if region != 1 
    #I send back as much money as I can: thirty crown a month.
      Your income is quite substantial; a captain of dragoons makes fifteen gold crown a month. In addition, His Majesty awarded you for your heroism at Blogia with an additional annuity of one hundred and eighty crown a year. 

      Since Grenadier Square already pays for your food, lodging, and equipment, you see very little reason not to send as much of the money that you earn as possible.
      *set house_income income
      *set income 0
  #I send my family a substantial sum: fifteen crown a month.
    Fifteen gold crown is nothing to laugh at; it is more than the average Tierran tenant farmer makes in a year. Any of your ordinary dragoons would likely kill for that sort of money.
    
    Still, your family comes first, and you decide to send that considerable amount home, every month.
    *set house_income 15
    *set income -15
  #I have expenses too! I send back five crown a month.
    Five crown is hardly a small sum; a cornet of dragoons is paid no more than that every month. Although your salary as a captain is now far greater, your higher rate of pay comes with commensurate increases in expenses that you must manage.
    
    You doubt the money you send will make a great difference, but at least it is better than nothing.
    *set house_income 5
    *set income -5
  #I send back nothing.
    *set ruthlessness %+10
    You resolve yourself not to send back anything at all. You have your own expenses, and the money you could send back might be put to much better use in your own pocket.
    
    Your family may not understand the rationale behind your decision, but it is [i]your[/i] money they are asking for; they will simply have to fend for themselves.
*comment endif

You fold up the letter again, reach for your pen, and begin drafting a reply….
*page_break
*set season "winter"
*gosub 6m_pay
Weeks pass and turn into months. The burning heat of the Antari summer turns into the mild breezes and heavy rain of autumn. 

*if sgtauto = 2
  *if sgtname = "fenton"
    Fenton puts his plans into motion, doing small favours for the men and, more importantly, telling stories of your previous exploits. It works, your men becoming increasingly proud of your leadership. However, Fenton's stories, especially his most often-told one of your heroism at Blogia, do not gloss over the horror of that great battle. 
    
    As a result, morale drops a little; you're beginning to imagine that Fenton's descriptions of men being cut apart by the flaming swords of Church Hussars are not helping the men's fighting spirit.
    *set loyalty %+15
    *set morale %-5
  *if sgtname = "harlech"
    Staff-sergeant Harlech throws himself into his plans with great enthusiasm, taking the men drinking and wenching almost every single day. It is almost as if he enjoys it. Your men certainly do, as their spirits rise substantially.
    
    Unfortunately, Harlech is not the best example to follow when it comes to discipline. Your troops begin to grow even more surly and insolent, especially when it comes to following orders.
    *set morale %+15
    *set discipline %-5
  *if sgtname = "hernandes"
    Hernandes does what he is best at: drilling, more drilling, and some extra drilling at the end. He puts your men through endless evolutions of musketry drill, sabre drill, close order drill, and skirmishing drill.
    
    To his credit, order does improve greatly, but your men are not stupid; they can see your hand behind Hernades's unrelenting regimen, and they begin to resent you for it.
    *set discipline %+15
    *set loyalty %-5
  *if sgtname = "lanzerel"
    Staff-sergeant Lanzerel puts his plans into motion. Over the following days, you see a few more of your men wearing freshly-sewn sergeant's and corporal's stripes. 
    
    The improvement isn't dramatic; the new NCOs are still the best of a bad lot, but you do see some small changes for the better here and there.
    *set discipline %+5
    *set morale %+5
    *set loyalty %+5
  *if sgtname = "villanueva"
    As promised, your Staff-sergeant soon begins transferring out your squadron's 'bad apples.' There are blanks in your establishment roster where persistent troublemakers and disciplinary issues once were, and you are compensated for the loss of these undesirable men by a substantial improvement in the aspects of the others.
    
    Unfortunately, the officers commanding the units whom the scum of your squadron have been transferred to are rather less happy with the whole arrangement, once they realise just how great of a headache their 'new recruits' are about to cause them. You get used to catching an angry glare at the officers' club now and then.
    *set strength - 10
    *set reputation %-10
    *set discipline %+10
    *set morale %+10
    *set loyalty %+10
*if sgtauto = 1
  Despite the constant routine of drill, your men do not seem to be improving in any aspect. They remain surly, dispirited, and only qualify as an 'ordered body' of troops in the very loosest definition.
  
  Clearly, you shall have to take more drastic measures.
*if sgtauto = 0
  You begin to take steps to improve your men's condition, drastic steps…
  *choice
    *selectable_if (wealth >= 200) #I offer pay bonuses out of my own pocket for the best men.
      *set ruthlessness %-15
      *set wealth - 200
      You begin to offer substantial prizes for those of your men who put the most effort into improving themselves as soldiers. 
      
      For their part, the men take to your scheme enthusiastically. Within weeks, they are doing their utmost to become better drilled, better outfitted, and better shots than their comrades. Not only does it keep morale raised in a healthy spirit of competition, but it also helps cement their loyalty to the man giving out the rewards: namely, you.
      *set discipline %+10
      *set morale %+10
      *set loyalty %+10
      *goto chap2b_3
    #I actually decide to do nothing.
      Despite the constant routine of drill, your men do not seem to be improving in any aspect. They remain surly, dispirited, and only qualify as an 'ordered body' of troops in the very loosest definition.
  
      Clearly, you shall have to take more drastic measures.
      *goto chap2b_3
    #I severely punish a few scapegoats to make examples.
      *set ruthlessness %+25
      *set idealism %-15
      *set strength - 2
      You set about finding a few men to take the brunt of your ire. It does not take you long to round up a few offenders on reasonably robust pretexts; 
      *if feminist < 1
        one was drunk on duty, another dozing on watch, and two others were caught debauching a local girl against her will, 
      *if feminist >= 1
        one was drunk on duty, another dozing on watch, and two particularly monstrous culprits had been caught debauching a local girl against her will, 
      all hanging offenses, though rarely enforced ones.
      
      One rainy day in early autumn, in front of the assembled squadron, you have them tried, convicted, and hanged.
      
      The object lesson works. The men step out of line less, improve in drill more, and even seem more spirited and unified than before. However, it is not hard to tell that below the surface, all this is because they are united in a growing hatred for you.
      
      *if ruthlessness < 75
        It is certainly not a pleasant feeling.
      *if ruthlessness >= 75
        So be it. Let them hate, so long as they also fear.
      *set discipline %+15
      *set morale %+15
      *set loyalty %-30
      *goto chap2b_3
*label chap2b_3
*if knight = 1
  *page_break
  Then, one day not a week after the first killer frost of the winter, you are summoned to the army's headquarters building. Waiting for you there are four men bearing the sigil of the Order of Saint Joshua and a large, carefully padded box.
  
  The liveried men—Seekers of the Red—take an hour to undo all but one of the multiple seals warding the box. The last one is carefully warded, a banetrap designed to fatally incapacitate any who touch it, save you. With some difficulty, the Seekers assist you in undoing the last safeguard. Then, the box is opened.
  
  Inside, mounted upon a wooden cross-shaped stand, sits a full suit of gleaming plate armour and a padded arming doublet to absorb heavy shocks and prevent chafing, complete with maille patches to cover gaps in the plate. Next to the armour is a second stand carrying a finely made broad-bladed longsword in a black leather scabbard. To your baneblooded eyes, both are marked with intricate patterns of acid-etched runes, glowing with the pale blue light of the Bane.
  
  They are the armour and weapon of a Knight of the Orders-Militant, and you know full well that both have been tailored to fit your body exactly.
  *page_break
  In a closed room, the four Seekers—servants of the knightly order which the King inducted you into nearly a year ago—help you put on your armour for the first time. The process takes another ten minutes, but the armour itself is surprisingly comfortable. Save for the claustrophobic darkness of the heavy plumed helm, you could almost feel as if the armour was a second skin, one which renders you impervious to most mundane weapons, including musket fire at any range beyond fifteen paces. 
  
  It is only when you are fully clad head to toe in a skin of enchanted steel that the Seekers present you with the sword—your sword. Your gauntleted hand fits the leather grip perfectly, and the blade draws from its scabbard as smoothly as silk in a summer breeze.
  
  The instant the sword clears its sheath, the runes on the blade flare with a sudden intensity. Then, as your banesense begins to tug at your mind and edge your vision in green, the blade bursts into brilliant orange flame.
  
  The sword's balance is perfect, and the heavy blade feels deadly in your hand as you take a few experimental swings, facing away from the four religious servants. You feel agile and powerful as you handle the massive sword one-handed. You barely feel the weight of the armour at all. 
  
  You know of the power of bane-hardened armour and bane-runed weaponry from personal experience. The former provides phenomenal protection, and the latter can penetrate even bane-hardened armour, let alone comparatively trivial obstacles like stone, wood, or people. However, you have no doubt that your enemies would know this too; going into battle in a big, clanking, shining suit of armour with a flaming sword in hand might as well be an open invitation to your enemies to try to kill you first.
  
  With that in mind, how often do you plan on using your new knightly equipment?
  *fake_choice
    #I shall be going into every battle in armour, with my new sword.
      *set knight 3
      Of course! You were not made a knight solely for the purpose of putting 'Sir' before your name! As a member of the Orders-Militant, you are required to be in the thickest and hardest of the fighting. With your armour and your sword, at least you shall be well-armed and protected while doing so.
      
      You make arrangements to have the armour added to your allotment of personal baggage, to be carried with your squadron's pack animals on campaign.
    #I shall decide on a case-by-case basis.
      Indeed. Although there will be situations where a flaming sword and bulletproof plate may prove useful, there are also ones where such assets become hindrances; a loud, obvious suit of armour would certainly not help if you needed to ambush the enemy or sneak about.
      
      You make arrangements to have the armour added to your allotment of personal baggage, to be carried with your squadron's pack animals on campaign.
      *set knight 2
    #I'll continue wearing my Dragoon uniform and sabre, thank you kindly.
      After some thought, you decide to stick with your normal officer's uniform and sword. Though the blood-red panel at the front of your Dragoon tunic and the crested plume of your cavalryman's helmet do very little for stealth, they are at least silent whilst you are in motion and allow you to retain your peripheral vision.
      
      You make arrangements to have both sword and armour packed away in one of the secure vaults reserved for the use of officers such as yourself; they will come out for maintenance and ceremonial occasions, but little else.
*comment endif
*page_break
*set year 608
*set age + 1
It is in the first month of 608 that a convoy of warships carrying the ensign of the Royal Tierran Navy sails into the ice-scudded waters of Noringia's harbour. Onboard are replacements for the line infantry, new guns for the artillery, and most preciously of all, a score of bright young officers in the grey-green tunic of the Royal Dragoons.

Out of the twenty, Cazarosta's Third Squadron is to receive seven. Another six are bound for Lieutenant-colonel Keane's First Squadron. The remaining seven are for your own Sixth Squadron. After being the sole commissioned officer in a squadron of nearly two hundred men for nearly a full year, the relief you feel as your new subordinates report in is palpable.

Unfortunately, of the seven new officers you receive, not all are suitable. Only three are lieutenants fit to command the five troops that your squadron is divided into. The remaining two troops will have to be commanded by cornets:
*if idealism >= 50
  bright, newly minted boys with a life of potential but precious little experience.
*if idealism < 50
  freshly made officers with new commissions and bugger-all else.
*comment endif

With each section of your command now led by its own officer, your men begin to show improvement very quickly. Over the next few months, your squadron becomes better drilled, more spirited, and even begins to redirect any resentment over punishments and long exercises from you to their new junior officers. 

You also take the time to appoint a personal servant; the commanders of infantry companies and cavalry squadrons are permitted to retain an enlisted attendant, or 'bat-man,' to see to your personal needs in exchange for easier duties and a substantial pay bonus. You pick out one of the more loyal of your men, a Corporal Marion, to serve in this purpose. You soon find that having someone else available to shave you, see to your uniforms, and prepare your tea makes life much easier.
*set discipline %+25
*set morale %+25
*set loyalty %+25
*page_break
*set season "summer"
*gosub 6m_pay
*set char_ref 1
As the seasons turn once again and your officers settle into their duties, you find yourself facing another decision. When you were the only commissioned officer in the squadron, you led the entire unit as a unified command. Now, with each troop led by a commanding officer of its own, you must choose which troop to accompany into battle should you ever be deployed separately.

In addition, the commanding officer of the troop you pick would be the one most likely to be at your side on the field. You spend some time going over your officers' strengths and weaknesses. The two cornets commanding their own troops are too inexperienced for the job, which leaves your three lieutenants.

First, there is Lieutenant Sandoral, commander of 1st Troop, a lanky figure with a stooped back and glasses. Every day, he reads lines of Kian philosophy and M'hidiyossi poetry to his men before they drill. One would think that such a habit would make him an object of ridicule amongst his men, yet the dragoons under his command seem to respect and even almost like their soft-spoken, bookish officer.

Second, there is Lieutenant Blaylock, commander of 3rd Troop, a powerfully built young man who joined the army after he had been thrown out of Aetoria's Royal University for duelling. Abrasive and often crude, you must admit that the young man is an exceptional swordsman, a crack shot, and a gloriously skilled equestrian.

Lastly, there is young Lord Renard, or rather, Renard d'al Findlay, the Duke of Cunaris's eldest son and commander of 4th Troop. He is slim, dashing, and possesses a personal magnetism that even you find hard to resist. His aristocratic upbringing has made him eloquent and a fine horseman. He is also, unfortunately, profoundly dense.

Which troop do you decide to attach yourself to?
*fake_choice
  #1st Troop, under Lieutenant Sandoral.
    *set ltname "sandoral"
    Starting the next day, you begin attending drill exercises with Lieutenant Sandoral's 1st Troop.
    
    The diffident young officer adapts to your presence with surprising adroitness; that is to say, he doesn't seem to change a single thing, continuing the routine you've already seen him establish. He continues to read high literature to his men, and he continues to give orders in that same quiet, firmly polite tone, though with a few hints of deference when he orders his commanding officer to fall in as well.
    
    Indeed, you find that it is you who must adapt to seeing your dragoons in drill and not leading them yourself. Still, you wouldn't be alive were you unable to keep steady under changed circumstances. Within a week, it is as if you have always been attached to Sandoral's troop.
  #3rd Troop, under Lieutenant Blaylock.   
    *set ltname "blaylock"
    Starting the next day, you begin attending drill exercises with Lieutenant Blaylock's 3rd Troop.
    
    It soon becomes absolutely clear that Blaylock is a bully, pure and simple. He belittles his men for their successes, berates them for their mistakes, and is not above using his fists to 'correct' anyone who steps out of line. Only his polished vocabulary and the 'd'al' in his name assure you that the man is still a gentleman, by birth if not by behaviour.
    
    Indeed, it almost seems that your presence is making things worse; Lieutenant Blaylock insists upon abusing his men, but he is required by the principle of rank to defer to you. It is uneasy for both the men and yourself, but after a few weeks, you, your Lieutenant, and your men manage to settle into a precarious acceptance of the situation.
  #4th Troop, under Lieutenant Findlay.
    *set ltname "findlay"
    Starting the next day, you begin attending drill exercises with Lieutenant Findlay's 4th Troop.
    
    You can sense the devotion which young Findlay's men feel towards him almost immediately. In a way, the Lieutenant is almost a perfect officer from the point of view of a man under his command; he is a bold and inspiring figure with a razor wit, as well as the will and proficiency needed to lead his men on exercise by example.
    
    He also lacks the great affliction which strikes most junior officers: the belief that he knows better than even the veteran common soldiers under his command. The young lordling is just smart enough to realise how stupid he can often be, and so he defers constantly to both you and his sergeants. It is a good habit to have as a junior officer, but you cannot help but worry about the effect it might have upon his confidence as an officer.
*comment endif
*page_break
*set strength + 5
*if strength > 100
  *set strength 100
Noringia swells with fresh reinforcements as the seasons begin to turn once again. Regiments that had been devastated after Blogia are once again at near full strength. Indeed, even the losses you took in that first action as squadron commander a year ago have been
*if strength = 100
  entirely made good.
*if strength < 100
  partially made good.
*comment endif

However, despite the rejuvenated state of the army, His Majesty, in direct command of his armies, refuses to take the field. Instead, he merely sends out enough forces to maintain control of the small strip of the southern forest under Tierran control. The bulk of the army remains at Noringia, training.

Surely you must have an opinion on that.
*fake_choice
  #With our ranks refilled, we should be attacking. Blogia must be avenged!
    *set idealism %+5
    Absolutely! To sit around with a perfectly good army doing nothing, instead of using it to actually avenge the humiliating defeat you suffered at Blogia and win the war is rather preposterous, isn't it?
    
    Then again, your King does have a reputation as a rather clever man. Perhaps he has a plan in mind.
  #I'd rather not try to second-guess the decisions of my monarch.
    Indeed. Perhaps the King has a clever plan in mind which requires the army to spend another year inactive. Perhaps he merely requires the extra time to train his fresh troops.
    
    Whatever the case, the movement orders of armies and the conduct of the entire war is far above a mere captain of dragoons. It is best not to think upon it too much.
  #We need the extra time to train and make ready.
    *set idealism %-5
    Absolutely. There is certainly a difference between freshly raised units and well-drilled troops. It takes weeks, even months of such training to turn a mob of civilians with uniforms and muskets into a real fighting force. The extra time is a blessing, if you view it that way.
    
    Still, perhaps the King has his own plan as well.
*page_break
*gosub 6m_pay
*set season "winter"
*set sow_ref 8
Soon, winter comes again, a particularly harsh one this time. For the first time since you arrived in Antar, you witness Noringia covered in thick blankets of snow. 

The sheer amount of the stuff on the ground makes any sort of equestrian drills or marching exercises impossible. It is only through the efforts of some of the Line Infantry units, roped into clearing the roads with shovels, that the town is able to function at all. 

As a result, your men are restricted to practising close-order drill in the cleared squares of land set up specifically for that purpose, along with musketry practice. It is during an instance of the latter that you notice something of a problem.

The King's regulations demand that each soldier in service be capable of firing three rounds a minute from their weapons, in any weather. While such requirements were somewhat loosened in the frantic months after Blogia, Grenadier Square seems once again insistent that this basic standard be met, enough to send inspectors to each company and squadron of each regiment.

Your squadron is not to be inspected for another two weeks; however, you can already see that the men are not up to the job.
*if soldiering >= 70
  While you've always been rather proud of your ability to load and fire five or even six—on a good day—shots a minute, 
*if (soldiering >= 40) and (soldiering < 70)
  While you've always been confident in your ability to fire four shots a minute on a good day,
*if soldiering < 40
  While you can usually manage three shots a minute,
your men are less able; the veterans can generally work their carbines fast enough, but most of your men are still short. Worse yet, a few can barely even manage their second shot before time runs out. Surely, if your squadron is to pass the upcoming inspection, you must do something.
*choice
  #I order extra drill until all the men can get it right.
    You give the order: effective immediately, every dragoon in your squadron is to practise working their carbines until they are able to fire three rounds a minute. 
    
    Thus, every day, in rain or snow, in bitter cold or biting wind, the less proficient members of your squadron are sent out into the Antari winter, spending hours going through the labourious process of loading and firing their weapon, over and over again.
    
    It is not a solution that makes you particularly liked, but it works. When the day of the inspection comes, your squadron, barring a few customary misfires, manages three volleys in a touch under fifty-five seconds.
    *set discipline %+10
    *set loyalty %-10
    *goto chap2b_4
  #I offer rewards for the fastest shots in the squadron.
    You soon set up something of a competition amongst the most proficient of your men, offering extended leave and commendations to those who can work their carbines the swiftest and fire off the most shots.
    
    It is one of your old men, a rotund sergeant by the name of Campos, who takes the first prize. 
    *if runegun = "campos"
      Though he still carries the runegun that you once bestowed upon him when you were a cornet, the man is still an exceptional shot with a mundane carbine.
    *if runegun != "campos"
      The man is an exceptional shot.
    With six shots in under a minute, he manages to hit a target the size of a dinner plate at two hundred fifty paces five times.
    
    Although the glittering prospect of prizes exhorts the less proficient of your men to try their luck, it does not raise their sense of self-worth any, especially when they see what their more proficient compatriots are truly capable of.
    
    Still, the spirit of competition does its work. When the day of the inspection comes, your squadron, barring a few customary misfires, manages three volleys in a touch under fifty-five seconds.
    *set discipline %+5
    *set loyalty %+5
    *set morale %-10
    *goto chap2b_4
  *selectable_if (intellect >= 55) #I find some way to speed the reloading process.
    You take a long, hard look at your men as they go through the reloading process one last time. It doesn't take you too long to understand the problem: the patch.
    
    Unlike Line Infantry muskets with their smooth bores, Dragoon carbines have rifling, spiral grooves cut into the inside of the barrel to impart a spin unto the musket ball, improving accuracy at range. However, to make that smooth lead ball take to the rifling, a patch of heavy cloth greased up with lard is wrapped around the ball as it is rammed home down the barrel.
    
    It is this patch which is causing the most delay; your men waste precious seconds with each shot trying to force ball and patch down a barrel which can barely fit both. After a few tests of your own, you conclude that a slightly smaller ball would make the job of loading much easier without impacting accuracy.
    
    You dash off a note to the regimental quartermaster with a special order for a new shipment of cartridges. When they arrive, you set your men to firing them, and the improvement becomes evident immediately; men who were barely able to manage two shots a minute can now almost do three.
    
    It takes a few more days of drill to bring everyone up to standard, but you manage it in time for the inspection. Your squadron, barring a few customary misfires, manages three volleys in a touch under fifty-five seconds.
    *goto chap2b_4
  #Hopefully, the problem will work itself out.
    You decide that meddling with your men's training schedule and procedure might make too much of a negative impact. You refuse to get involved and hope the problem fixes itself.
    
    It doesn't. 
    
    On the day of your inspection, it takes your squadron sixty-seven seconds to fire the requisite three volleys—close, but not good enough. The inspector's unsatisfactory opinion of your unit does not remain a secret for long. Though your enlisted men couldn't care less, you appear to be building a reputation for complacency among the more energetic officers of the King's Army.
    *set reputation %-5
    *goto chap2b_4
*label chap2b_4
*page_break
*set char_ref 2
With your officers handling much of the daily administrative duties of your squadron and Corporal Marion dealing with your personal chores, you find yourself in possession of a great deal of free time over the long winter. 

You make an effort to spend most of that free time productively, primarily focusing upon…
*fake_choice
  #Self-improvement; I seek to improve my skills in all aspects.
    You spend your mornings in the drill yard, your afternoons studying treatises on war and natural philosophy and your evenings practising poise and elocution before the mirror in your rooms. It is not an easy regimen, but it does begin to show results. Soon, your body feels more robust, your thoughts come easier to you, and you find that you seem to know the right things to say a little more often.
    
    The improvements are hardly great ones, but they are welcome nonetheless.
    *set soldiering %+5
    *set intellect %+5
    *set charisma %+5
  #Writing; I begin working on an account of my experiences as an officer.
    *set memoir_prog + 1
    You spend the better part of your days hunched over a desk, pen in hand, working on a comprehensive recounting of your years at war. 
    
    *if idealism >= 65
      *set memoir_tone 1
      What you have so far tells a tale of eager service and honour through battle. You write of noble compatriots, glorious clashes, and the spectacle of combat. You write every man's death as meaningful, every defeat as nothing more than a setback.
      *goto chap2_write
    *elseif idealism < 35
      *set memoir_tone 3
      What you have so far is a bitter, sour tale. It is a story of pointless victories, tragic losses, and unvarnished suffering. You write of the friends you have lost, the implacability of the enemy, and the sheer broken nature of the Tierran military system.
      *goto chap2_write
    *else
      *set memoir_tone 2
      You try to tell the tale of your experiences as truthfully as you can, without either bitterness or the idealistic gloss so common to pedestrian three-volume romances. You write of the glory of victory, yes, but you spare no detail when it comes to describing exactly what that glory must inevitably cost.
      *goto chap2_write
    *label chap2_write 
    
    By the beginning of spring, you have two hundred or so pages filled with your memories.
  *selectable_if (charisma >= 50) #Social advancement; I socialise and associate with senior officers.
    The officers' corps of the King's Army could be described as a highly drilled aristocrat's club. Barring a few exceptions, the majority of the men holding an officer's commission are nobility. Of those, the most fortunate possess titles of their own and influence far in excess of their rank. It is these men you seek to flatter and befriend.
    
    Every evening is spent at the dinner table of one politically significant officer or another. The other, less important portions of your day are devoted to reading the latest broadsheets from Aetoria and the newest novels and treatises of natural philosophy.
    *if intellect < 45
      Though you may not understand every nuance of a novel's convoluted plot or every new discovery, you can regurgitate the salient points well enough be thought of as intelligent and cultured.
    *if intellect >= 45
      At dinner, you bring those same points up with a few of your own choice opinions, more than enough for you to be hailed as a gentleman of high culture and good upbringing.
    *comment endif
    
    After a few months, the dinner invitations come more frequently and at the request of more prominent men. Your name is on the rise.
    *set reputation %+15
  *selectable_if (cazarosta >= 55) #Observation; specifically, I go off and see how Cazarosta is handling his unit.
    *set caz_watch true
    Thankfully, Cazarosta does not seem particularly annoyed by your frequent visits to observe how he commands [i]his[/i] squadron. In fact, he rather welcomes the attention; if you didn't know better, you might even say that he was showing off.
    
    In short, Cazarosta's men are devoted to him. Despite the punishing drills he puts them through, the unending practice of the carbine and sabre, and the impossibly high standards he sets for them, his men hang on his every word. They lap up his scant praise with worshipful enthusiasm and respond to his aloof and abundant criticism with magnanimity.
    
    *if charisma >= 45
      At first, you're not quite sure what the man's secret is; after all, the deathborn officer has all the charisma of a side of beef. After a closer look, however, the reason becomes clear. In every exercise he orders, Cazarosta stands, marches, and drills with his men. He sleeps not in lodgings befitting his rank but in an enlisted man's cot. He eats with them, drinks with them, and on days of exceptional cold, he stands in the freezing air with them.
      
      You could never do such a thing. Your men would never desire or expect it of you. After all, you are a baneblooded lord and gentleman, and Cazarosta is neither. Where you must demonstrate that you are of a better breed than your men, he is able to prove that he is foremost among them.
      
      He has turned the very tools of his social ostracism into an advantage.
    *if charisma < 45
      You're not quite sure what the man's secret is. After all, Cazarosta has even less of a way with people than you. Still, you continue to watch closely, hoping to gain some hint of his secret.
      
      You find none.
    *set cazarosta %+10
  *selectable_if (antari = 0) #Broadening my horizons; I learn the Antari language.
    *set antari 1
    After a half-dozen years of war, it is not difficult to find men of the King's Army capable of reading, writing, and speaking Antari fluently. You soon engage some of those men in your instruction.
    
    At first, you make very little progress. Antari is a very different language from Tierran; the syllables, phonetics, even the very letters are profoundly dissimilar. The arcane grammatical structure of the language does not make things any easier.
    
    However, over the weeks, you are gradually able to grasp the basics. By the middle of winter, you are able to speak and understand basic sentences. When the snow finally melts, you are even able to read and write short passages.
  *selectable_if (antari = 1) #I hone my understanding of the Antari language.
    *set antari 2
    Even after half a dozen years of Tierran occupation, it is far from difficult to acquire tomes of Antari literature, philosophy, and history in Noringia.
    
    It is these books which serve as the instruments for your steady improvement in the Antari language. While your conversational ability and literacy in the tongue of the enemy have proven to be sufficient for everyday use, you quickly learn that when it comes to translating the courtly nuances of an official history or the ostentatious verse of a heroic poem, your skills remain woefully inadequate.
    
    Higher understanding does not come to you quickly. The Antari language possesses its own wordplays and metaphors, each springing from a centuries-old tradition dating back to the distant past of Old Calligia. Still, with persistence, patience, and a great number of late nights, you begin to find yourself understanding more and more by the time the snow finally melts.
  #My squadron; I closely supervise drills and exercises, offering advice when needed.
    You begin to attend the drills of not just the troop you are attached to but those of every troop in your squadron. You are there from the early morning to the very last hours of daylight. All five of the troops of your squadron receive the benefit of your oversight.
    
    Although the junior officers who must lead their men under your supervision may be a little uneasy at first, a few weeks of your observation gets them more acquainted to your presence. Soon, they are throwing themselves into their duties with more enthusiasm in the hopes of gaining your favour.
    
    As for your men, they seem to respond well to your attendance. The very fact that you are taking the effort to watch them drill, praise their strengths, and advise them on their weaknesses raises you in their estimation.
    *set discipline %+5
    *set loyalty %+5
    *set morale %+5
*comment endif
*page_break
*gosub 4m_pay
*set age + 1
*set season "spring"
*set year 609
*set sow_ref 9
It is in the latter part of the spring of 609 that His Majesty finally gives the order for the army to deploy. The King's plan is not a complex one. One half of the army under the command of the Duke of Havenport is to besiege the fortified port city of Kharangia to draw Mikhail of Khorobirit's army west. The second, under your sovereign's personal command, is to strike northwards while Khorobirit is distracted, defeating any other Antari armies led by lesser commanders and carving out a foothold in the open expanse of Antar's central plains.

The plan is an exceptionally daring one. Were something to go wrong, it would mean the complete destruction of both separate halves of the Tierran Army, but success would mean the seizure not only of a major port city but a chance to take control of much of the League's agricultural heartland.

Unfortunately, you are not to be a part of it. As the other two squadrons of the Royal Dragoons leave with Havenport's army, you and your men are given direct orders to remain in Noringia and maintain readiness for separate duties.

*if idealism >= 60
  The order is maddening; why are you and your men to remain behind, when it seems the entirety of the King's Army is bound for some glorious battle?
*if idealism < 60
  The reprieve is a welcome one. The extra time could be used to train your men further, and you have little desire to fight another 'glorious' bloodbath like Blogia.
*comment endif
*page_break
*gosub 4m_pay
*set season "summer"
Several months later, at the very height of summer, another naval convoy arrives at Noringia. However, this time the ships do not unload a cargo of men and supplies at the docks. Instead, the men aboard carry off immense wooden boxes, dozens of them, each easily capable of fitting a grown ox.

The boxes are heavy, too; it takes twelve draft horses to pull the heavy waggon carrying each of the boxes from the docks. From there, the boxes are carried off to one of the fortified warehouses built along the harbour by the Engineers in the first years of the war.

You hear no more of the boxes then. Almost nobody you ask seems to know what the boxes contain, and the few that do seem to know quickly change the subject. Perhaps it is a subject worthy of further investigation?
*fake_choice
  #Investigate the building where the boxes are held.
    One day, you spend some time taking a discreet look at the warehouse where the mysterious boxes are stored. 
    
    The first thing you notice is that the warehouse's doors are shut, barred, and guarded. In front of the shut doors are no less than twelve men wearing neither the green-grey of the Dragoons, the burnt orange of the Line Infantry, nor the dark blue of the Navy. They do, however, carry swords on their belts and perfectly serviceable-looking muskets at their shoulders, with bayonets fixed.
    
    A closer look reveals even more drastic measures. The heavy wood of the warehouse doors glows with a faint light, and your mind begins to tug in a now-familiar sensation; the doors are warded by banecasting, and any unauthorised attempt to open those doors would likely result in the interloper's swift demise.
    
    You're not getting any answers this way.
  #It's not worth the trouble.
    *set idealism %-5
*page_break
A few days later, a uniformed runner appears at the door to your lodgings just as you are about to leave for the morning. The man hands you a note, sealed with wax and marked for your eyes only.

You dismiss the runner and close the door before breaking the seal on the wax and reading the message:

*if knight = 0
  [i]Captain,[/i]
*if knight != 0
  [i]Sir $!{firstname},[/i]
*comment endif

[i]Your presence is required at regimental headquarters at earliest convenience to receive your orders. You are not to speak to anyone of this message until you have done so.[/i]

[i]-Cunaris[/i]

Needless to say, your plans for the day have just changed.
*page_break
*set chapternum 5
*set save_flag true
*goto_scene savegame

*label 6m_pay
*set wealth + income
*set wealth + income
*set wealth + income
*set wealth + income
*set wealth + income
*set wealth + income
*set house_debt - house_income
*set house_debt - house_income
*set house_debt - house_income
*set house_debt - house_income
*set house_debt - house_income
*set house_debt - house_income
*return

*label 4m_pay
*set wealth + income
*set wealth + income
*set wealth + income
*set wealth + income
*set house_debt - house_income
*set house_debt - house_income
*set house_debt - house_income
*set house_debt - house_income
*return
*finish