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[micelus]

As the king made his speech, a now-somewhat expected feature of the city approached the marshal of the realm. Altandai bowed his head, nodded at his escort, and did all his best to grab his attention.

"So. I'm assuming you still need soldiers? Perhaps a man with some actual experience under their belt? Perhaps oh, an actual commander?"

[Iituem]

It doesn't take long for Helga, a thousand men and a century of cavalry to arrive at Dermon.  While the baroness and her immediate guard immediately begin bullying the best inn in town into supplying their personal needs, the majority of her levy set up a sprawling, chaotic camp at the outskirts of Dermon, with ready access to local taverns and brothels, if any (or setting some of their own up if there aren't).  Unlike the clean, ordered camps of the southerners, or even the proud and stoic camps of other northern warriors, the 'levies' of Upreach seem to be composed of drunkards, vagabonds and 'reformed' bandits with little concern for order or propriety.  Fortunately for the citizens of Dermon, they prove to be policed by bands of the largest, most vicious thugs who find those who break the few rules of conduct Baroness Gertasdottir enforces and break one to four limbs of their choice.  Nevertheless, petty theft and drunk and disorderly behaviour increase rather more than even for the usual arrival of a contingent of soldiers.

Gather all peasant levies and personal cavalry at Dermon.  Lead from the rear.  Well, well back at the rear.  With the brandy and the servants.  To war!

[Shootandrun]

Early in spring of that year, a report was submitted to the King's office, bearing Alric's seal.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Your Grace,

I've investigated the matters you asked for me to attend to at your first council. Of the noteworthy and unwed women of the north, three have stood out of particular interest:

- Juliana Lavinia Placidia, a noblewoman of imperial blood said to be looking out for political opportunities, currently residing in Caelden. Her southern claims could be a useful asset during your coming crusades.
- Gunhild of Galsbrock, the daughter of Dirk of Galsbrock. Her father has much flaunted the size of the dowry he reserves for whomever she shall wed, and such a marriage could secure his political backing,
 a rather useful asset for future endeavors in Risstan.
- Isabeau of Altheim, the niece and current heir of King Cynwyn. While it would likely be a lucrative marriage leading to a profitable alliance, it strikes me as rather unlikely a prospect; Cynwyn would need to be a fool to marry a female heir to a foreign king.

Other, lesser names have also come up, but these three are my personal recommendations. I am at your disposition to discuss these matters in further detail, and to establish our diplomatic strategy for the coming months.

Your humble servant,
Alric Falbrand

[Digital Hellhound]

With the King

The Marshal studied the map. ’I think it a fair plan, my King, but we should not linger there overlong. We should move as soon as we are ready. Every moment wasted is one the traitor can use to bring in more supplies and strengthen his forces. We should lay siege to his holdings and make a show of strength by attacking, Your Grace. If we strike fast, we rob Baemund of the chance to be reinforced by any allies.’

’The trial... is a complication. It is the most honorable course of action, for certain, but what if the verdict is against us? If they choose not to judge Baemund as the traitor he is? How could we attack then, if the law stood against us? We will have to wait for the verdict, and hope for it to be the right one - a delay I fear plays into the traitor’s hands.’

With Altandai

The Master of the Knights Resplendent rode on a powerful dun stallion clad in war-plate, his polished armor gleaming in the spring sun. Cold lingered here in the north for far longer, he’d noticed, but it was almost a relief. One struggled to maintain the standards of the Knights in the sweat and sweltering heat of the south.

He was trailed by a guard of Knights. The first carried the azure banner of Laurentis, the wear and battle damage of the recent years finally patched up with the help of royal seamstresses. The wind beat against the banner relentlessly, spreading the eagle and blade on it clear for all to see. Rather more comically it also tugged at his retinue’s long moustaches.

Constantine drew to a halt before the mercenary. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards at Altandai’s words.

’You look upon the Knights Resplendent, the finest warriors of the south - forged in the rising of the Empire, tempered by centuries of vigilance and victory, tested in the crucible of Imperial Pass and reforged anew in this new age. I have led my order in many battles, sir, from the Summer Coast to the foothills of Mount Lucian. Weigh your words with care.’

He looked upon the camp. Particularily rowdy soldiers from... Upreach, was it? - wrre causing some kind of disturbance nearby. ’But yes - the King needs good soldiers. As long as they know their place. Who are you, and what experience do you claim?’

(Is your character male or female, micelus? Your app says woman, but are you just passing for male right now?)

[micelus]

((Passing as a woman, biologically a woman, but raised as a man. I am eternally sorry for the confusion this will/has caused.))

Altandai smiled as the knight boasted about his force's exploits, their battles and their history. It was good to be amongst warriors once more. With a bow, Altandai removed his hat and untied his hair. A true warrior let their hair grow freely, as it was done in the steppes.

"Why I may dress in the troubadour style, I was raised in the saddle sir knight and was once the lord of my own people. In truth, I would still be if not for a petty succession dispute...but you need not worry about that. I was taught and trained on the march , calculating and planning our paths and battles in such a way that we almost never marched hungry or in dire need of food. In war, I lead my people in battle, victory and defeat. In the end, we never lost so greatly that we were vanquished, and always won enough that we were prosperous. Sir knight, I bear with me the blood and wisdom of my people's military stratagem and the ability to do so with barely a coin. In fact, my lord, I'll fight for you for a pittance this season, just so that you may see what I am capable of.

Oh and yes, my name is Altandai. "

[NUKE9.13]

Prior to departing to give his speech to the soldiers, Osvik tracks down Alric for a brief chat.

"I read your report. It appears I was not mistaken in appointing you. As for the next step, I shall trust your judgement. Would it be best to contact the guardians of the women and mention the possibility of marriage, to see how they react? Or should we wait until Baemund has been dealt with- I imagine a king facing a civil war is a less attractive prospect than one who has recently ended one."

"With regards to our diplomatic policy in the coming months, I will ask that we continue to make offers of peace to Baemund and his followers. For our foreign policy, I'd like to look into trade agreements with our neighbours, as you suggested. I shall be honest; I am neither a merchant nor a diplomat, and my divine guidance had little to say on trade, so I leave the details in your hands."


Osvik considers Constantine's words.

"It is true that striking first would give us an advantage, but I have both moral and practical reasons not to do so. Morally, I wish to avoid bloodshed if possible. Practically, one must consider that if we strike first, Baemund can portray himself as one defending himself from tyranny, as opposed to a grudge-bearing rebel- thereby increasing his support from lesser nobles, and other potential allies."

"If no one has any objections, then, I suggest we start marching for Drepabrug. We can evaluate our next move once we get there."

"There remains, however, the question of the forces gathering at Dermon. I have asked them to gather there lest Baemund tries to occupy the undefended city. Should they remain there on standby, or should they join us at Drepabrug?"

(Unless anyone objects) Order the forces at Teirval to march to Drepabrug, and accompany them personally.

[Iituem]

Westonbridge, a village not twenty miles from Westbrook...

A chill spring breeze blew into the Old Nag, the old but oft re-painted door swinging wide to permit a traveller; a bald, scarred old figure laden down with thick homespun clothes, a cloak of stitched hides and a few rabbit pelts strung from his belt.  The soldiers in the tavern glanced up at the woodsman, but seeing nothing more than a belt knife and a man in need of a drink they went back to their own drinks and games.

The bald man stumbled into a chair and waved for the barmaid, a pinch-faced Northern blonde with hands red from scrubbing.  She took her time getting to him, sniffing archly at his approach.

"It's a farthing for a cup, if it's ale you want.  Ha'penny if you want a tankard."  The woodsman fiddled with a neck pouch and withdrew two dirty silver bits; quarters cut from a silver penny.

"A cup, mistress.  And a crust for the other farthing, if you'll take it."  The barmaid scooped up the coins, sniffed, and turned to leave - the woodsman grabbed her by the wrist, then released it once he had her attention again.  "Who runs this tavern, mistress?"

"Master Bellwether, and don't you be touching me or he'll have you out on your ear, you hear me?"

"Pardon me, mistress, but might you ask if Master Bellwether would like to buy some furs?  I have a red fox fur hidden away, if it would suit him."  The barmaid sniffed once more.

"I very much doubt it.  Wait here, I'll bring your cup and crust."

The bald woodsman leant back and fished a slip of willow bark out of his belt, which he chewed idly.  His eyes roved over the soldiers in the tavern, taking in details for a few minutes before the barmaid returned.  She spoke a little more politely, if still with some stiffness.

"Well, I was wrong.  Bellwether wouldn't mind a look at that fur after all, but he wants you to show it to him in the back, in case any of the soldiers out here decide they want it instead.  Come on, you'll get your drink back there while you haggle."

The woodsman gave her a thin smile and hefted himself up, following her into the tavern's back room.  There awaited him a rotund, middle-aged man with ruddy cheeks and nose, thinning blonde hair and many creases around the corners of his eyes.  The fat man was leant on one side of a table, at the other side of which was a chair and a hastily arranged slab of meat, cheese and bread, as well as a pitcher and goblet of wine.  The man let out a throaty chuckle once the barmaid left, closing the door behind her.

"Orzo, you sly old fox!  Good to see you.  More of a grey fox these days than a red one, mind."  The woodsman gave another thin smile.  He sat and, after giving the food a cursory sniff and the wine a cursory taste, began eating without ceremony.

"Bells.  It's Tom while I'm down here, by the by.  Good to see you too.  Always said those muscles would turn to butter one day."

"And I can't be happier they did," chuckled Bellwether.  "I see you've kept up your training, though."

"Mmf," said Orzo through a mouthful of cheese and meat.  He swallowed.  "Where are the rest of the gang?"

"Dead and gone, mostly.  Fielding's in Risstan these days.  Can't say for Mild."  Bellwether narrowed his eyes at Orzo, then raised his hands in a warding gesture.  "Now hold on, I know what you're going to say-"

"Hear me out, Bells."

"No!  Banditry's a young man's game.  I'm old and fat now, thank you very much, and I like it that way."

"You must know the local poachers, men and women good with a bow and a knife."

"I... might know a fellow or two, but again, no!  Even if you wanted to put a new gang together - which I will have no part of - you're out of luck.  Most of them have gone into the levies now anyway.  If you're that desperate to recruit, do it after the fighting when they realise they have to go back to their lives."

Orzo gave a short, harsh laugh through a mouthful of wine and bread.  "Fool's game, and only fools like us were young enough to fall for it."  He seemed to consider a different tack.  "You not joined up, serve your Lord in battle?"

"What, and serve as target practice?  No thank you, I'll stay here and run the inn I bought with my hard earned silver."

Orzo gave Bellwether a flat stare.  "You were the deadliest shot in Harmondale.  As I recall, that's how you earned your pile."

"Twenty years ago.  Why risk my life on the front when I have a warm bed, warm food and a warm woman to keep me, well, warm?  Or have you forgotten what it's like to sleep in a flimsy excuse for a tent, if that, on earth so cold you could still think it was winter?"

Orzo shrugged off-handedly.  "I was thinking the supply lines.  You could make a killing on the baggage train.  'Quartermaster Bellwether'.  A command post of sorts, like the old days, but one where all you have to do is buy supplies and sell them to the right people."

Bellwether squinted, his piggy eyes glinting in the candlelight.  "You a recruiter now, Orzo?  You'd have better luck getting young boys in the village than old men like me.  And the pay is terrible on the supply lines, even with the bribes.  Baemund might be a good and noble man, but he's a stingy arse when it comes to wages."

"Baemund is," said Orzo, and left it at that.  He watched Bell's eyes; the old innkeep didn't take long to gather his meaning.  He leant in closer, frowning.

"That's treason," said Bellwether, his voice barely above a whisper.  Orzo shook his head.

"Only if Baemund was wearing the crown.  It's honourable loyalty, this way.  Loyalty, anyway.  Besides," said Orzo, hefting a bundle of rags from within his hide cloak, "it pays a lot better."  He pulled the rag bundle open a little, revealing the bright gleam of silver.  Bellwether stared.

"That... is a lot of silver."  He licked his lips.  "But it's still a bad offer.  I have everything I need here.  More silver isn't worth getting my neck stretched."

"No, but it's a better way to live than this," said Orzo, gesturing at the inn.  Bellwether's eyes hardened.  Orzo ignored it, continuing.  "Come on, Bells, is this even you?  Don't you miss the thrill?  Don't you miss being in charge, living by your wits?  You're no more a fat old innkeep than I am a tired old hound.  Think about it; enough silver to move this old nag up to town and a few months of living again.  Or have you forgotten when the Red Fox and the Golden Hawk were the two most feared men in the North?"

Bellwether seemed caught between hunger and revulsion.

"Join the supply lines.  Find some likely lads and lasses in the levies and make them an offer; I know I can trust you to seal up the loose ends if they aren't interested.  You take the lion's share and all you need to do is sit in a cart and listen, then send me some letters.  Come on, what do you say?"

Intrigue:  Set up a spy network in Baemund's armed forces to gather intelligence on his troop movements, disposition and likely plans of attack.  Spend 0.2 ducats on this*, repeating the expenditure each season if the war continues past one season.

*The wages for a single levy of infantry for a season.  If a levy is 500 men, this essentially means offering twenty informants 20 times the normal wage for their information and a capable spymaster 100 times the norm to keep it all together.  Hopefully more than enough to keep my spies 'loyal'.