In Lutte, the Council Building stands resolute in the center of the settlement, its towering figure peering over the chimneys and roofs of the surrounding buildings. Its brown bricks become cleaner as the building goes higher and higher, capped with a pristine bronze roof on the clock tower. In its bowels, the Small Council meets routinely.

11 members sit around the table, waiting for their last member with various degrees of patience. The Fleet Admiral eats a foul-smelling fish sandwich, and receives disgusted grimaces from the High Chamberlain. The High Justice flicks through papers, and the Field Marshall fidgets in her seat, looking at the clock every few seconds. Eventually the High Consul walks through the door, accompanied by a sigh of satisfaction.
Things settle down into tedium. Trade talks, budget meandering, and the rest pass uneventfully. Military fears are discussed and dismissed, and the topic of the draft comes up briefly before being dismissed quickly, the Council unwilling to be drawn into that particular tooth-and-nail debate. After the foreplay of unimportant talk, the High Consul calls for order to speak.

“Fellow Councilors. Ahem. FELLOW COUNCILORS”. The council falls silent. “I have before me a paper from Lucius Medici, High Consul of the Kingdom of the Red Dragon.”. The High Chamberlain speaks briefly, a confused expression on his wide face “Those spear-throwers from the South? You’re telling me they have diplomats?”. Before the Consul can respond, Marshal Lysette elbows him in the side roughly, and in quiet tones explains the reality of the situation, motioning for the Consul to continue.

“They are offering to receive a representative from our Republic, to negotiate trade. A friendly port on the southern continent would be a windfall, and it is my proposal that the Council act on such events as quickly as possible.”

A chorus of ‘Aye’ goes round the table, before the Councilors stop, bemused at the first unanimous vote in who knows how long. The Consul smiles and sits back down, obviously pleased with himself. The meeting continues for a time, but after another quarter of an hour it is adjourned, and the 12 most important people in the nation return to their various duties. Just outside, Marshal Lysette walks quickly to speak with Consul Montefleur.

“High Consul, I have a recommendation for the diplomat.” The Montefleur sighs.
“I wonder, Marshal Lysette, would this recommendation be your protegee… what was her name?”. Quickly, the Field Marshal responds. “Colonel MacAlistair is the perfect choice! She is well-known, garnering favor in Red Dragon. She’s an immigrant, which will get good press at home. She is charismatic, and better, she is the perfect leader for the 2nd Dragoons, who are going with her.”
The Consul stopped walking, the Marshal overtaking him before walking back. “Marshal Lysette, please do not tell me that you think sending an ARMY REGIMENT with a diplomat is a good idea!” His voice has raised to a shout at this point.

“I don’t need to care what you think, they are my soldiers to do with what I please. I am sending them to protect our diplomat, and to measure up the military capabilities of the Red Dragon. That is all you have to know. Any other reasons are mine and mine alone.”
The Consul sighs, used to the pig-headedness so pervasive in the military. “Fine”, he says dejectedly, but the Marshal has already left, leaving him standing alone in the long, wood-floored hallway.

A few hours later, two women in uniform, one clad ostentatiously in epaulets and gold braid, one in the plain blue, marked only by the silver eagle of Colonel. They talk casually, despite the difference in rank. “Remember Colonel – you are not to make a scene. Bow, courtesy, do whatever they ask of you. Fetch and carry if you have to, and whatever you do, ensure you give a good first impression to their leadership. This mission is of the utmost importance, and with this trade deal millions will benefit. Once you have established diplomatic talks, and ONLY when you have done so, open this.”

The Field Marshall hands the young Colonel Lea MacAlistair a large envelope, sealed with the army insignia in deep red wax. The Colonel salutes. “Yes ma’am. I will do you proud.”. The Marshal returns the salute as the Colonel walks off to board the train that holds her new command.
The Consul and the High Justice glare at each other in a wood-paneled private room of their particular favourite club. The Justice smokes a fat, cheap cigar, while the Consul drinks some inexpensive brandy in unhealthy amounts. The Consul speaks first.

“The dispatch from the Red Dragon was not the only missive I received. The other was one of particular interest to Luminor, and their opposition party. Our informants tell us that the tensions between the protectionist government and the more favourable opposition party are growing, and our spies tell us that we are in a position to influence policy. I propose we send a somewhat more subtle representative to speak with this opposition party, and try and earn trade rights. I need your help.”

The High Justice looks pensively at the wall. The Consul knows this is a contentious issue for his opposite, and expected a long deliberation. What he did not expect was the High Justice responding “Proceed with caution, Consul, but do what you think is best”. Hiding the surprise, Montefleur nods and moves for the door, satisfaction overtaking him as soon as he is out of sight.


The train to Foiture is loud, foul-smelling and uncomfortable. The military line is built to speed and efficiency, though why someone would ever choose to build it like this momentarily escapes Colonel MacAlistair. She sits in the officer’s car, alone but for a pair of midshipmen in the white-and-blue of Naval officers. The two young men chat eagerly, a game of cards ignored on the table in front of them. Lea holds a tattered paperback, all the rage in Lutte but lost on her

She stands up and looks out the window, a blur of green and brown meeting her as she brushes the remnants of a pie from her untidy uniform. The Midshipmen glance over, and casually salute before turning back to their banal conversation. After straightening her uniform, Lea walks back into the rear carriages, surely full to bursting with her Dragoons, happily parted from their horses until Foiture. 800 soldiers in a group with a storied history, it was daunting for inexperienced Colonel MacAlistair to walk through the doors into the first of the soldier’s carriages, but one did not become a Colonel without a generous serving of determination, and the door swung open at her touch.

The noisy locomotive drowned out the sounds of the soldiers in the front car, but upon opening the door Lea was assaulted by the noise. The familiar sound of fighting men singing fills the car, one of the seemly endless songs every enlisted man picks up when joining the Army.

“Let every young bachelor fill up his glass! Vive la companie!”

Colonel MacAlistair walked down the center aisle, “inspecting” her soldiers. She saw people of all stripes, the Dragoons being a professional regiment. She saw older men with large grey beards, mottled with the scars of battle. She saw young men, some little older than schoolboys, eager eyes and clean features animated in song or chat. She even saw several women, volunteers like the rest, looking hard and stern, eager to prove themselves the equal of their male counterparts. Women have been allowed in the armed forces as volunteers since the Revolution, and can be found serving in most every branch, with the exceptions of Grenadiers and other regiments that require a great deal of physical strength.

“And drink to the health of his favourite lass! Vive la companie!”

Soldiers lounge about in various poses, in various states of undress and preparedness. The soldier’s cars have moveable stools as opposed to upholstered seats, and soldiers gather in circles to socialize. Many of the soldiers attend to their rifles, mostly the veterans to whom maintenance has become instinctual. War is mostly walking, followed closely by waiting, and marked occasionally by extreme terror, and veterans only become so by being prepared for the latter during the former. So, they sit in silence or in conversation cleaning barrels, checking box magazines for fault or crack, checking or oiling receivers and sliding bolts back and forth.

“Let every old married man drink to his wife! Vive la companie!”

The deployment was highly irregular, and Lea lacked a Major as second in command. The 5 captains were given space in the caboose, but lieutenants sat either in small groups of other officers or were seen occasionally mingling with the men of their platoon. As she walked, she drew salutes like a wave of respect, quickly moving on and leaving the soldiers to their revelry. It is never good form for an officer to stay with their command longer than necessary – the enlisted can never relax around their superiors, and carousing officers are left guilty at the end of the fighting, or worse, incapable of doing their duty. Lea leaves the car, and continues through several more on her way to her HQ

“The Joy of his bosom and comfort in life! Vive la companie!” 

The music faded away as the final door closed, leaving her in the tense quiet of her Captains. Uneasily, she settled down to work. She never would get used to authority.