The Dreadnought Effect is an interesting little concept that covers one of the many pitfalls of technological innovation in a military setting. It traces back to the British Royal Navy at the turn of the twentieth century and the superpower stranglehold it held over the seas. At the time navies were composed of numerous ship types, with each one filling a specific role in a specific niche. Specialisation was king, and Britain had more ships, more crews and more expertise to the point that no other nation could truly hope to compete. HMS Dreadnought was a new type of vessel, an evolution, set to be the crown jewel of British naval dominance and further cement its rule over the waves. But therein lay the problem, she could do everything. She was too good. Too powerful. The moment Dreadnought hit the water she had rendered nearly all older ships obsolete. Britain's dominance vanished, their advantages reset along with the playing field. All another nation had to do was build their own version of her and they too could be a superpower.

Alter was only too aware of the sheer power of the Dreadnought he was carrying across his shoulder. Granted, there was no immediate threat of triggering a technological revolution. By his estimation this society was a good couple of centuries away from having the means to produce their own firearms. But ideas have a nasty habit of sticking around, once inspiration has taken root it is nigh impossible to remove.

The evening sun over Crestvigil was devoid of the oppressive heat that had drilled into his eyes in the Badlands. But now, in this moment, that celestial ball of light and smugness taunted him. It lounged on the horizon like some roman emperor, indulging in his discomfort. The gentle sway of the green-laden trees across the rooftops was transformed from beckoning serenity to the eager clamour of spectators at the colosseum. He was the lone gladiator in this pit of expectation, and he was to be fed to a lion disguised as an old man’s cynicism. From the moment they had stepped outside Vaulter had dropped the polite act. He loomed over him with a look of disdain, lip curling into a dog-like snarl.

“Draw your weapon.” he ordered.

Alter grimaced and unslung the rifle. As much as he wanted to not comply, he had to admit that antagonising the man would not be the best idea.

“Lady Lucille had made mention of the strange armaments you carry. What exactly am I looking at?” Vaulter asked.

There was a subtle change in the man’s tone. Curiosity was beginning to bubble to the surface. After all, this was a career soldier talking. No matter how stuck in his ways the Marshal was, the chance to see something different was a worthy use of his time. Alter relaxed a little at this crack in the facade, he could work with this.

Over the next ten minutes Alter found himself explaining the various facets and mechanics of his personal arsenal. Vaulter was bristly throughout but he was no longer giving off a murderous aura. At first he had been quite incredulous, particularly when it came to the rifle’s power and rate of fire. Nevertheless as the minutes ticked by he became more receptive to Alter’s claims. At the Marshal’s insistence Alter fired a couple of rounds through an old metal breastplate that had been attached to a wooden dummy. He winced as the crack echoed and bounced around the buildings, sure enough a small crowd of curious guards and their eager trainees were gathering around the outskirts of the training grounds. Perhaps sensing the unwantedness of the attention and the need to prevent any unnecessary rumours, Vaulter called a halt to the demonstration.

“I can see that you are both confident and well equipped. While I admit to holding a great distaste for your kind, you carry yourself well.” He spoke quietly, spine stiffening.

“Thank you?” Alter wasn’t entirely sure how to respond. It certainly felt like he was still being insulted but he appreciated the effort Vaulter was making to overcome his prejudice.

Vaulter nodded and immediately took off at a march back inside the house. Seeing that their interest would be fed no longer, the impromptu audience began to disperse once more. For a moment Alter was left alone on the sandy ground, pondering his life choices. With a fatigued sigh he began scouring the floor around him and retrieved the pair of spent bullet casings. He vaguely considered poking around the shot dummy to gather the projectiles but silently dismissed that possibility. At least the sun wasn’t bothering him anymore.

“Are you just going to stand around out there all day then?” Whim called out to him having managed to figure out how window latches work.

Alter pulled a face at the laughing man and made his way back to the map room. The rest of his squad had, for the most part, retired to the chairs around the outskirts of the room, with only Riptide and Boozehound still examining the maps. A small smattering of polite but intensely sarcastic applause met his arrival. He offered his sternest glower and turned to where Oliver was deep in conversation with one of the servants. Upon noticing his arrival Oliver quickly thanked the man and moved to address the room.

“The staff have managed to secure you all accommodation at one of the coaching inns back down the road we walked along. It’s called The Riverfield, I’m told it's one of the nicer establishments the more well-off traders bunk their staff and guards in. You’ll also be fed and watered on the house.” He explained.

“That sounds like it will suit us well enough. I’m assuming you’ll be staying here?” Alter asked.

Oliver nodded. “Belonging to nobility has its perks after all.”

“Then I don’t see much point in hanging around here for too much longer, how are we feeling?” Alter turned to the rest of the squad.

“We’re just looking for fun at this point. I agree, we should get squared away.” Riptide turned and signalled everyone else to get up.

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“Very well then, we’ll reconvene here tomorrow. Don’t worry, we’ll keep on working on Vaulter this evening. Although it seems that you’ve already managed to crack his shell in a couple of places.” Oliver smiled knowingly as the squad filed out of the room. Alter saluted and followed the others back through the building and into the street, the door closed softly behind him the moment he stepped through.

The cool of the evening air was a soft delight to the senses. A light breeze caressed their cheeks as they walked and the comfortable drone of crickets and grasshoppers melded with the sighing of the leaves. A dozen cooking smells wafted across the street from homes and businesses abuzz with life. Laughter and conversation swelled through the open doorways and windows they passed. The Riverfield sat apart from the other buildings on the main street, a sizable yard area wrapped around the structure on three sides. Stables filled with various horse breeds and storage barns for wagon and carriage intermingled around the far edges. The building itself was impressive despite its rustic appearance. Standing three storeys high, delicate and warm woodwork coupled with a steep sloping roof and brightly coloured window boxes gave it an alpine chalet look. Stepping gingerly through the open door Alter found himself looking into a large, open room filled with long rows of tables and benches. Twenty or more patrons were sitting huddled in various groups around the space in clothes ranging from farmhands to merchants, he could even see a pair of off duty guards playing some sort of game in the corner. The far end of the room was taken by a long bar, however it had no stools arrayed before it. A trio of serving staff scuttled across the floor carrying wooden mugs and flagons along with plates of steaming food. One of these staff members, a young woman with brown hair done in a single, simple braid, noticed their arrival and intercepted them.

It seemed that they were indeed expected, much to Alter’s relief, and they were quickly ushered through the room and up a wide flight of stairs built into one of the bar’s sides. Up to the top floor and along a wooden corridor to the far end where a pair of rooms sat ready, four beds per. Having seen them safely to their berths and informing them that food would be ready for them downstairs when they wanted it, the woman offered a slight bow and retreated back to the stairs. For now they were alone as they split into two groups and claimed the various beds.

“It’s very ‘level one Dungeons and Dragons campaign’.” Pavejack remarked as he sat heavily on the bed, causing the thin mattress to stand up at both ends like a reverse lifting bridge.

“If you say so.” Alter humoured him as he poked at his own sleeping arrangement.

The sheets seemed clean enough and lifting the mattress didn’t reveal any hidden seething masses of bugs ready to chew his toes off tonight. The blanket was a bit thin and scratchy and had the odd hole but would do a job. His feet were going to stick out the end but that was a problem they were all going to face. Each of the beds were provided with some storage in the form of a wooden foot locker with a simple metal catch. Alter was no expert of furniture craft but even he could tell these things would last about five seconds under a crowbar’s leverage. He quickly called the rest of the squad into the room.

“Let’s talk about security.” He began. “Like hell I’m leaving our arsenal unwatched this evening. We pile up all our gear in here and make sure someone is awake and alert in this room at all times. That includes primary weapons and throwables, though I won’t object to you keeping your side arms to hand.”

“Who's staying up here?” Riptide asked.

“I need a volunteer from the audience, preferably someone who isn’t hungry.” Alter looked at the assembled men.

“You’ve got one. I could use a quiet moment.” Walross nodded.

“One of us will be up to relieve you when we can. How does the door look?”

“It’s got a basic lock, the key is already in there. Looks flimsy though.” Boats answered as he studied the doorway.

“That should still be enough to stop curious eyes. I’m sure you all noticed how many of those we had on us downstairs.”

“Let’s not get paranoid. We’re the new exhibit at the zoo, of course we’re going to get that sort of attention.” Whim cautioned.

Alter couldn’t quite shake the image of a rough yet lovable lockpicking street urchin unsuspectingly charging down the road with a live grenade in hand as weapons and backpacks were stowed with varying levels of care across the bedroom. With the easily forgotten promise to Walross that he would soon be relieved, the men tramped back down to the main floor and secured themselves seating near one of the quieter corners.

Soon enough, plates of hot, mostly identifiable food were placed before them, accompanied by large tankards of frothing liquid which they could only assume to be some sort of alcohol.

“How is it?” Alter asked Riptide, the first man to sample the drink.

“Ermm. Rustic? Survivable? Safer than water at least. I think.” He coughed.

Good natured laughter followed his discomfort, and as everyone slowly found the courage to dig in they quickly discovered it wasn’t so bad. The food itself was surprisingly well cooked. Alter couldn’t immediately identify the meat, his best guess was lamb but its texture was subtly off. Vegetables, the local speciality, made up most of the plate. Carrots and potatoes piled on top of each other battled for attention with vibrant green beans and radishes glazed in a sweet sauce. A small earthenware bowl held some sort of wheatmeal mixed with corn and peas. The local beer was serviceable and possessed some unknown strength. The group’s tongues were quickly loosened and quiet but comfortable conversation punctuated the meal with pleasure.

As the plates were cleared and fresh tankards provided, Riptide leaned over to Alter and whispered.

“You were right. We’re being watched. There’s a group of six armed men a few tables down that’ve been staring at us much too intently.”

Alter didn’t turn to return the strangers’ gazes, instead nodding slowly and taking another drink.

“Keep a half eye on them for now, they might’ve recognised us as Oliver and Lucille’s escorts. They look rough?” He spoke in a relaxed voice as the rest of the group slowly leaned in and focussed.

“There’s a certain highwayman vibe to them.” Riptide picked at a splinter in the table.

“I doubt they’ll make trouble here then. Try to memorise their faces as best you can, we may end up with some company tomorrow.” Alter chugged the last of his drink and stood up.

The world shifted gently under his feet as he picked his way towards the stairs. His hand strayed onto the banister as he ascended unsteadily. The steady sound of boots was following him, he knew his friends well enough to recognise their footfalls. This was not one of them. Having reached the top Alter quickly turned the corner into the corridor and pressed his back to the wall. Fingertips lingered on the sidearm holster at his hip as the footsteps drew closer. It was time to offer a polite greeting.