Prologue: Reveille
Snow wasn't common in this part of the country. In fact, most of the foreigners who made successfully navigated its cumbersome immigration process often cited the mild weather as a primary factor in renouncing their former citizenship in favor of the isolationist nation that was Kistriel. Most of the surrounding countries viewed multiple citizenship as an inherent right, making the single-citizenship policy in Kistriel an odd one, given the state of diplomatic affairs in the area, which was generally favorable. At the very least, the local Duke was shocked when he realized the sound of snow crunching underneath the weight of boots, of buckles and straps on saddles flailing around as horses milled around excitedly to the chagrin of their riders, of equipment and gear bouncing off of the uniformed masses marching through towns outlying the border cities, was not attributed to a mere military exercise.
Kistriel would be faced with a remarkably swift and efficient invasion, beginning exactly one hour after midnight, one that was the result of years of meticulous planning and methodical execution. Everything from subtle fluctuations in tone when speaking with nobles to public edicts from the court were planned out by a singular, ambitious entity. They were so ambitious, in fact, the submission of the country's ruler, what the men employed by them considered to be a grand undertaking, was a minor milestone in their designs. Within the hour that foreign troops had crossed over into Kistrellian land, the first major city fell to the invaders, completely surprised by the sudden assault. They had only taken minor casualties before the mayor panicked and surrendered. After three hours, two more cities had fallen, and by the end of that day, only the coastal border and the heart of the country remained in Kistrellian control.
Private Rostello was one of the soldiers who had marched onto the minor town closest to the border. The artillerymen in the battery near his company had fired exactly twice on the town's walls. Rostello was the second man on the siege ladders, and the third over the walls. The man in front of him had bludgeoned a guard, leaving the guard unconscious on top of his weapon, and the soldier was currently locked in melee combat with the other guard on duty, his rifle locked in place with the guard's pike, as they struggled to overpower each other. Rostello knew the soldier attacking the guard, knew that he had always succeeded in training when it came to polearm and melee combat. Considering this, he trained his sidearm, a weathered flintlock that had clearly seen better days, on one of the guards who was responding to the alarm being sounded, and fired at his chest, sending him back down the staircase he had hurried up. He then sheathed his rapier and unslung his rifle, bayonet fixed, and bolted to the rampart to his left, where he found the posted guard sleeping, somehow oblivious to the mounting assault.
He ignored the guard, took his sword, left carelessly against the wall, and tossed it over the wall. He then ran to the rampart overlooking his allies, and joined by another of his comrades, killed both of the men there with his bayonet rather quickly, as they were still unsure if they heard a shot or just something being dropped down the city walls. His ally was lowering the Kistrellian and town colors, and Rostello simply provided security. Once the colors were struck, Rostello guarded the post until the standard bearer for his forces caught up and raised the invader's flag over the town, as the battle was now nearly finished and it was clear who would carry the day.
Rostello then made his way with his small party to the town hall, an unimpressive building, and joined the invaders trying to break the door down. After watching this for some time, he grew impatient and took his men to the side entrance, which, hilariously, was only guarded by a portly nobleman frantically writing his memoirs as if he knew he would be killed in the coming moments. The man looked at the small group, and specifically Rostello, with such panic in his eyes it almost amused the soldier. He felt slight guilt in the fear the man was regarding him with, so he gave the man a warm smile, removed his patrol cap, and calmly walked inside, followed by his men.
He found the hall's defenders desperately barricading the wooden double doors to the hall. Four men were holding the doors closed, although they would occasionally send one to add a chair or some other source of weight to the barricade. Two of the town guards, who had obviously been woken at the height of the assault, as they were hastily dressed in their uniforms with unkempt hair to boot, and even missing parts of the uniform, were propped at the hall's reception desk with their rifles supported by the desk, and aimed at the door, waiting for the moment the barricade would fail.
They wouldn't live to see that moment, though it would come. Rostello and his small group fired into the riflemen, then rushed the guards tending to the barricade. Rostello immediately pinned one of the smaller men to the floor with his bayonet, and withdrew it just in time to parry a blow from a healing staff that one of the men – apparently a curate – had reacted with. He was surprised by the curate's tenacity, and took care to leave him unconscious. The barricade fell as he bludgeoned one of the defenders with a buttstroke from his rifle, and the rest of the invaders poured in, killing anybody who didn't surrender. The entire battle only lasted around forty minutes, and altogether there were only some forty deaths sustained during the entire operation.
This was to be his last engagement under contract. His term of service expired earlier that morning, and he was ready to move forward with his life. He used the notion of returning to a carefree lifestyle to push him through this last battle, when he saw the flag he rose flying triumphantly over the city as the sun rose, he knew there were things he would miss from the lifestyle he was currently practicing. Still, as they formed up and began to march to the next garrison, where he would be released from service officially, he eagerly sounded off to the marching cadence, feeling accomplished and satisfied with his life.
Chapter 1:
The nation of Kistriel found itself locked in a brutal struggle for its survival. For years, it was considered a major power on the continent, but all of a sudden it was being methodically dissected and destroyed almost entirely by a country that many didn't even consider a threat to any nation, not even the miniscule state of Mourg. Despite this, Imprisse surprised the world with its whirlwind declaration of war against the juggernaut that was Kistriel, and the world was certainly surprised when Imprisse wrestled control of over half the country from Kistriel in such a short amount of time.
The Marquis de Roustien, a battered old man by the name of Lorencou, watched as Imprissian soldiers gathered all around him and his town, and although he was not considered a major target, as he had no ties to the federal Kistrellian government, he still worried about their presence, and why they lingered so. Eventually, as time went on and the Imprissians didn't leave, he submitted to Kistriel for peace of mind, renouncing his charter's sovereignty and allowing Kistriel complete authority in the situation.
Commanded by a callous man named Roque, a bald man who very much resembled a bull, negotiations were briefly conducted, and as they failed, Roque realized he was outnumbered, outgunned, and outmaneuvered. As Imprissians began to lay siege to the small castle owned by the Marquis, Roque made a desperate attempt to gain leverage against the invaders. He dispatched his executive officer, an elderly knight who, ironically, appreciated his place of service due to its low risk, with two children, visitors from the capital of Kistriel. These children were the heirs to one of the noble houses in the capital, visiting the Marquis' son, as the three children had been friends since their early childhood. He sent them out of the castle and in the direction of the capital, while intentionally leaking this information to the attackers. Securing members of a house of Kistriel would provide the invaders a massive bargaining chip. Roque did this in the hopes that they would pursue the children and their escort, hopefully diverting the forces or at least dividing them, providing relief for the horribly outmatched Roustien guards.
What Roque hadn't expected was a company of cavalry that had shown up mere minutes after he had dispatched the party. The commander overseeing the assault was relieved to see them, as he had thought exactly as Roque had hoped and was planning to divide his forces. He spoke with the captain commanding the cavalry, and the entire company set off after the elderly knight and his charge, taking only one squad of the infantrymen preparing the siege. The rest, now no longer needing to worry about the potential leverage that was currently bounding away on a weathered horse, began building their siege ladders and formed up, preparing for the assault.
Though outnumbered, the Roustien soldiers fought tenaciously, standing fast despite the artillery constantly shelling them, maintaining their formation behind the wall as the Imprissian soldiers tore down the gate, and fighting to the very last man as their enemies poured into the town's streets. The commander, Roque, drew his pike when the Imprissians burst into the mayor's office to arrest him, and devastated anybody who came close. Finally, the soldiers stopped challenging him with bayonets and began firing into the man, and the force of each round prevented him from closing the distance. He fell after eight shots, some grazing wounds and some mortal ones, and as the mayor was subdued, the Imprissian commander ordered their flag to be struck.
The soldiers, certainly shocked by the stubborn resistance, were not blind to the devastation they had just wrought on this town in their efforts to stamp out the defenders. The walls were ablaze due to one squad trying to burn guards out of a hotel. Many buildings had collapsed due to the artillery shells striking them, and families that had been running for shelter shuddered and broke down as they saw familiar faces stretched out across the town streets. The NCO overseeing the men who were ordered to strike the colors modified the order.
He sheathed his sword and approached his soldiers. "Hold on, Marcus." The soldier manning it looked down from the flagpole. "Sergeant?" "Fly the colors at half-staff." "…Sergeant, I understand the sentiment, but-" "Then you understand why we're obliged to do so, Marcus. Half-staff." The soldier acknowledged the order and complied. Sergeant Tyre was an old soldier. He had fought alongside Kistriel when a rebellion cropped up on their border. Back when he was a Private, he was sent to assist with a small company drummed up from a town's garrison. Some of the faces in this town had given him their thanks when the rebels made their way here. Though he felt nervous because of his small act of defiance, the guilt that surged through him as kids that had seen him as a savior years before, aged to adulthood, now regarded him as a conqueror. Some of the citizens clearly recognized him, and his belief that soldiers have their moral duties lead him to render the town of Roustien its final respect with its colors flying at half-staff. He watched the townspeople being herded into whatever building was nearest to them, and silently waited for his captain to notice the flag and for the subsequent lecture.