Late November, 1835
Upon the Gallian-Imperial Border
The thunder of rifle fire drifted over the field, carried along to the staccato roll of a tribal drumbeat. An uncaring sun beat mercilessly down on the lines of men, awkwardly reloading with paper cartridges and ramrods. Acrid clouds of choking blue smoke lazily wafted from gleaming rifle muzzles. The sharp odor of the smoke mingled with the smell of fear... and death. The cries and moans of mortally wounded men echoed across the battle lines.
Over one of the tattered lines of combat fluttered the blood-red flag of the Eastern European Imperial Alliance. The brown-clad men fighting under the crimson standard steadily withdrew towards the reassuring bulk of Ghirlandaio Fortress. The soldiers gave an exceptional account of themselves in their retreat, falling back in good order and spelling the end for many an overzealous enemy. All the same, a retreat it unquestionably was.
As the Imperial soldiers gave their ground, blue-uniformed troops under the cobalt banner of the Principality of Gallia hotly charged after them in pursuit. Gallian artillery pieces fired and roared, dueling with their Imperial counterparts for supremacy, even as partisans fired from concealed positions within the nearby treeline, adding to the weight of metal raining down upon the retreating Imperials. As the Imperials withdrew into their fortress, the advance of Gallia's forces ground to a halt as the fortification's defenders launched a fierce barrage of defensive fire from their positions. The Gallians, however, had no reason to worry. Ghirlandaio's occupants had nowhere to run and their supplies were running out.
By the next month, the citadel had fallen into Gallian hands. Meanwhile, in places such as Bruhl and the forests of Kloden, similar cries of victory rang as their Imperial garrisons surrendered. The grand Eastern European Imperial Alliance was left utterly staggered and shocked by its unexpected defeat at the hands of a tiny, almost trivial nation. This unforeseen defeat was the final straw. Throughout the Empire's regions, an emotion that had been generated and aggravated by countless conflicts with the neighboring Atlantic Federation finally broke loose: Sheer, unrelenting panic.
For Gallia, this disturbance would prove to be a short but crucial respite, the only thing keeping a massive, retaliatory Imperial expeditionary force from lunging upon the upstart Gallians like a pack of slavering warhounds.
All the same, the hounds would arrive soon enough.
Author Note: Hello, John and Teyr here. Your typical Valkyria Chronicles fiction is focused on original characters caught up in the Gallian militia, set in a similar time frame to the game or anime. Not necessarily a bad thing - the setting of VC is quite addicting to write in. But, why not try the past? It's more difficult, but just as rewarding. This story explores the Gallian War of Independence in 1835, reminiscent of the American Civil War.