From the pan-dimensional space gate steps a pair of authoritative, resplendently-shined plate boots that outsize all others in The Knights.

Royal Knight Hoss’Rayull steps from the gate leading to the forward camp.He can see it’s even more desolate and godless than he remembered it to be, but it’s flow of soldiers is denser than ever.

The sharp wind glides smoothly across his scales, as if greeting him after some time off.

The reminiscence is cut short, though. Before he can get a good look around, he’s immediately waved down by a soldier.

“Identification?” the man asks.

Rayull flicks up his insignia for the man, who does not even need to inspect it to immediately tell it’s a knight’s crest of Old Reinen. Rayull’s is led to the front of the camp. Waiting for him is an official-looking man, bolting down scotch.

“Oh, a scale,” the general starts, reverting instantly to one of the many derogatory terms belonging to Rayull’s kind.

Rayull, a higher dragon-kin, nods. “Yes, sir. I’ve been sent directly from my mission in Liefland. If I may ask, where’s General Detrocolas?”

“Died,” the stout general says to the nearly two and a half-meter high half-dragon. “You’ll be answering to me, now.” The general presents his hand. “Name’s Coltairne Leinhard. I hear you’re quite the monster with that sledge of yours.”

The two shake hands as Rayull replies. “With all due respect, sir, it’s a common type of weapon from my reservation. We tend to think of it as a commoner’s weapon.”

The stubby human chuckles with an unexpected charm. “Well it’s a pleasure to have you on board, boy,” General Coltairne says with a quick, friendly punch to Rayull’s massive chest.

Rayull forgoes mentioning that he’s actually in his eighties, a common time around a dragon-kin’s adolescence, and is probably the general’s senior by at least twenty years. Perhaps “boy” is just The Good General’s way of telling Rayull that he’s the one in charge.

“Yes sir. What am I here for?” the dragon-kin asks, scratching his muscular, teeth-lined snout.

The general nods and hands over an enclosed envelope. “You’ll be officering over a unit of five other soldiers. No mages, so you’re out of luck there. We’re holding them back with the artillery batteries. They’re staying back, and you’re going into the front lines.”

Rayull takes the order slip, pauses and addresses the general with his eyes. “Sir, you mean to say we’re going into a firing zone?”

“That’s right, you got a problem with that?”

“No. I’ve done it before.”

“Very good. Besides, how else would the Easterners go in range if we didn’t have bait to get them there?”

Rayull leans his head backward with a certain crane-like grace expected more from a butler. “… By pulling our line out of the firing zone, perhaps?” he asks, testing the interpersonal waters with his new commander.

The general wags a wizened finger. “Ahh, of course; but then how would they come into range? We are assaulting their line, after all.”

Rayull’s gaze pauses in its movement. The general smirks. Rayull might as well fall over on the ground in surprise.

“… I was under the impression we were defending,” he says.

The general shakes his head as he pours Rayull a glass of scotch “Not anymore. I’m in charge, and I hate wars of attrition. They cost far too many lives and become hated by the public. We’re going to smack their asses right back home, imprison them, murder them, and delegate the rest of them to prison camps….” he shoots a choice, almost venomous gaze in the “scale’s” direction. “Sound familiar?”

Rayull twitches as he rejects the scotch. He recalls accounts of the murderous Extermination Wars, back when his own people were the ones on the line. He wasn’t there, it was centuries ago, but these are the sorts of wounds that take longer than a lifetime to heal.

“So, a group of five?” Rayull says with a bland look- he’s not new to racism, but getting that from a commanding officer, someone he can’t punch, is particularly bitter. It’s less-so the name-calling and more on the precedent that he’s about to enable similar atrocities to what his ancestors had dealt with. Before long, he’s certain, Ulterians will be “less than equal” citizens of the Republic, just like him.

General Coltairne smiles at Rayull, reaches up to pat him on the shoulder, and nods. It’s obvious he’s drunk.

“Yeah, you’ll be taking a group of five others. Recruit kids mostly, with one or two guys that know how to fight. You’ll have some extra gear, but that’s logistics’ job. Don’t bother checking in with the rest of the unit; they’re all busy. Just get on with your squad. I’m too busy to deal with every little platoon that walks through my door, let alone every squad.” He takes a pause to sip his spirit. “Any questions?”

Rayull bows his head at an angle. “None, sir.”

“Then get out of my tent,” Coltairne says as he takes back to his seat and waves Rayull off with a flippant, almost foppish inflection.

The hulking knight salutes the general. “Yes, sir. I’ll do our country proud.”

Coltairne just scoffs and takes another shot.

That’s his cue to leave.

Rayull bows out of the tent, cursing under his breath that the Royal Knights would ever have to take orders from the Western Kingdoms Defensive Republic; but he knows victory is worth the humiliation.

One cannot always get superiors one loves. He’s just glad he won’t be running staff duty any time soon with a fattened bastard like this fellow.

He won't muse on it. It's not like it would help anything. He steps off to begin his work.