[colour=gold][u][h1][centre]Empire of Violette[/centre][/h1][/u][/colour]
[centre][img]https://i.imgur.com/fRiTWvK.png[/img][/centre]
[centre][h3][u]Sandao, Veletian Settumu,[/u][/h3][/centre]

Hugo Dutoit slammed his fist down on the table of his quarters, the shifting of the wood as he struck it inadvertently sending a glass of wine falling to the floor with a shatter. His grey old eyes, equal parts tired and livid, watched the stain form for a moment, but then turned towards the window, his body following behind him as he gazed out at the fleet in the harbor. God damn what the Admiralty had to say—he'd never been more sure of anything in his life. It was far too convenient for it to happen now, so soon after the assignments, against a ship carrying so much military cargo. They had to know, those inhuman scum in Senryu, they had to have spies left somewhere, somehow, despite all that was being done. The more than slightly racist old general wished that he could have every last Hironese in the colony shot, but not even that would be enough. They could have spies—traitors—among the Kikitomi, too. Yet his hands were tied there; General Féret, that misguided fool back in Confluence, had been given strict orders from whatever ponce was in charge in the Ministry of the Army these days to end any 'mistreatment' of the Kikitomi. Hugo had come to begrudgingly accept that they were at least somewhat useful, maybe two or three of their finest veterans in the Reserves as good as a green Veletian lad. Yet, what good did that do when half of them were traitors to the cause? Was keeping the locals appeased truly worth the cost of endangering the colony, of endangering the thousands of Veletians that dwelt on it, that defended it each day from the Imperium's scourge?

Grabbing his cushioned seat over from the table he'd nearly shattered and dragging it near the window, Dutoit grimaced, watching the moon rise over Sandao harbor. The sight reminded him of the coming of night back home in Labelle, at the far end of the world from here. He'd never cared for this, for peacetime, for dealing with these Settumese and constantly trying to crush rebellions before they started. He wanted nothing more than to take the fight to them. To skip the shore to Hiron, a division at his back, and take on the Imperium where they slept. A rifle in his hand, ten thousand more held by the good fighting men behind him, the roar of the artillery cracking through their lines as he charged. The sight of Senryu in ashes filled Hugo's eyes as they closed, the roaring fire of the death of Hiron filling the islands skies and his own nostrils with smoke, the shrieks of the womanly, ill-prepared Hironese army screaming into his ears as they fled for the hills. Thoughts floated through his head of how he'd be famous for his exploits, of the names he'd be given in Violette as he was hailed a national hero. Hugo Dutoit, the Bane of Senryu. Hugo Dutoit, the Man-Who-Broke-Hiron. Hugo Dutoit, the warrior that slew a million fucking Heer shits with his own bloodied hands. The general would love nothing more than to open his eyes and see an armada of Hironese ships on the horizon, about to land every last Heer that ever lived on Sandao's shores, one bullet in the Garrison's rifles for each and every one of them to step up and bite.

When his eyes opened, he was disappointed.