Colonel Naranbaatar Batbayar strode down the gangplank and onto the battlements with the grim demeanor befitting the circumstances of his jaunt. His combat fatigues were flecked with oil from an engine that had been cracked open by small arms fire and dusted with sand and debris kicked up by the low flying air-boats. A thumbs up was all that was needed to send the Di-Vu lander up into the sky, the gunner on the deck offering a swift salute. The wind-blasted mustache of the Minga/Bingal officer twisted up at the ends in an unusual look, giving a sense of joviality that was not present at the moment. Batbayar scanned his surroundings as his troops, the ferocious Marine Raiders, scoured the battlements for the wounded to be carried to the now-erected Aid Station. To their credit the Aeromarines were not selective in whom they saved; unlike the lot of ground pounding infantry butchering the captives down in the river-valley, these men had full intent to save the men they had just been fighting. 

“Colonel! What a lovely surprise!”

The heavily accented voice didn’t once catch Naranbaatar off guard and, with a slight scowl, the Colonel quickly turned to look at his new company. The Lavanian Tribune, Lucius Magnus Tibero, strode across the battlements like a prowling hyena with his pack of armored and ferocious Comintatus baying at his heels. Batbayar admitted to himself that they were the picture of intimidation, so armored that even their clanking lock-step march was more reminiscent of a light armor squadron than of an infantry platoon. Of course, he would never admit that to the Tribune. 

“Tribune, I see you survived the assault,” said the Colonel with a wry smile who’s mirth was detracted from by his slight scowl, “We are all fortunate to have it be so.”

Lucius smiled broadly, as if a man entering a competition with a well-respected and highly pleasurable foe, before waggling one outstretched finger on his right hand at the side of his head in his typical fashion. It was his display, his little show that he was onto what was going on and found it evermore entertaining. As always he turned to the Comitatus on his right, the thoroughly armored foreigner completely immune to the prying eyes of others searching for his emotions, whom would always simply continue marching in a disinterested fashion. The Comitatus were not Lavanians but foreign troops under the employ of individual Lavanian officers (there was no better way to ensure loyalty of bodyguards within the Lavanian state apparatus) and they often did not share the Lavanian sense of humor with their ward. Despite this, Lucius acted as if raucous laughter followed his every word.

“Haha! Such a sardonic humor, Colonel! You and I both know that I was nowhere near the frontlines! No such reason to put a man of my stature on these battlements when there were enemies crawling about on them, is there?”
“No, certainly not,” responded Naranbaatar with a snide nose crinkle and a shake of his head, “Though your Comitatus certainly did work . . .”

Naranbaatar had seen from above while he observed the taking of the designated Fort 28. His Marine Raiders had hit a snag trying to enter the battlements with their complement of Assault Sappers having been redirected to a particularly fierce area of combat on Fort 25 just down the river. Even with the Raider’s skill and fortitude at close-quarters combat they had found the resistance at Fort 28 to be notably stubborn. The Comitatus commander, one Centurio Ulz Anzanang, had offered a contingent of his own forces to take the field. Accepting the offer, Naranbaatar had directed the heavily armored Lavanian troops to the fiercest fighting in the depths of the breached castle and the Iron Men of Lavania had proven their bloody reputation to be entirely factual. Resistant to most small arms fire and fragmentation grenades, the Comitatus had suffered no casualties and only partial damage to some of their suits while clearing the breach for the Raiders to pour in. Now, it seemed, Lucius was here to collect on the dues he did not earn.

“And it is no surprise they did; I selected them myself. Every single one of my men are born fighters, hand picked for the job.” There was a pause as a real sense of malice seemed to emanate from the Tribune as he considered one of the corpses at his feet before he looked up, his emerald green eyes flashing like reflective plates, “I am glad that they could be of assistance. You, of course, know my dedication to the Zhenxiang cause. It pleases me that even my small contingent can provide for the greater good of our most righteous campaign.”

“Of course…” 

[center]~~~~~[/center]

The Laureate-General peered out across the rolling hills, far-reaching steppe, and low-flowing rivers of Northern Delsai. It was open to him now, with full freedom of movement granted to him by the defeat of his most-despised Monarchist foes. The blacks had been crushed, though not in the way he had ideally wished for, and opportunities would provide themselves soon. He opened his eyes to reveal the map before him, showing off the unit dispositions across the highly stratified terrain of Northern Delsai. He was in the war-room aboard his personal craft, the corvette-turned command vessel known to by its newly christened Zengravi name, Zenlong. Staff officers went about their business to direct the growing needs of the Zhenxiang forces on the ground. Casualties needed to be removed from the frontline, deployed units needed requipping, aircraft needed refueling, and a load of prisoners needed to be hidden from view.

They had gone against the Great Leader’s direct orders. The Zhenxiang Army, along with their allies, had taken prisoners of those enemies who had surrendered to them. Nearly ten thousand men, professional troops of the Royalist enemy, had been captured and taken under Zhenxiang custody. It was not part of Kyeung’s dream for a reformed and better Zengrav to see every single one of those men who fought against him put to death and he certainly would sully his morals at the behest of any man or woman, even the Great Leader. They were supposed to be winning hearts and minds; how were they to do this if they took heads instead? His morale and ethical problems aside, it was also a waste of potential manpower. These men had fought for the Royalists and were subsequently abandoned to their fate; there were no better targets for the Jide than such men. They would be treated well, like all prisoners, and would be slowly moved to see the world as it truly was. Though nothing short of a long-term investment, it was one that the Laureate-General intended to recreate numerous times across Zengrav. What better a time than this to have a trial run?

“General, all logistics related endeavors are underway.” The voice was from Kesor Nimh-Kah, Hyeun’s personal adjutant, who waited patiently and silently off to his General’s right. “What are your orders?”

Hyeun steepled his fingers before his face in consideration, his eyes turning to slits as if to aid in his thought by keeping them from escaping. There was now much to do and much to consider. First and foremost, he would have to deal with the problem of his prisoners. The Great Leader would be incensed that he let them live and would likely seek them returned. Giving them up, of course, was out of the question; to hand them over would be even worse than putting them to death himself. He would need to find a way to obsfucate their presence has best he could from prying eyes and make it as difficult as possible to discover their identities.

“Colonel, I need you to do a service for the Zhenxiang Army and ALL of Zengrav. You shall take your staff and write up enlistment papers for all of the prisoners we took; note them down as volunteers, the lot of them. Give them Gailzri, Quin, or Jorguk names if you have to but make sure their identities are as difficult to determine as possible. I want them to appear in every way as volunteers for our glorious revolution, as they most certainly will be.”

“Aye General, I shall handle the matter personally, sir. What of the Zhenxiang? Where to next?”

“All of Zengrav.”