[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/CmegPkt.png[/img][/center]

The Dusmane were strangers in a strange land. They were objects of curiosity, everything from their dress to their physical appearance to their language being alien to the rest of the allied army, and they more or less felt the same. Until this war, the vast majority of the nomads had never left their native steppe and likewise nobody visited it. Though the outside world was alien to him, the Khan of the Dusmane answered the call to arms of the parent Empire he was bound to and sent a formidable if outdated force under the command of one of his cousins.

For most of the war they were almost entirely dedicated to harassing logistics of the foe as well as destroying both reinforcements and running down retreats with no mercy given. They knew the enemy saw them as savages so they capitalized upon this. Helmeted heads of cuirassiers dangled from their horses, while the well-hatted faces of officers were pierced with hunting spears so that many an enemy’s last sight would be the death mask of their comrade. But as ever they reached into the enemy’s heartland their assignments morphed from those of a guerilla campaign into those of this century’s uniformed cavalry. It was hard for them to adapt, but they did and they became stronger for it. 

Personally, Iouldouz found himself to slowly morph into one of the pale people. So much time with them gave him a taste for their spirits rather than the kumis he spent his life drinking, and he could not deny their dress wasn’t as uncomfortable as many of his kinsmen claimed. But he was still in his heart a Dusmane and he’d lead his people to glory today under their stretched hide banner. He ordered his men to make merry, to drink and laugh and sing and dance for today may well be the last day they could do so. The Khan had heard of the Emperor’s unparalleled tactical acumen and Iouldouz would be a liar if he said he wasn’t frightened of that day to come. This day would be perhaps the first where the Emperor was truly beaten in open battle; all prior victories against him were pyrrhic and often strategic defeats, or were not done in open battle and rather in guerilla campaigns as the Dusmane had mastered.

After uttering a prayer to Father Sky and taking a sip of the foreign firewater, Iouldouz entered the command tent. He was dressed in traditional furs of his folk, though as a courtesy to the foreigners he wrapped them in a way reminiscent to that which they wore them, along with a neckerchief, perfume, and a few other accessories common to them. His right hand man Tyrgutai made no such concessions, in fact making himself as wild as possible in sight, sound and smell (partially out of spite for the poncey bastards). Still more used to sitting upon rugs on the ground, Iouldouz nevertheless took a seat rather graciously after bowing, waiting for the other members of the alliance to arrive. The warrior had some general ideas for strategy, though they all were grounded in the assumption that his comrades were bold and risk taking fellows which - as far as he saw - they had to be if they had any hope of beating the enemy. After all, everyone who had tried beating the Emperor conventionally had failed. Thus it came upon the men assembled to beat them in an unorthodox manner, and the presence of the Chieftain was a posteriori proof.