Seventh Company staging area
Border Town Crispa, 16 km east of Dillingen, Brugge

Brenn closed his eyes for a moment as he took in the evening air. His hands shook slightly, and his heart rate was elevated. Fear? No it wasn’t fear, a wolfpack isn’t afraid while circling the kill. It was the excitement, the thrill, the anticipation of what was to come. 

The town of Crispa lay before him. Though, admittedly the name was unknown to him, and it didn’t really matter what it was called, its fate would be the same no matter the name. He’d sent a scout ahead, the small garrison numbered only twenty, and their “piddly ass guardsmen”, as Brenn called them, were no match for a company of Nilfgaardian heavy infantry. Surely a militia would be called up. Brenn sighed at the thought, more bodies getting in the way. 

He held his helmet tight against his waist, its black metal glinted slightly as the last rays of sun caught it at just the right angle. Looking over his shoulder he saw his men, finishing their preparation, eating what could be their final meal. It was quiet, most of these men had never fought against “real” soldiers, if one could call these northerners soldiers at all. His company had dealt with riots mostly, once there had been a band of miscreants who tried to “rise up”, but that was easily dealt with. 

So no, they weren’t veterans and they weren’t the best fighters in the Empire, but they were his, and they were disciplined. They would do finely. Brenn ran a hand through his hair before lifting his helm. It fit tightly around his head and the visor stifled his vision slightly. The sun was falling behind the treeline, and darkness soon fell. “Torches!”, Brenn called, and so there were torches. 

His vision narrowed on the town. Its pitiful wooden walls, its cracked and ancient gate, its feigned sense of defiance. Brenn grinned beneath his helmet. He pulled his sword from his sheath, this one was brand new, not like the older one, the one with neck notches. He lifted the sword, it was heavy, it would do well. He looked to his men once more, they stood upright, they stood together, all their eyes were upon him, they were ready.

“Men! You know why we came!” Brenn’s voice boomed like thunder. “This land is in chaos. The northmen and their lessers have made a mess of it. Well, it is theirs no longer! It is ours, it is the Empire’s, it is the Emperor’s. So, gentlemen, lets take what’s ours! FOR THE EMPIRE!”

As if as one, the ebony mass surged forward. It moved slow, and as it neared the small town of Crispa, it began to swallow it whole.

The gate came down within minutes. It took four men with axes to chop a man sized hole, and from then on it was child’s play. The stone tip arrows of the villagers bounced right off the plate armor of Brenn and his soldiers. As he entered the fray Brenn shined with confidence, with every swipe of his blade he felled another foe. He smirked as a man charged wild eyed at him with a pitchfork. With two deft movements he swept aside the farmer’s tool and sliced cleanly across the man’s throat. Brenn did not rush about with these movements in the field, but rather he was calm, confident, he strode from kill to kill, the movements planned in advance and executed with a practiced hand. 

The Seventh Company was making short work of the villagers, and the guardsmen were falling easily enough. Brenn flared his nostrils at the sight of a dead Nilfgaardian soldier, and took his anger out on the manhood of a flanking guardsman, a grimace flashing across his own face. The skirmish had reached the town’s square, the last of the defenders were falling quickly. As the fighting wound down, it became clear that this was extermination not an occupation. Brenn lifted his helmet from his head, laying it on a stone bench on the edge of the square. As he walked slowly to the center of the square he called out to his men, “Finish the job, then take what’s ours!”

Soldiers perked up at the call of their Captain, many breaking off and entering houses, no doubt to steal or commit some other act of dominance. One hour, that was how long it had taken. One hour, and Brenn had his first victory. He cleaned his blade on the tabard of a fallen guardsmen, and he couldn’t help but think of his family. Oh, how he missed them. How he wished he could hold his wife close and watch his children play by the fire. Brenn looked up to the night sky, picking out the brightest star he could, and he took solace in the fact that he knew his wife was sharing the same view.