It was a snowy morning in late March, and Duke François of Quenelles, a pinnacle Saint of the Holy Grail and a veteran commander, woke up early.
The snowstorm outside his tent added to his frustrations. As Ryan's father-in-law trudged through the cold, he couldn't help but feel a tinge of regret for pushing his army forward so hastily. Accustomed to campaigning in the relatively temperate lands of Bretonnia, François had underestimated the peculiar and harsh conditions of Kislev.
First came an unexpected thaw that turned the ground into a muddy quagmire, severely disrupting logistics. Then the weather reversed itself: heavy sleet and plunging temperatures made everything worse. The Southern Bretonnian troops, used to warmer, wetter climates, were struggling to adapt. Some had fallen ill, others had begun to slack off, and most were unwilling to do anything beyond huddling around fires all day.
Supply caravans were delayed. The lack of foresight about the cold meant there wasn't enough strong liquor to combat the freezing temperatures. François found himself in a dilemma. His troops, though not yet incapacitated, were clearly dispirited and lethargic.
After washing up quickly and grabbing a light breakfast, François inspected the camp, his brow furrowed deeply.
The army was encamped in a dense forest. Soldiers clustered around fires in groups, knights devoured their rations, and some tended to their warhorses and pack mules, trying to make do with the insufficient fodder. The Duke frowned as he noticed the horses losing weight.
Nevertheless, François's formidable reputation as a leader still held sway. His troops respected him not just for his achievements—like defeating the necromancer Heinrich Kemmler twice—but also for being King Ryan's father-in-law. When they saw him, the soldiers greeted him warmly.
"Good morning, my Duke!"
"Lady bless you, sir, another day begins!"
"Duke François! Wishing you a fine day!"
François stroked his long, elegant goatee with a practiced smile, his sapphire eyes exuding charisma. He approached a group of soldiers warming themselves by the fire and asked:
"Soldiers, how's the food?"
"It's... okay."
"Passable."
"Not great, my Duke," they replied candidly. François, like Surya, made an effort to maintain a rapport with his soldiers, even the common folk.
"It'll improve. The bread will come, and so will the milk," François said, borrowing a phrase he had learned from Ryan. Then he inquired further: "And how was your sleep? Were you warm enough?"
This question drew more consistent responses. Thanks to Belial's advice and prior planning, every Bretonnian soldier had been equipped with thick double-layered winter coats. While many were cold, and some suffered frostbite, there had been no deaths from exposure—a small consolation amidst the struggles.
Discipline remained intact, and chivalric ideals still played a role in maintaining order.
But François couldn't bring himself to smile. As soon as he turned away, his expression turned stern. He called to his attendant:
"Where is Gérard? Get him here immediately. And bring that Semyon... what's his name?"
"Semyon Alexandrovich Rumiantsev," the attendant clarified. This Kislevite had once been a winged lancer officer near Erengrad. After fleeing into Ostland and surviving the Battle of Wolfenburg, he had heard tales of Bretonnia's chivalrous northward campaign to liberate Kislev. Skeptical at first, he eventually joined the Bretonnian Second Army, volunteering as François's guide.
"Oh, right—Rumiantsev. Kislevite names are so hard to remember," François muttered.
Today, the Duke had no intention of advancing further. Back in his tent, he pored over maps, his face clouded with worry.
François knew he had been overly aggressive in his push northward. Yet as a seasoned commander with countless battles under his belt, he was no fool. There was method to his apparent recklessness.
Firstly, François felt an urgent need to prove himself. As a reserve force, his army had missed out on several epic victories, including the Swamp of Sorrows, the Great Battle of Three Kings, the Siege of Herzig, and the Battle of Wolfenburg. He feared being overshadowed by others and sought a decisive victory to remind everyone that he wasn't just a latecomer riding the coattails of others' success.
Secondly, despite his bold advance, François had considered halting to await reinforcements and supplies. However, reports from neighboring armies emboldened him: Duke Lawn's First Army had routed several Norscan warbands near Lovitz Castle, while Duke Berchmond's Third Army had crushed a Nurgle force at the ruins of Kaganov. With his flanks secure, François felt confident enough to push forward and seize glory.
But the Duke had underestimated Kislev's infamous weather. The unforgiving conditions turned his extended supply lines into a nightmare.
"Never invade Kislev in the winter."
—A hard-learned lesson from centuries of Imperial and Kislevite border wars.
François now found himself at an impasse. Retreating would damage his reputation, making him appear ineffective in the grand campaign. Advancing, however, risked catastrophe.
As he stared at his map, deep in thought, Gérard finally entered the tent. The holy knight of Quenelles was dusted with snow, his cloak and helmet glistening with frost. He removed his helmet, revealing a weathered face etched with concern.
"My Duke, we have a problem!" Gérard said without preamble.
"What took you so long to get here? I sent for you ages ago," François snapped, his irritation breaking through his normally composed demeanor. "What's the issue?"
"It's disease, my Duke. Illness is spreading through the camp. Some soldiers have caught colds, others are running high fevers, and there are cases of typhoid and measles. Fear is spreading among the troops," Gérard reported grimly. "We must act immediately."
"Isolate the sick at once. Damn it!" François slammed his hand on the table, his frustration boiling over.
After giving orders, Gérard left to carry them out. François, struggling to contain his anger, reached into his trunk for a bottle of wine, only to find it frozen solid. Cursing under his breath, he rummaged through another trunk and found a bottle of Belial's special "Gray Goose" vodka.
The crystal-clear liquid burned like fire as it went down, warming François's chest and soothing his nerves. He immediately ordered the limited supply of vodka to be distributed among the troops and knights for warmth.
As he waited for news from his scouting parties, François continued to strategize. A few hours later, a Kislevite man was brought into the tent. Tall and broad-shouldered, he sported a thick beard, a fur hat, and a double-layered winter coat.
"My Duke!"
"Rumiantsev?" François recognized him after a moment, his tone sharp and direct. "No time for pleasantries. Get to the point—what's the situation?"
"Yes, my Duke," the former winged lancer officer said, bowing respectfully. "I've found something in the forest—markers left by Kislevite survivors. There are hidden camps deeper in the woods. They might be able to help us."
"Help us with what?" François asked.
"They have Wise Women among them who can address the threat of disease. Additionally, they include skilled scouts and hunters who could guide us through the forest. They might even have some supplies to relieve our immediate needs," Rumiantsev explained earnestly. "My Duke, defeating Chaos is no small task. We must unite with others."
Wise Women?
François deliberated briefly before making a decision.
"Prepare gifts—two wagonloads of goods! Bring sufficient gold. I will go personally to seek their aid!"
Two Hours Later, in a Snow-Covered Pine Forest
François led a contingent of about twenty knights from the Champion Brotherhood of Quenelles into the dense, nearly impassable woods.
Behind them were two wagons loaded with gifts.
The atmosphere was eerily quiet, broken only by the soft hiss of falling snow and the occasional howl of the wind through the trees. The knights, visibly tense, kept their hands close to their sword hilts.
Rumiantsev carefully examined hidden carvings and symbols etched into the bark of trees. After confirming their meaning, he called out in Kislevite.
"Привет!"
There was no response.
Rumiantsev tried again. "Здравствуйте?"
Finally, a lone archer clad in white robes emerged from a snowbank. "Кто ты такой?"
After a brief exchange, more archers revealed themselves from the forest. A hidden gate was unveiled, guarded by two musketeers who leveled their weapons at the group.
"Open the door, countrymen!" François called out. "We are the Bretonnian army, here to liberate the occupied territories and drive out the Chaos forces!" The Duke smiled warmly and added, "We won't take a single thing from you—in fact, we've brought gifts!"
"Bretonnians?!" The Kislevites exchanged skeptical glances but slowly lowered their bows. They had heard of Bretonnia's reputation for chivalry and virtue. Had it been Imperials at their gates, they would have told them to get lost. But Bretonnians? Perhaps they were telling the
truth.
"Surely you remember our aid to Erengrad?" François continued. "We've come to help you reclaim your lands, but we've run into trouble and need your assistance. May we come in?"
"I swear by Ursun, they're telling the truth! The Bretonnians genuinely wish to help us!" Rumiantsev vouched for them passionately. "I stake my life and honor as a former winged lancer captain on it!"
After a long deliberation, the gate creaked open.
Under the watchful eyes of several Kossars and Kislevite militiamen, François and his knights entered the hidden camp. Around two to three hundred people lived there, their clothes ragged and their faces gaunt from malnutrition. Yet their spirits remained unbroken.
A Kislevite noble emerged to meet François. Broad-foreheaded, narrow-eyed, with a large nose and thin lips, he carried an air of stern authority. Clad in bear-fur robes and astride a massive bear, he was clearly a leader.
"Greetings, Holy Grail Knight of Bretonnia," he said gruffly. "I am Vladimir Vladimirovich, an Ursun priest, former Duma councilor, and ex-First Deputy Mayor of Erengrad. I am now the leader of this camp."
"What brings you here?"
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