Your name, of course, is Alessandro Galliota, the Viscount of Portblanc, that home of yours which now lays so distant. It had been almost four months now since you had been summoned from the wealthy tradehalls of your fief to wage a war under the command of your lord, Don Carles IV Brascarams, the Lord of Segoma and a Crown Prince of the Mirevalian Empire. Following his plans, you and your regiment disembarked in an foreign land, utterly alone, to fight your way through the countryside of Tilano (the region of Nera where you currently are) as they lay siege to Montechia, the largest city of the region and bastion fortress that holds the key to controlling it.

For two months, you waged your own campaign, advancing through the winding hills and rainy forests of the Tilanese Coast. You have defeated armies, taken cities and fought giants; and now, after all these efforts, you have finally reached the outskirts of Montechia, rejoining the forces of Prince Carles and entering what you hope to be the final path to victory in this war.

As you make your way down the hill, you stare out at the great valley that lies beneath you; in the bottom, a vast camp, fluttering tents of white fabric sprawling out across the plain. The smoke of countless campfires waft into the air, creating a column easily seen for miles; in the distance, over beyond the hill, another such similar sight remains. And the hills themselves, of course; or rather, the great hill that stands at the end of this valley, whereupon a great fortification sits, triangular bastions and towers sitting proudly besides the curtain walls. The intermittent sound of roaring cannons breaks the monotony of your ride towards the camp.

When you finally do reach that sea of white, it is a sight curious like none other. From behind wooden palisades, armed men watch as you pass the gatehouse through the makeshift road clearly dug in a hurry. From atop your horse, you travel amidst the length of the camp, resting soldiers going about their duties and rests around you; sutlers and merchants practice their trade, oxen and horse feed on their hastily built barnsheds. In the wind, the flags of Segoma's nobilities flutter in the wind. Yet oddly enough, no tent seems to stand out to you, none that hold the opulence you would expect one such as Don Carles, or even the other heads of the army, to use. Nevertheless, you are led into a particular tent by your guides, and after showing a seal confirming your identity, you were allowed inside.