Trees.
Nothing but trees.
The repetitive scenery, combined with the uneven, thorn-covered roads, had driven Will Julius's frustration to its limit.
If he had known that once upon a time, Al had also felt frustrated by this exact same experience, perhaps the two might have found some common ground.
This long journey was an absolute chore. Leaving the prosperous Bilbali, passing through various villages and towns, constantly encountering refugees fleeing north along the way... Finally, with this hastily assembled legion, they plunged headlong into the vast expanse that had left a very deep impression on Will—
The Great Piña Forest.
This wasn't like previous marches where the army was trailed by a chaotic mix of professions and people, and where, upon making camp, a massive influx of petty merchants, peasants, prostitutes, and others would quickly swarm in.
While they disrupted order and discipline, they were also an indispensable part of maintaining morale and keeping the soldiers satisfied.
Unfortunately, the objective of Will's current unit was to enter the Piña Forest, rendezvous with the refugees who had fled north and hidden there—claiming to be protected by "powerful allies"—incorporate them, and simultaneously "investigate" the specific situation of these so-called "tribal allies."
Then, they were to reorganize and train a militia force from the refugees to conduct harassment and behind-enemy-lines operations against the enemy using the terrain of the Piña Forest.
Setting aside how absurd it was to use a militia trained from a bunch of refugees to fight against the currently highly prestigious and rapidly ascending WAAAAAGH! Greenskins, just the very first step of this assignment, in Will's eyes, was an incredibly exhausting chore.
Trekking through the woods—a forest where you didn't know how many random monsters or Beastman tribes might pop out at any moment—was, to Will, worse than serving in the New World colonies. At least there, food, drink, and prostitutes were never in short supply.
After Celestine returned, the enraged Rein mobilized troops, intending to exterminate the "Joy-Singers" tribe of that time to avenge and wash away his cousin's shame.
During the valley battle, Will rashly led his troops to support a neighboring unit, allowing Al to seize an opening, break through the defensive line, tear open the encirclement, and rendezvous with the tribal remnants led by Thar. Then, using the Bloodmother's Chosen Centigor and the newborn Khorngors as a vanguard, they smashed through the blocking barricades, leading the tribe out of the encirclement and leaping deep into the Great Piña Forest.
And obviously, Will's previous actions had greatly enraged his cousin, Rein Heinrich Julius, known as the "Little Griffon."
He was angry at Will's absurd actions, and deeply hated that after Will got news of Celestine, he made no effort to conceal it—even showing signs of deliberately spreading the matter—which not only humiliated the honor of House Julius but also inevitably subjected his cousin Celestine to public criticism.
So, using this as a pretext, he practically half-dismissed Will, kicking him out of the Expeditionary Force's ranks. This time, even Old Hart, who had always looked after Will, didn't say anything. Will's deliberate malice not only humiliated and disgusted Rein, whom he had always wanted to get back at, and the cousin Rein valued so highly, but also the entire family.
He too was disappointed by this overly pampered and stubborn young man, tacitly approving of Rein's handling of him.
Thus, Will was ignominiously kicked out of the Expeditionary Force's ranks with only two family private soldiers and a servant who took care of his daily needs. After that, whatever achievements, glory, etc., this diplomatic legion bearing a special mission achieved marching south had absolutely nothing to do with him anymore.
After two days of impotent rage and depression, Will plunged headfirst into wine and women, treating it as an escape from reality.
Then, as his funds grew tight, the girls in his arms began to drop constantly in both appearance and attire. Finally, utterly out of options—and if not for the family restraints, the servant taking care of this useless man would have abandoned him long ago—he ran to the shady bars and brothels down by the port docks. Spending his days with cheap booze and vulgar, overly made-up women, he lived a life that, while decadent and wasted, never shortchanged his "little brother."
In a sense, it was actually pretty good.
Until this time, the Grand Master of War of the Northern Council—a highly renowned veteran general who had achieved illustrious military merits in the colonial wars and the most recent Errantry Crusade, the human version of a WAAAAAGH!—demanded the assembly of an elite force. They were to take supplies and equipment into the forest to integrate the sheltering refugees and form a militia force.
Old Hart bypassed Rein, pulled some strings, dragged the drunken Will off a prostitute, cleaned him up, and stuffed him into this unit burdened with a mission.
Although dangerous, Old Hart had also come to terms with it. Rather than letting this scion of the family sink into depravity and waste away—ultimately probably just becoming a wealthy idler for the rest of his life under Rein's hostility—it was better to throw him into an environment that was difficult and challenging, but not overly hard, to temper him. If he could make it out, there was still hope; if he still couldn't cut it, then Old Hart wouldn't have to play the role of the butler patriarch anymore, and could just have the servant send Will back to Altdorf and be done with it.
The Grand Master of War's resolution was reviewed by the Northern Council and ultimately approved and supported, though they limited the number of troops so as not to weaken the North's strength too much.
Under the old general's insistence, they viewed the one to two hundred thousand people in the Piña Forest as a "usable force" rather than "refugees needing help." They also considered the rumors of the "peerlessly formidable, one-against-many Beastman tribal allies" to be likely exaggerated rhetoric, and scoffed at the tribe's demand for the "Estalians to recognize their possession of Piña and the Inara Mountains."
However, they still needed to send people to understand the situation in detail before responding. After all, the closest two currently were the Carcassonne Round Table Council and the Elves of Ulthuan. The former inherently pursued isolationism, with their main external goal probably being to maintain order and peace within Bretonnia; they didn't care much about a threat that hadn't yet reached the walls of Bilbali.
Coupled with the conflicts stirred up by the Southerners over the assassination of the City Prince, which resulted in the loss of a Grail Knight and nearly brought them to the brink of war, reinforcements from them were likely not something to count on anytime soon.
As for Ulthuan, they were constantly bickering endlessly at their Grand Assembly just over tariffs and old debts, paying even less attention to the Estalians' pleas for help. Perhaps it would take the Greenskins starting to harass Ulthuan before those long-ears—who, despite restraining themselves slightly after the Great War, remained arrogant—would finally snap back to reality:
Oh, a human kingdom over there got wiped out by Greenskins. Better deploy the Aerospace Legion.
So, although the Northern Council harbored doubts about the alliance—regarding both the tribe's strength and sincerity—they still adopted a "poke the tree with a stick whether there are dates or not" mentality, inserting a small-scale diplomatic team into this "elite vanguard legion."
Their mission was to contact that "tribe." If the power they displayed, even if only in numbers, was indeed usable, then they should try their best to reach a cooperation with them, providing supplies and the like to have them delay and attract the Greenskins' forces.
Even if it was only a small portion, it could significantly relieve the pressure the North would face in the upcoming major war.
No news had come out of Magritta for two weeks. The Northern Council was in mourning, everyone believing that the capital city of Estalia, the Pearl of the Southern World, and (one of) the main holy sites of the Myrmidia faith had already fallen under the iron hooves of the Greenskin mobs and been reduced to ruins.
Greenskin forces were also continuously converging towards the north. A major stronghold was the Port of Magus, southwest of Veling. The pirates had turned it into a forward base, continuously transporting personnel and supplies there, and constructing ports and gun batteries.
On land, Greenskins were also continuously swarming north. Suppressed and integrated by several capable generals under the Great Warboss, they maintained a chaotic and noisy atmosphere, temporarily encamping and waiting for the Great Warboss himself to come north in person.
The pressure on the North was multiplying day by day.
The scouting reports made the Northern Council realize that Magritta was finished, so the Greenskins' next target was naturally the Northern Capital of Estalia, Bilbali.
As for the neighboring country to the east, Tilea, after taking turns being serviced by Greenskins, pirates, and Skaven, they were desperately reinforcing their city defenses. The various Merchant Princes and guilds were recruiting any mercenaries willing to take a contract; whether Ogre or Greenskin, all were drafted into their armies.
The Greenskins and pirates swept through there without achieving massive results, but the Great Warboss himself, through two successful deployments, inflicted heavy casualties on the coalition forces organized by Tilea. The Skaven further littered the "Tarmoto Pass"—the main overland route between the two countries—with traps and ambushers. Under these circumstances, the Tileans themselves had no desire to send troops to aid their not-so-friendly kin neighbors to the west.