"The world is watching the warriors of Albion."
Major Parkinson, standing in the most standard military posture at the bow of the landing boat, was expressing his lofty aspirations. The commander of the vanguard was wearing a full set of "Venetian Red" military ceremonial attire, adorned with all his medals—praise the Mother Goddess, the general hasn't seen much real combat, and Albion's variety of medals isn't as extensive as the Duchy Army's. Otherwise, he would have medals hanging all the way down to his trousers, and the sketching artist squatting on the beach would have a hard time meticulously outlining each one.
Not far away, with the accompaniment of booming artillery fire and military music, riflemen wearing tricorn hats and grenadiers of the Bishop's Guard wearing mitre caps are lining up on the beach. The red dragon stretches towards the inland...
"No one can stop this mighty army; the world is at our feet."
