I'm going to upload another one, but from the perspective of merchants, guilds, and a director from Marienburg.

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If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.

Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.

I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.

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POV of a musketeer

Brauzeit-25,2490 IC

"There goes another one!" I shouted in annoyance, as three musketeers fired their weapons and the beastman charging at the dwarf workers collapsed with a shrill scream.

The creature kicked and thrashed in the wet earth, mud up to its knees like everything else in this cursed place. I trudged forward, muttering, drove the bayonet into its throat, and twisted the blade hard—more out of spite than necessity.

"Damn creatures… uglier every day," I growled, shaking the steel clean before returning to the line.

"They're few," said one of the musketeers as he reloaded with stiff, frozen hands. "Twenty at most, and the sun's still high."

"You're too used to Middenland," I replied, ramming a fresh ball into the barrel. "Over there, you've got fortresses and cannons. Here we've got none of that. Here we're just flesh with gunpowder, making sure the dwarfs keep hammering away at their damned iron."

"And wasn't the Graf's army supposed to be clearing out the forests?" asked another, his voice heavy with fatigue.

"Yes, but this isn't Middenland, Ulrican. Here the cold isn't the problem—it's the season. The mud swallows boots whole, and the forests never seem to end. Instead of waiting for them to strike, we have to wade into those rotting trees and drag them out by the throat. And meanwhile, where the hell are the men working on the palisade?" I snapped, glancing south.

"They're still back with the supply wagons. Ground's too soft for digging. They say they need to reach the bedrock before they can keep building," one of them answered, sweat running down under his cloak despite the icy wind, pickaxe in hand as he jabbed holes into the muck.

The Graf had sent us out in a season when no one in their right mind would march. Autumn was fading, and winter already bit at our faces. But this time he hadn't just dispatched small patrols—he'd mobilized far more men to guard that damned long, metal work the dwarfs were raising. Huge beams of iron and planks of wood were joined by colossal nails their stone-like arms hammered down, as if the cold didn't even exist.

The ground, though, punished us. Half-felled forests, clearings turned to swamps, beasts lunging from nowhere every couple of hours. Ahead lay the woods of Holthusen, stinking of rot and crawling with beastmen, and we had to keep advancing with frozen feet and stiff hands, while the dwarfs labored as if it were midsummer.

Blessed Sigmar… I'd agreed to this for the easy pay, when most jobs barely took us beyond Reinsfeld. At most, we'd march as far as Middenland, and always in summer, when the sun warmed your back and the nights didn't leave your bones numb. For that, we were paid well—better than any peasant could dream of earning in a lifetime. But now… now this was a frozen hell itself. They expected us to risk our lives against beasts and brigands, with no walls, no fortifications, and all for the same coin as always.

I couldn't fathom how the dwarfs could keep working in this cold—let alone so fast. Together they hauled those massive steel bars, set them on the ground like they were mere planks, and hammered those monstrous nails into the prepared earth, one after the other, without rest, as if winter didn't exist. I could hardly feel my fingers in this wind, and they carried on sweating beneath their beards.

Sigmar willing, may this madness end soon. Let them hammer their iron, raise their road of steel, and may the gods grant us winter under a roof and blanket—not frozen like abandoned dogs in this mire.

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POV army trainer

Kaldezeit-17,2490 IC

"After firing, you must take a powder bag and load it from the front of the weapon, like this," I explained, raising the musket. I tore off the top of the cartridge with my teeth and poured the powder into the barrel. "Then pack it down with the ramrod, firm and tight, and only then place the shot. One last strike with the ramrod, and you're ready to fire again."

Many began to imitate me—some clumsily, others with eager hands. The field filled with the echo of shots and explosions, a constant roar that made the air tremble. Thousands of recruits practiced at once, and the burned powder left that sharp, heavy smell hanging in the wind.

"Good! Repeat the process over and over again," I urged in a firm voice. "Learn the correct procedure first—the aim will come later. Don't worry if you miss, what matters is being ready when the day of battle comes."

I watched the lads under my charge as they struggled to reload quickly. Some cursed when the ramrod jammed, others grinned as if they were playing at a fair. I, however, felt proud of them all.

For reasons only the Graf and Sigmar Himself know, he had decided this time to recruit an unprecedented number of men. It was not as before, when one or two thousand would arrive every so often to bolster our ranks. No. After the last campaign, three thousand had joined us, and now suddenly another ten thousand came to our banner—men of Altdorf, Carroburg, peasants… all called to serve something greater than themselves.

The Graf did it for the Empire—for order, for the peace Sigmar demanded of His children. My duty was simple, yet sacred: to teach them the basics, to give them the discipline they would need when the great day came. Then we would defend the railway the dwarfs were building. And when that day arrived, all would see that the Graf had been right—that Sigmar guided his hand—and that every drop of sweat and powder had been worth it.

Time was scarce. I had to train them as quickly as possible and distribute weapons among them. But there weren't enough muskets for every recruit, so we had to rotate. One group fired and reloaded while another waited their turn to practice. It wasn't ideal, but as long as everyone learned the fundamentals, I considered it enough.

I would like to say it was the same training the Graf had given us the first time, when he drilled us with patience and discipline—running us over hills in full armor, teaching us to endure exhaustion. But it wasn't. Now I could only show them how to use a weapon, reload under pressure, and march in line. Nothing more. The urgency pressed on all of us.

Before long, the days were consumed and they had to march west. Their true training would continue there, where it had all begun, but in far harsher conditions. Many of these men—more laborers than soldiers—would also be used as manpower, for there was much to be done. The Graf had secured an agreement with Marienburg: a vast, almost unbelievable deal.

The negotiations ended in triumph: lowering the costs of transporting Imperial goods, a masterstroke ensuring profit and stability. But in return, part of the pact demanded labor. The Graf pledged to employ his dwarf allies, together with thousands of Imperial arms, to build dikes, dig drainage canals, and raise dwarf pumps to drain the swamps. Cursed, waterlogged land would become solid, fertile ground—for the benefit of Marienburg.

So that was where we marched. The recruits—half soldiers, half workers, for there was much to do. And I, to take up the role of guard while they kept laying down the rails.

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If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.

Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.

I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.

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