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As a General of my army, my priorities focused around the health of my troops. I would spare no expence to see that my unit had ample food, medical attention, and training. My soldiers, while considered elite, were spoiled. I knew it, and they knew it. Our station, our home, was positioned in a large valley near our nation's capital, where the king, my father, reigned sovereign. Tedious tasks and repetitive duties composed most of the day for our veteran troops, such as routine patrols and occasional martial law duties in nearby conquered states. We were lucky. My brother's unit, stationed many miles out, was also considered to be elite, and crept forward inch by inch, taking more land in the name of our king. Hundreds of casualties were seen being carted from the frontlines. The added stress of tending the wounded kept me on base for most of the year. Obviously, my wife and son did not appreciate the situation, but then again, who would?