~Waterloo, 1815.~

Perhaps it was true, in the eyes of a duke and a general - the saddest thing to a battle lost, was a battle won. Men from Prussia, Britain, the United Kingdom of the Netherlands, Hanover, Brunswick and Nassau, with some dead French soldiers laid across the field, peppering the artillery-cratered battlefield with dead flesh.

The guns had stopped thirty minutes ago, yet it still ringed true in any survivors' ears. Much more, the advance of cavalry upon the hill. It didn't take long for the harrowing gallop to return, trampling over the dead and the dying. And on that horse, riding it like the horseman of war, the Empress began to ride next to you, stopping at your side once she had gained a good look at your face.

"Aww, what a shame, cher ami... Your ally was already so close, yet still far too late to save you from the sharp talons of defeat."

She giggled, her voice sweet yet tinged with a drop of wickedness. "Look upon this... This field. So gruesome, yet honorable. The blood of our men concentrated into the soil, all for my victory."