<span style="font-style: italic">It has been three years since we started our campaigns in Aloria, and things have not go easily.  The Alorians are a proud, civilized folk and they have fought tooth and nail to hang onto every bit of land they can.  It has long been the policy to spare the crops and livestock of the conquered, whenever possible.  We are looking for new, viable lands, not newly created desolations.  If the people act subserviently to the new leaders, than all is well.  The common people have always been under the thumb of Dukes, so an Emperor is little different.<br/><br/>As Commander of the Imperial forces, I have strove to win battles quickly and decisively, with as little loss of life as possible, but my actions way on me.  I weary of battle.  I gain little thrill from the sounds of drums and bugles.  In truth, I long to travel to my homeland again and take up tilling the earth.  I desire to be a husband and  a father, not a general.  Still, my requests to retire have been rejected so far.  I am still in my prime and the Emperor will not let go.</span><br/><br/>Tiberius stopped writing in his journal and set down his quill.  He was hunched over the paper, writing by candle light.  The candle light cast shadows over his aquiline nose and almond shaped eyes.  His short dark hair glistened in the flickering light.  He realized it was dangerous to put down his thoughts into writing, but he couldn't help himself.  Who else could he share his thoughts with in this way, but with his own journal?  He was supreme general and could not be seen to be weak.<br/><br/>He straightened and rolled his shoulders backwards, with slight popping in the muscles.  Cold nights like these made him feel every one of his forty years.  He stood stiffly and gathered his cloak about him.  It was a fine red knit cloak with covered his Imperial green uniform tunic.  Stomping for warmth, he moved to the brazer in the center of his tent and put some more coals into his.  He supposed he should have his slave boy do it for him, but the pathetically skinny lad was sleeping.<br/><br/>In the wide, square tent was a table set out with tiny figures representing calvary and infantry troops, of the Imperial army and of the enemy.  He moved over to the board and looked it over again.  Tomorrow they would secure another village, and move another few kilometers across Aloria.  He knew that even now the enemies were blockading the streets and preparing their defenses, but it would do they precious little good.  He only hoped they were sensible and surrendered before to many of them died.<br/><br/>He had heard that the last village produced a number of new slaves.  Generally families were left intact, to work their lands and tend for their livestock.  They were encouraged to become active citizens of the Empire, and to pledge their loyalty to it.  Some few refused though, or were orphaned, or criminals.  These were enslaved and assigned to duties as he saw fit.  He supposed it was time to look over this new batch of slaves and to determine their future.