Grenadier Greorg of the Grendelwurzel Grenzers

Greorg had forgotten how long he had marched. He'd served in the Grendelwurzel Grenzers since he was tall enough to hold a rusted musket, when his shako, battered and moth-eaten, was only held over his eyes by his too-large ears. He'd been ten then. Twelve? Something of that ilk. Young. The recruiters had paraded through his rotten village, their banners fluttering high and the sound of drum and fife rousing the miserable peasants from their beds. They'd set up a desk on half a tun-barrel and taken all comers, issuing them with the collective king's shilling, a grubby token of tarnished brass. Who the king was meant to be or why his shilling was important to soldiering was beyond Greorg, but he had taken it, repeated a hasty oath, passed it to the next boy, and marched off to war. 

He'd marched ever since. For mile after mile, day after day, they marched in ragged ranks , snaking across the whole of Cist on some mysterious quixotic crusade. In the battle of Gullet Moor he'd fought bayonet-to-bayonet with creatures like wicked, walking roots, a desperate, whirling melee of severed limbs, spilling guts, and spattered blood fought knee deep in brackish water. When the smoke cleared, he'd found himself alone, the julienned corpses of the foe all around. The toff had given him the coveted bearskin of the Grenadier, a towering structure of manky fur that covered his face with a mask of iron. He'd been told to pick the bodies for a more appropriate uniform. He'd managed to find a musket that still fired, an almost complete suit of armour, and even a sabre that held an edge. 

He'd joined his fellow grenadiers and marched away at the head of the column. At the assault on Slop Ridge, he'd marched into the cannonfire of al-Rah'Deeshi Janissaries, and at the massacre of Modsen Marsh he'd marched against a coalition of neo-Tuberists and stilted swampfolk. He'd marched off, and marched ever since. He would march until his feet wore down to stumps, and when he passed into the great swamp beyond, he would march again with that heavenly host. He was a Grenadier of the Grendelwurzel Grenzers- marching is what he did, and he was damn good at it.