The stench of decay had become an everyday occurrence throughout November. The first snow blanketed the bodies—both those that lay still and those that still stirred and breathed. The "gray zone" between the opposing trench lines looked as though men, elves, and orcs had simply decided to take a rest—provided one didn’t look too closely at their hollow eye sockets or missing limbs. All of this lay amidst shell craters, mud, freezing puddles, twisted metal from heavy machinery, and tangled barbed wire.

Black Hill—Elevation 670 meters. A grim, war-blackened mountain, shaped like the belly of a giant, it is held in part by both the Triple Alliance and the Entente. The soldiers on both sides are exhausted, fighting on sheer willpower alone; for whoever dominates this height commands the entire region. To lose the position entirely would mean an endless retreat under heavy artillery fire—and the certain destruction of an entire army corps.

The gallant soldiers of the Triple Alliance, clad in black and gray greatcoats, held this height until very recently; even now, they maintain their defense, determined not to let the enemy gain a foothold. Their resistance rests solely on the courage of the men and the strategy of their officers. Behind them lies their homeland—a land whose sons would rather perish right here than ever take to flight.

The hot-blooded troops of the Entente, in their green and blue greatcoats, executed a desperate yet successful breakthrough toward Black Hill. They lost entire units to intense enemy artillery fire, yet they pressed on, storming the opposing positions one by one. Today, every Entente soldier clearly understands the price they paid to set foot on this strategically vital height—and they would sooner sell their souls to the devil than let the "black greatcoats" drive them from it.