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If people were looking for supporting generals, here's a suggestion: a slightly 'different' Dara Happan.
Valkhonius Ytrior
SYNOPSIS
Subsidiary general in the Lunar Army (Single Star General). Dara Happan noble. Pro-Lunar. Lodrilite. Moderate tactician, though prone to sudden, visceral decisions. Little grasp of strategy or the proper use of operational planning. Thorough care for his charges, and sound logistical sense, born from a background as merchant and hands-on League administrator in Raibanth. Gained military position by function of wealth and influence in Imperial court, and passing participation and funding of Argenteus' pleasures. Probably despised by Tatius and possibly by other commanders, too. Open and hearty character, though prone to violent outbursts of temper. Rustic tastes.
"Grassfever"
A sudden noise cut across the gently rolling slope of the hill, framed uncomfortably by the otherwise silent morning. A haggar scattered from its birch, crawing as it spun in chaotic abandon. Not twenty yards away a few scythe-armed grass-cutters distorted their grimy features in half-hidden scowls at another skittish interruption of the otherwise peaceful scene. They were impressed Heortlander peasants, squat, lowly folk with ill-favoured countenances, used so the indolent Heartland cavalry regiments could play duck knuckles in their tents rather than gathering their mounts' forage.
Philippidus ignored them. It wasn't the annoyed mutterings of lowly barbarians or birds that concerned him, rather the approbation of his immediate comrades and superior officer. He brought his excited horse under his control with rather too strongly applied pressure from his knees, and turned to gingerly to face to the knot of mouted staff officers gathered on the low brow of the hill. He motioned vaguely in an embarrased attempt at mollification. It was the third Goddess-damned time he'd sneezed in the last minute, and the ire of his comrades was rising as apparently and as unstoppably as an Oslirian flood.
"I am sorry, your beneficent graces," the young Lunar officer apologised stutteringly, as he finished wiping his nose with his handkerchief. It was of finest Kralori silk, and the memory of his fussing mother stuffing it behind his cuirass so many cycles ago burned bright in his mind. There was something about the grass of this damned place. He'd never had grassfever this bad in all his twenty-two years of life under the glow of the Red Moon, never. The gods of this savage land were against him, that was clear, and there was nothing he could do about it. And it wasn't as if he could retreat into the solace of the winters either. They were horrid cold, damp hells of some rebel's devising, calculated to rob all the last vestiges of comfort from a young man's life.
Philippidus' words of apology had been directed at one man in particular, his General. Valkhonius Ytrior was a massively framed man, perhaps one of the largest in the whole army. He stood a head taller than most, and his chest was twice as large around as most men again. It was said that when Ytrior was a young subaltern, a group of trolls in the Imperial Bodyguard had stolen his men's provisions for their own enjoyment. In full view of his men, Valkhonius had strode into the troll encampment and throttled the largest troll he could find to within an inch of his life. His company ate well and in peace after that.
The General's skin was mottled with freckles and the blushing, rosy tan of farming folk, framed by a deep bronze mane of hair. A similarly-hued long beard, lovingly scented, was ringleted in the open, carefree Lodrilite fashion. His uniform and equipment were of the finest manufacture, edged with cloth of gold. His corpulent bulk, underlain by strong muscle but considerably amplified by years of good living, was squeezed tightly into a golden breastplate, enbossed with the single star of his Dara Happan rank. No scimitar hung at his side, rather an old ceremonial Lodrili war-mattock, carved in lusty faces and embarrassing scenes of revelry. He wore no cloak of crimson or scarlet, rather one of richly furred pelts.
"PHILIPPIDUS!" The General's words shocked the young officer out of his self-loathing reverie. He turned towards his superior, and fought back a sudden urge to sneeze.
"Tell me lad, what do YOU make of the ground?" the General cried, his voice like the warm rumbling of the Oslir in mid-surge. Valkhonius was actually speaking quietly that moment, not like when he'd had rather too much almond wine, though you could have fooled the bent forms of the grass-cutters otherwise.
Through sore, itchy eyes Philippidus surveyed the landsape in front of him. He blinked uncomfortably for a moment, and affectatiously perpetuated the motions a little longer, as his irritated brain sought desperately to remember the monotonous lectures of the Ordenviru staff school. Fragments of complex geometrical arguments, mumbled in breaking voices by decrepid Irippi Ontori, fleeted through his mind. He could sense the impatience of his superior, the amusement of his peers.
"It..." he started, weakly. "It," more forcefully this time, "is a strong position, sir. Offers a good view of the local theatre, deceptively steep slope, will tire... a foe..." His thoughts ebbed into silence as he noticed with considerable panic that his General was fidgeting in frustration. And when Valkhonius Ytrior fidgeted in frustration it was best to be beyond arm'slength...
"No, no... NO! No lad, any fool can see that. Not THAT ground, this ground," he barked, and he caused his steed to stamp up the turf with its foreleg. "The soil, lad... the SOIL!"
"Erm... soil, sir?" Philippidus was taken aback by the development in the conversation.
"Yes, lad... SOIL! Damned good turf here, boy, better than that crap in Tarsh! Almost as good as along the banks of the Lady! Makes you want to get stuck in right away, get your fingers dirty, yes?" the General asked in reply, gazing whistfully at the rich lands around him.
Philippidus nodded, a hesitant smile edging across his features. For all his rude appearance and blustering character, the General was a thoughtful, well-educated man. Kind to his troops, but possessing of an overly familiar tone and manner that distanced his more laconic and condescending Dara Happan comrades. Some kinder souls, tolerant of his blustering indiscretions, speculated that Valkhonius could have held the rank of Crescent General had he not been possessing of a truly volcanic temper. Others dismissed him as little more than a fat fool, with little knowledge of the finer elements of military theory.
"Why, as soon as I've finished all this siege malarkey, I've got a good mind to find me a wide-hipped barbarian wench and settle here in time for the sowing! And it won't JUST be the fields I'll be sowing, eh?" the General roared mirthfully, turning to his other companions expectantly. His staff were impeccable. Sudden sycophantic grins masked their features in a instant, as they fawned over the general's comment like Imperial courtiers. Only after Valkhonius had turned back to Philippidus did a few lips curl in derision.
Philippidus judged his commander carefully, and returned to his prior thoughts. There were those, and not a few, that dismissively stated that Valkhonius was here for one reason alone: money. He was a Dara Happan aristocrat, that they were forced to admit; but his influence was not bought by glorious service in the Glory of Yelm over tens of thousands of years, as their's was. No, the Ytrior clan debased itself in the lowly depths of trade. Of course, all Dara Happan nobles oversaw considerable networks of costers and merchant organisations, but few entered directly into the practice of shopkeeping, or tilled the soil with their own hands.
The Ytriors controlled the all powerful Ten Sons Trading Association in Raibanth. Theirs was the family that dominated passage across the Oslir, and provided irrigation to the surrounding farms. Their golden manor had been given over to storage and administration of their fiscal empire, while they retreated to a rambling manorial farm in the country. Rustic peasant blood mingled with the fiery blue blood of Yelm's scions in their veins, and as a final insult they partied with the lowborn farmers in the festivals to lusty Lodril, and even served as priests in the cult!
As such Valkhonius was head of the clan, and Flamen Volcanalis of Lodril in Raibanth. He had even set up a small a small shrine to Lodril in the camp, and was leading the noisy, wine-toned services there. Under his guidance officers of similar persuasion courted with the ranks, all alike under their crude masks and loose robes, and danced into the dawn. Though Carmanian, Tarshite and highborn Dara Happan alike shunned his company on nights such as those, he did not care for their company. Thus he wandered the camp fires long into the night, speaking at length with the peasant Pelorians and Pelandans that made up a fair proportion of the force, and grew to appreciate the frank, friendly generals care and attention. Would his tactical abilities match up?
<Stu>
Here's his household troops (if Stu agrees of course): The Goat Boys (and Girls).