Shadow of a Wardog

During the pinnacle of Lord Dregors reign as the Emperor of the Holy Empire of Langshand, the wealth and peace in the Empire had raised the attention of the neighboring Kingdoms and Empires. As it was feared, war was soon to follow. In clashes along the border of the Holy Empire, Dregor succeeded against his enemies time and time again, and no enemies army ever successfully infiltrated even one outer region of the Empire. Every attack was countered, every attempt from every enemy was crushed in blood and dust. This was not without cost though. To fight on all fronts at once, Dregor came up with an effective, yet arguably inhumane tactic. Wardogs, he called them. Not normal, raised infantry but poor souls that had been collected off of streets and homesteads across the entire Empire. People who were beggars, lowlife's who's farms failed or who's cattles had died in a famine. People without future, yet not criminals. Wardogs were trained poorly, gathered in regional camps, equipped with broken armor or whatever was left in the storages. Their weapons: broken swords, either due to smithing mistakes or because they were broken and their original owner fell in battle. Those masses of Wardogs were sent to the respective front lines in their regions, supporting the real troops by tiring out the enemy, and if it was only because the enemy had to slaughter them too. Most Wardogs died without even hurting someone, unfit to use their weapon - the broken sword, correctly. Neither were they trained to move in the, more or less broken, armor they wore. They weren't ment to kill the enemy. They were cannon fodder, plain and simple. And it worked. Slowly, more and more enemies gave up, retreating from the borders of the Empire. The populus was gratefull for the wisdom of their Emperor, after he achieved a victory against multiple enemies at once. The last battle was won in the southwest region of the dukedom of Greenbrook. And there you are. A Wardog. And you survived.