You sweep down into Cornerstone, expecting perhaps that your assorted force of turncoat raiders will be dashed against the walls; but whilst the walls are there, the defenders are not.
They have just about had the sense to bar the gates, and whilst your troops are attempting to improvise a method of entry, a few terrified Flembic soldiers peer over the battlements and half-heartedly chuck some rocks, by hand, in their general direction; you stand forwards and inform them exactly why they should not stand against you, and they melt from the walls like the morning mist.
Finally your forces manage to set up a relay climbing the fortress walls, drop down a few bits of rope, and you find yourselves in the abandoned city streets; minus one stupid Flembic turncoat, who fell to his death attempting to secure the makeshift fortress-climbing arrangements.
The citizenry have hidden themselves in their hovels; some flee to the cathedral at first, but as your troops approach to seize The Holy Cathedral of the Smith, they cower well out of their way. You recognise some of the soldiers from the walls, and your men dispatch the four of them, as a lesson to the others.
The last stronghold of the south has fallen.
Cornerstone has fallen.
The shadow of the Coyote fell upon it, they say, and its own populace rose up one against another; mothers slaughtered their sons, daughters killed their fathers, good and righteous men defaced the Holy Cathedral of the Smith with blasphemous rituals to the foul totem, honest labourers were stirred into a frenzy and tore the fortress apart with their bare and bloodied hands, stone by stone.
And the defenders? There were no defenders. There were no survivors. The shadow of the Coyote moves on. Perhaps it will come to your town next. There is no escape; no hope; no future…
Where are the defenders?
The walls of Cornerstone were so strong and so proud; the Holy Cathedral of the Smith was such a symbol of Flambard's architectural prowess; the Gilded Lily was such a beautiful monument to the superiority of Flembic culture, that the paragons of cuisine from all other powers would settle within her embrace.
It is all gone; it is all lost; Warwick the War Bird of Coyote has cast her shadow upon the city, and that which is not destroyed is in the hands of heathens, worse than even just the native heathens - an army of turncoats who have taken up the worship of the blasphemous native gods, and fight in Azul-Oso's name!
We ran and ran all night, North from the cursed interior, North from the last stronghold, from Cornerstone.
If we had not run, if we had stopped even for a second, she would have caught us; Warwick, the War Bird, the terrible apparition of the Coyote, who brought seventy of our own men against the city - while she was abandoned, save for us.
We barred the gates and we manned the walls and we cast stones down on the pack of them, but they just kept coming and coming and they climbed the walls as if they were a children's playhouse and then we fled.
The six of us are what is left from the Fitzchapel 3rd. The others are all dead. May the Gods have mercy on us.