Dear Thomas Henry Fitzchapel,
As one of the displaced persons who has recently been forced to flee Notley, I thought that I would write and tell you about the excellent conduct of your soldiers. Some of my fellow villagers are, alas, inclined to criticise their performance, especially the dracoscion and the Amusar that no-one really got along with, but they paid valiantly with their blood for Flembic soil, every last one of them. They could quite easily have got away and left us villagers to our fate when Raid Hives Wreckers arrived in town, but instead they engaged the filthy mindless myrmidon beasts and did you proud, taking down five of the miserable clawed vermin before they were sadly overwhelmed.
I just wanted you to know that every last one of your boys - even the Malathian, who one might have expected to run away once the battle was obviously hopeless - died like true Flembic gentlefolk, defending us commoners from harm. It might not have been much, but it was the time we needed to grab a few belongings and vacate the area.
Yours with a grateful heart,
Raid Hives Wreckers emerge from Notley with some new scars on their carapaces and missing five of their number; although they can't speak to give you a report, it is clear that they faced some reasonably serious opposition while securing the area, but they have prevailed and the area is now under your control.
Myrmidons overrun the Flembic countryside; the green and pleasant fields that were once the heartland of the colony are abandoned to Raid Hive's mindless drones. Yet still there are isolated incidents of courage, reports that suggest the heart of Flambard still beats within those who are not cowering within the walls of the Gubernatiorial Estates, or living cheek by jowl with their enemies in pathetic defence of some 'holy project' out in Kettering.
The tale of Notley is one such incident. Despite their mixed composition - some of the wilder tales even include a Mayan and an Amusar! - the good soldiers of Fitzchapel 2nd know their duty when the Raid Hive Wreckers roll into town. They line up along the central village square and call out the attackers, who scuttle forth like dogs called to heel, and they have at them, despite being heavily outnumbered. They do not break or falter, despite being terribly wounded by the cruel claws of their attackers, and eventually they slaughter every last one of the foul beasts before succombing to their injuries.