Monday 1st August,
Location unknown.
"A fiery death awaits you and yours, men of the Legion!".
Phelot's words burnt as harsh as the feeling of fire at my back as we
fled Avon's Grove. The woodlands around the city glowed a bright
yellow, and the screams of the townsfolk were inescapable. I don't
know how long I ran for, but it was midday when Carrik and Pallien
finally decided we had enough of a lead on the enemy.
Avon's Grove was a battle we knew we could not win. The enemy host had
been mighty, but we still had plans to go out in style - to deal the
enemy a blow that they would not soon recover from. To delay them from
sullying the pristine fields of the Free Cities.
And our demise was sped by our own clumsiness. Our incendiary trap at
the east gate of the city only fed the destructive power of the wights
that Phelot had sent against us.
Our flight from the city was inglorious, our bravery in combat
rewarded only with faceless scorn from our opponent. Phelot himself
dealt Guric the killing blow in the ruins of the town hall. The Legion
has lost its finest mind, its most daring warrior in this part of the
land. Without our General, we will be lucky to make it to Comfort, and
the vanguard of the Legion.
Yet Carrik, Pallien and the others are determined that this is where
we must go. To follow those that left us a month or so ago, and try to
link up with those that are headed for Madrigal.
My home.
