This must have been the way my father felt before the Battle of the Midwood Marshes so long ago. He was a lowly private in the Second High Town Regiment, while I find myself commanding a troop of prowlgrin cavalry, but he would surely have felt an empty hollow in the pit of his stomach and found it impossible to sleep, just as I do now.
We have been skirmishing in the forests to the east of the Farrow Lake for several weeks, but the enemy seems to be getting stronger by the day. Their leader, Commander Felvis Yellowmane, has powerful friends in Great Glade, and they have sent him two more phraxcannon to add to the one he already possesses. His army of mire-pearlers have used them to devastating effect, destroying the landing deck to the east of the Farrow Ridges to make it impossible for the sky taverns to dock, and thus cutting us off from the outside world. They then turned the cannon on our forward camps and have pushed our Farrow Lake militia back towards the trees fringing the lake shore. Retreat is not an option. Here, by the clear waters of our beautiful Farrow Lake, we stand and fight.
My prowlgrin troop protects our southern flank; Alcentia’s troop guards the north. In the centre, the Roost Marshal has gathered our infantry, the First Farrow Lake Militia, which he has transformed from a disorganized band of hammerhead goblins and Deepwoods trappers, into a formidable fighting force. But we are hopelessly outnumbered – at least three to one – and since the sky taverns can no longer dock, our supplies of ammunition are running short.
There was been no word from my friend, Hedgethorn Lammergyre, and I fear his mission to bring help from the authorities in Great Glade must have come to nothing. Tomorrow, there is to be a great battle – the Battle of Farrow Lake – and I fear that, like my dear father, I shall not live to tell my children of it…