The Santara scout wrapped his cloak more tightly around himself. A bitterly cold breeze caught him, one which cut most men to the bone, but the scout had grown up in this area, and the touch of the wind was to him like the caress of a beautiful woman. No, it was the sheer walls which rose now from the once serene fjord that made the hard man shiver. He remembered that last battle as though it was yesterday, the column of Mettenheim Greatswords cleaving through the Santara shield wall and then getting at the crossbowmen behind like a fox in a hen's coup. Shortly afterwards barges had sailed up the still waters, heavily laden with granite blocks from their hellish homeland. The scout had departed then to call for reinforcements as he had done numerous times before in the previous months.
Now, only a short time later the scout rode ahead of the army his Lord had raised in order to rid the shores of the invader once again and had been stunned to find this behemoth had risen so quickly. The clatter of hooves caused the scout to turn and watch the Conquistador that he served ride alongside. The grizzled veteran stared at the outpost with his usual grim demeanour, but the scout could tell that he was shaken by the structure.
"The last few weeks have cost us dearly. We fight on two fronts, and while the Mettenheim fleet is anchored off our coast we can get no troops from Barclay. Our beloved Santara is in serious trouble now." the conquistador said softly to himself. The scout heard and was surprised, the stoic warrior never let his concern show like this.
"Ride to the Grand Duke and inform him that Mettenheim have their beachhead. We will need far more men than we have now to take it from them. Ride quickly!" the Conquistador commanded, snapping himself out of his worries. The scout gave him a quick salute and guided his horse away and up the fjord's scree slope.
The Conquistador remained where he was, gazing with undisguised hatred at the stone walls, before following slowly after the scout himself.
