TEXT: The Fall of Scant 
  An account by Reynyr Tarendrenn of Zelradton, artillerist commissioned to the service of the 
  Prince of Zelradton’s Regiment of Sappers.  
   
  Harvester 5, 595 CY 
  We arrived in the Onnwalon port of Sornhill today after three days at sea and very thankful 
  we were, given the sickness we suffered. Sornhill is a small place, set on a sheltered bay. 
  Despite its size, it is formidably fortified, with the seaward approaches warded by a beacon 
  tower. The defences and the mark of battle they still bear are evidence of the fierce war that 
  has raged in Onnwal this last eleven years, a war we are here to help put an end to.  
   
  A lady, fair and noble – Saielma, Duchess of the Storm Coast - met us at the quay and 
  greeted us with many fine words. On her left hand was our ambassador – an easterner: the 
  lord of Wyverntor on the Sunndi marches. He also spoke fair words of the alliance between 
  Ahlissa and Onnwal. On the lady’s right stood a grizzled old tar – the lady’s protector and 
  commandant of the garrison here I’m told. He spoke no fair words. Indeed, he spoke no 
  words at all, but scowled at us with a hateful glint in his eye. I’ll wager ‘tis many an Ahlissan 
  he’s spitted in his day. 
   
  After the speeches, we marched through the town (displaying our colours for the 
  locals to see) and set camp outside the walls, from whence I write this now. It seems our 
  newfound allies have some way to go before they trust us fully.  
   
  Harvester 12, 595 CY 
  After a week of idleness outside Sornhill, we took ship again early this morning – slipping 
  out under the beacon tower (which I learned is dedicated to Osprem, who is apparently much 
  revered along Onnwal’s Storm Coast) and then turning west towards the Gearnat and Scant. 
  Still lacking my sea legs. I hope this will be a short voyage.  
   
  Harvester 14, 595 CY 
  Two days of sailing and sickness finds us fetched up in the port of Obelton, several leagues 
  north of Scant itself. Yesterday even, we rounded Cape Obelstone. A sea stack stands less 
  than a mile off the tip of the cape. Perched atop it (and hollowed out of it by the look of it) is a 
  fortress of dreadfully grim aspect. It was ‘till recently a stronghold of the Scarlet Sign (whom 
  the Onnwalons call Strawhairs) wherefrom, ‘tis said their mages controlled sea monsters to 
  terrorise the shipping in the Straits of Gearnat. Then, but a few months ago, some unknown 
  calamity befell it. Apparently, no word has been heard from any within that grim finger of 
  rock since, nor have any returned who have gone there. Truth be told, I was glad to see the 
  back of it – though it is still visible far off from our billets here in Obelton, an oppressive black 
  blot on the horizon. 
   
  Obelton is a ruin of a place. You can see how it once might have been a pleasant spot 
  – set on the curve of a broad bay, green hills rising behind it. The lords of war have had their 
  way with the town though. It was a Brotherhood stronghold until their Pomarji orcs turned 
  on them, sacked the place and sailed off home – just desserts for trusting such a rabble if you 
  ask me. The Onnwalons retook the place with a bit of a fight earlier this year and have set 
  about fortifying it as a marshalling post to move upon Scant. We’ll remain here a few days, 
  while we unload our gear from the ships and then set off south along to coast road towards 
  our goal.  
   
  Harvester 15, 595 CY 
  Tonight we camp before the walls of Scant – or to be more exact – Halmarn. Halmarn is 
  Scant’s smaller sister, sitting at the eastern end of Scant’s Great Harbour, where the sluggish 
  River Bergard meets the sea. Rich Onnwalons used to keep fine houses and villas there before 
  the wars, at a remove from the stench of the city proper, but not too far from the centres of 
  power. The Brotherhood have turned it into a fortress. A flooded ditch and a high curtain 
  wall punctuated by a series of tall tapering round towers (which the Suel are said to favour) 
  
  ward it. There are two gates - the Lion Gate facing east and the Scant Gate – facing north, 
  from which a paved road runs towards Scant itself.  
   
  Almost the entire Onnwalon Army of Rebellion is arrayed before the town, sprawling 
  out over the fields of the Plain of Halmarn, a horseshoe-shaped apron of land between the 
  green hills of the Volanots to the east and the sea. Szek Jian’s host is modest in size – perhaps 
  equal in number to one entire Ahlissan army.  Their encampment is spread out into a series of 
  four earthen redoubts – one for each of the provinces of Onnwal, which are arrayed in an arc 
  around the landward approaches to Scant. Between and before them run a series of siege 
  lines, trenches and breastworks aimed at hemming in the Strawhairs and curtailing their 
  sallies. The Scarlet Sign have little in the way of cavalry – though, truth be known – the 
  Onnwalons are scarcely better with less than ten score medium and heavy horse – chiefly 
  drawn from the noble households. Accordingly, their sallies have been easily contained – 
  though raids by elite forces backed by spell casters have caused some mischief and no few 
  losses among the defenders.  
   
  Most of Destron’s army is comprised of foot and most of that in the form of peasant 
  levies. The szek has summoned all men of fighting age (and any women who wish to fight) to 
  his banner – on pain of death for any who refuse. To the trained military eye, it is noticeable 
  how many of this militia have seen many summers or too few. Ten years of war have taken a 
  cruel toll on Onnwal’s menfolk.  
   
  The core of the Army is the Regular Braetads. These four regiments are made up of 
  professional soldiers raised from each of the four provinces and are distinctive in their green 
  cloaks and gleaming scale and chain mail. They are supported by the nobles of the Free State 
  and their households, whose arms and bright banners flutter over the camp. Chief among 
  these are the Glaives of Azharadian, an indigenous Onnwalon order of chivalry and the 
  closest the Free State has to real knights. Their ranks have been greatly thinned by the war, 
  though in their Cohort there are numbered some of Onnwal’s most doughty warriors. They 
  are gathered around their war banner – said to have been that borne by Great Azharadian 
  when he claimed this land for the Sun of Aerdy centuries ago. Whether it is or no, the glaives 
  hold it so and morning and evening, they kneel about it in solemn prayer to Hextor’s brother. 
  I have no love for their kind, but I do respect them as able warriors, if flawed by their 
  devotion to their chivalry. How can a man expect to fight and win with one hand tied behind 
  his back by ideals of honour? There is no honour in defeat.  
   
  Aside from these, there are the irregular forces – the so-called Wreckers (semi-
  organised brigands given pardons so long as there are Strawhairs to kill) and the Hillstalkers 
  (a more reputable and elusive cadre of soldier). Both range largely unseen on the front lines 
  quietly working their stealthy work.  
  More conspicuous, though few in number, are the war companies that have come to 
  Destron’s banner. With their wealth (which puts many on a par with the nobility) and fine 
  arms and armour, they are unmistakable. Some are mercenaries (and no few of those have 
  Ahlissan Nightingales weighing heavy in their pouches), others are more idealistic in bent. 
  There are Onnwalons fighting to liberate their land, a large contingent of Sunnd here to aid 
  their allies and a few Ahlissans, Nyrondese and Keoish. These freeswords, I think, will play a 
  great role in the fray to come.  
   
  Patchwall 23, 595 CY 
  We have been here now over a month. Since we assembled the siege engines (and what 
  wretched toil that was) and moved them into place, life has settled into a familiar rhythm: we 
  spend all day lumping rocks and other missiles at them and they sally out at night to try to 
  burn our engines with mage and alchemist’s fire. The numbers of Onnwalon nobles and 
  levies have grown steadily and must now number nigh to ten thousands. The lord marshal of 
  Onnwal himself is recently arrived from Killdeer. A first cousin of szek, he is a stern fellow – 
  though he appears to be a competent soldier. He inspires confidence in the Onnwalons and 
  respect in many of the foreigners (the notable exception being the Sunnd, who seem to have 
  little respect for any but themselves). Since he arrived, preparations have picked up apace. It 
  seems likely that there shall be action soon.  
   
  
  Ready’reat 2, 595 CY 
  We have been ordered to make the engines ready to advance to new positions. Though the 
  orders did not say whether we were to move closer or farther away, there can be little doubt 
  of where we shall be moving to. There is a stir around the camp – especially around the billets 
  of the Wreckers. It seems that that old brigand Rakehell Chert has some new ruse up his 
  sleeve. The rest of the army readies itself also. I’ve noticed there are fewer war companies 
  than there was a few days ago. They must have slipped quietly out of camp to avoid the spies 
  of the Scarlet Sign no doubt, though some of the other officers have wondered if they haven’t 
  just deserted or wandered off to explore some ruin or poke their nose where they are not 
  wanted, as that ilk are wont to do. I, however, think that they will play some part in whatever 
  is to come. If we are to move our engines within range of Scant, Halmarn must first be in our 
  hands. The first blow will fall there.  
   
  Ready’reat 3, 595 CY 
  We were woken by horns in the dark of the deep watches this morning. They came not from 
  our encampment but from the walls of Halmarn opposite. At first, we mustered to arms, 
  fearing an attack, but it soon became clear the assault was being directed at the walls rather 
  than from them. As we looked out in the dim dawn twilight, we could see great dweomered 
  mists and billows of smoke rolling out from the great horse show of our lines towards 
  Halmarn. From our vantage point, we could see squares of militia advancing slowly towards 
  the Lion Gate under the cover of the smoke, backed by lines of Regulars. Between the two, 
  small bands of war mages moved, maintaining the cover and countering the destructive 
  spells that came arcing from the walls. It seem to us that the Onnwalons moved very 
  tentatively – too slow by half to cover the distance before the Strawhairs brought their 
  garrison and spellthrowers to bear upon them. Here and there, a ball of mage fire would 
  blossom up in the midst of a square of spearmen, sending burning men screaming in all 
  directions as serterns struggled to maintain discipline and order. It seemed like certain 
  murder.  
   
  And then a second sun lit the dim morning. The Lion Gate vanished in a gout of 
  flame that billowed and blossomed like a fiery rose. A cry of jubilation went up from the 
  Onnwalons who now charged the walls, urged on by a chorus of horns. To the north and 
  south, gleaming wedges of men of the noble households emerged from the mists and smoke 
  to storm the Scant gate and the southern end of the walls. The enemy, reeling from loss of the 
  massed ranks at the Lion Gate and forced to defend three distant points at once could mount 
  only a feeble resistance. The Onnwalons rapidly scaled the walls and surged through the 
  smouldering gate, while the Strawhairs and their Hojebline troops seemed to collapse, their 
  units fleeing in disorder and confusion, unable to muster themselves in defence.  
  Before the sun had climbed to noon, it was over bar the counting of the dead. 
  Geldrenn rode into Halmarn with his household guards and made his headquarters in a large 
  villa on the waterfront, looking out over the Great Harbour towards the city of Scant itself. 
  We on the other hand, had little time to sit and ponder on the days events – so occupied were 
  we with dragging our engines forward to within range of the walls of Scant themselves, a 
  dusty and laborious task and no mistake. We were still toiling long after the sun had set in 
  the west, behind the looming dark mass of the city we shall assault on the morrow.  
   
  Ready’reat 4, 595 CY 
  My rest was short. I had scarcely put my head down, when I was shaken awake and 
  summoned to the captain’s tent. There I was ordered to bear dispatches to Geldrenn and 
  return with his orders for the assault to come. Blearily, I stumbled through the tents and 
  bivouacs that now covered the landward end of the Langneck – the sandy spit of land that 
  joins Scant and its hills to the rest of Onnwal. About me, the army stirred from a restless 
  sleep, every man knowing what was to come with the dawn. The women were already busy 
  with the fires, their eyes turning fearfully to the fortress city.  
   
  I discovered that the lord marshal was already up and moving with his captains 
  among the men of his host. I say he was up, but it is passing unlikely that he even slept, 
  though there was no trace of fatigue upon his face, only steely determination. I noticed for the 
  
  first time that he walks with a limp. Asking an Onnwalon about this, I learned Geldrenn 
  received it as a gift from the Strawhair assassin that come to kill him eleven years ago. 
  Needless to say, the baron repaid the fellow with interest. 
   
    Before I could deliver my dispatches, Baron Geldrenn climbed onto a wain, planted 
  the banner of Onnwal behind him and stood there for a time surveying the camp and the 
  black mass of the city crouching like a beast at bay under the shadows of the departing night. 
  Seeing their commander standing so, a circle of curious soldiers gathered around, their faces 
  upturned, expectant. And then Geldrenn began to speak. I can still remember it now and 
  perhaps shall until the day I breathe my last. 
   
  “Patriots of Onnwal, allies of the Iron League, all you free folk who take up arms this 
  day in Onnwal’s name,” he began, his voice clear and stern. “Eleven years ago, the Strawhairs 
  came to our land. They came in fair guises, but in their hearts there was only treachery. They 
  struck like thieves in the night & Onnwalon blood – noble and common alike – ran in rivers 
  from the Scarlet knives.  
  “Onnwal fell into a dark night of tyranny, yet we did not fear or falter. We fought on 
  though the darkness, knowing that while even one Onnwalon drew breath, freedom would 
  be ours once more.  
  “And now we stand together at freedom’s dawn. 
  “The sun rises and yonder across the harbour, Scant awaits, stained with the blood of 
  innocents. We come this day in wrath and fury, not as an army of rebellion, but as an army of 
  retribution! Remember that should you falter in the fray. Remember every child orphaned, 
  every maiden shamed, every farmer burned and you will remember your courage. 
               “Today we take back what was ours. Today we take back our land. Today we take 
  back our freedom!” 
   
  And with that, the sun broke over the hills to the east and set the banner of Onnwal 
  aflame with a blaze of golden light. A deafening cheer broke forth from the gathered throng. 
  “Free Onnwal!” they cried and “Remember the Farmers!” and the cry was taken up 
  throughout the camp.   
   
  Geldrenn surveyed the scene with a grim smile for a moment and then descended 
  and calmly began issuing orders to his captains. I almost forgot to deliver my missive. I 
  delivered it to one of Geldrenn’s officers, received the sealed scroll of orders and departed 
  still dumbstruck by what I’d witnessed.  
   
  My wonder did not last long. Our orders were to stand-to and begin the 
  bombardment of the landward walls of the city immediately. And so we did, heaving the 
  great catapult stones, each the size of two grown men, into the net, cranking the counter 
  weight into position and loosing the arm to send the missile hurtling towards the walls at the 
  far end of the Langneck.  
  All around us the Regulars of the Army of Rebellion formed up in their ranks, with 
  the men of the noble households behind them, and behind them in reserve the levies of the 
  Militia. The banners of Gilderond and the Eastern Marchlands, the Storm Coast and the 
  Azure, Sunndi and Ahlissa snapped in the salt breeze. Sword edge and spear point, fretfully 
  honed in the dark hours before dawn, gleamed now in the rising sun. Faces were stern and 
  eyes were grim as only the eyes of men who know they will kill or die this day can be. To a 
  song of horns, they set off in step across the half-mile of flat ground between them and the 
  walls. As they advanced, the dweomer duels began, pitting the evoker’s craft against the 
  abjurer’s art. Mage fire licked out from the city – only to be turned aside or cancelled by the 
  warmages advancing among the warriors, who at a horn cry spread themselves out, while 
  holding their ranks, to reduce the effect of any spell that did get through. And those spells 
  were not few. As the ranks drew closer, showers of bolts and arrows arced out from the walls, 
  sowing death among the advancing regiments. The Onnwalons now closed ranks and raised 
  their shields in a testudo to ward off the hard steel-tipped rain. 
  For our part, we had found our range and meted out what vengeance we could with 
  our mighty sling stones. Here and there, the walls, though strong, were beginning to crack 
  and buckle under our onslaught. Just then, as the advancing infantry came was weathering 
  the arrow storms, the ground beneath us heaved and buckled, then vomited forth a slew of 
  corpses. To our horror, these corpses sprang up, infused with some unholy mockery of life 
  
  and assailed us as we scrambled for our weapons. Others of these cold folk unleashed 
  magefire upon our engines or hammered upon them with preternatural strength, splintering 
  wood and severing rope and tie. Assailed by surprise so, it was all we could do to preserve 
  ourselves (and for many of our number, even that proved too much), there was little we 
  could do to prevent this destruction. Of the dozen men in my squad I saw seven dragged 
  screaming to their deaths by the cold folk. Another two are maimed for life – assuming they 
  live through the night. I tried to rally them into a knot and those that could yet heed my 
  orders did so, until we were back to back, surrounded by a ring of ravenous undead.  
  It was the war companies that saved us. They came with magefire, hard blows and 
  swift anger and swept the cold folk back. And as suddenly as the fray had begun, it was over. 
  These heroes moved forward now, to assist the faltering attack, leaving us to count our dead 
  and injured. Alone among the engines in our company, ours remained intact. I cobbled 
  together a crew and resumed our work with a new hatred for the Scarlet Sign and its fell 
  works.  
  The Onnwalons assailed the walls in four places, including the formidable Land Gate. 
  Here the fighting was at its most savage. The Strawhairs laid down a withering hail of 
  missiles and spells, under which charge after charge faltered and was driven back. In this 
  action, the Onnwalon general (or Braetern as they call them here) Talgara Larelann fell 
  pierced by many arrows while trying to rally her command for one last push to shatter the 
  gates. With her death, the attack crumbled. A second major assault was similarly beaten back, 
  after a war company briefly gained the parapet, only to be driven back by a furious counter 
  attack. As the Onnwalons retreated, they left the ramp leading to the gate strewn with their 
  green-cloaked dead. 
  Elsewhere, the assault had greater success. Spearheaded by war companies, the 
  Regulars stormed through the breaches our engines had battered through and overtopped 
  the wall at several points. The resistance was dealt a death blow, when war companies, who 
  had infiltrated the city through the sewers emerged in the streets of Gate Hill, the district 
  behind the wall to fall upon the defenders from behind. By dusk, the entire wall and a large 
  portion of Gate Hill was in Onnwalon hands. The crooked cross of the Scarlet Sign only flew 
  over the gatehouse, where a band of diehard fanatics still hold.  
  Even as the battle raged on the walls, we could see from our vantage point, a second 
  fray in progress in the Great Harbour. Boatloads of Onnwalon marines as well as several war 
  companies slipped into Scant’s Inner Harbour, a narrow inlet set between the city’s two hills. 
  While they fought to secure the quarter around the Harbour and Grand Market, relief came in 
  the form of a squadron of ships of the Onnwalon navy, led by Szek Jian Destron himself 
  aboard The Bolt of Longbridge. They threaded the reefs (thanks to the expertise of a dwur pilot 
  rescued by a war company from the clutches of the Strawhairs) and sailed under the silenced 
  siege engines (silenced by war companies and members of the Wreckers, it goes without 
  saying) overlooking the passage into the Inner Harbour.  
   
  Now it is evening and we are billeted within the Low City of Scant. The 
  sounds of skirmishes still echo among the tight packed houses and narrow streets, but for the 
  most part the Low City belongs to the Army of Rebellion. With nightfall has come the 
  grimmest discovery of the day. We entered to find the city deserted – streets empty, houses 
  derelict – or at least derelict of the living. We and others have come upon houses, wells, sewer 
  shafts and small squares piled thick with bodies. Some are rotted to bone, most are not yet so 
  far gone. Moreover no few of these bodies have been defiled and animated with unlife. Some 
  of these restless spirits are still bound to their mortal remains. The greater number, however, 
  have shed their bodily form and now haunt the streets and houses where they once dwelt. 
  The skirmishes that we hear now are not between Onnwalons and Strawhairs, but between 
  Onnwalon and Onnwalon, living and dead. We came here to free a city. That we may do that, 
  but will there be any left alive to dwell in it? 
   
  Ready’reat 5, 595 CY 
  Such is the trembling in my hands that I can barely write. Yet the sights I have seen today 
  compel me to. Perhaps if I can hem them in with words, they may not haunt me so. I can only 
  hope.  
  
   
  This morning, we woke full of hope that the dusk would see an end to the siege and 
  the war. I caught myself thinking of home, and immediately put it from my mind, lest it jinx 
  me. The Onnwalons held the entirety of the Low City, and Jian Destron’s personal standard 
  flew over the city’s Customs House near the Inner Harbour. Meanwhile the Strawhairs had 
  withdrawn behind the wall that divided off Palace Hill, the High City and the Palace of the 
  Szeks of Onnwal. As with the Low City, only one gate led into the upper quarters – the High 
  Gate – and it would be the focus of fierce fighting. The noble householders and the Glaives of 
  Azharadian and their Cohort led the attack, supported by the bloodied Regulars and the 
  Militia levies. I saw little of the fighting myself, engaged as I was with furiously hammering 
  together scaling ladders and hordings to shield the great ram that had been cobbled together 
  from the masts of Brotherhood ships sunk in the Great Harbour. I only saw the blood running 
  in streams down the gutters of the steep winding streets.    
  It was past noon by the time we heard the roar of jubilation as the High Gate 
  splintered and broke and the Onnwalons poured in, the Glaive Cohort and their banner at the 
  van. Szek Jian and his household knights passed by us and on into the High quarter. The 
  fighting that followed was savage, as knots of Strawhairs and their minions barricaded 
  themselves into fortified boltholes, prepared long in advance for this day. These Strawhairs 
  are fanatics. They care little for surrender, quarter or ransom as other foes might (given the 
  discoveries of the previous evening, there was little chance they would receive any from the 
  Onnwalons, such was the vengeful tenor of their wrath). The bitterest fighting seemed to be 
  about the Bastion of the Golden Sun and in the streets leading to the Palace and the Cathedral 
  to Osprem.  
  Then perhaps four hours after the noon bell, horns began to echo out through the 
  High City. Not horns of victory, but horns of retreat. We looked at each other in confusion. 
  How could this be? Was it some last desperate deception of the Scarlet Sign? A runner 
  bearing the arms of Jian Destron came pelting by shouting that all companies were to 
  withdraw immediately to Halmarn with as much order as could be accommodated with all 
  due with haste.  
  Militia levies began to pour out through the High Gate – their serterns only barely 
  keeping them from panicked flight. The Regulars, sailors and marines came after, their 
  depleted ranks in good order, though they moved at a trot more than a march. Next came the 
  war companies, who seemed to have seen some of the heaviest of the fighting. Last to leave 
  were the noble householders and last of those were the Glaives Cohort and the szek and his 
  household. They fought an effective rearguard action against the resurgent Brotherhood 
  forces, while withdrawing in splendid order. We had joined the exodus by now, spilling 
  down the narrow streets and lanes towards the Land Gate and out onto the Langneck 
  beyond. We poured out of Scant like blood from a dying soldier. 
  No sooner had the last riders of the Glaive Cohort galloped through the Land Gate 
  when a dreadful, blood-curdling scream, unimaginably loud, tore the air. Many of the 
  peasants flung away their spears and threw themselves to the ground in terror. No few 
  hardened veterans quailed in fear. All eyes turned to Scant. A fountain of black fire exploded 
  from the Palace of the Szeks atop the very highest point of the city. As we looked on in 
  horror, it rolled out over the city like an ebon flood, setting all it touch ablaze. With terrifying 
  swiftness, the black flood swallowed Scant whole, consuming it with a burning that continues 
  now many hours later. Such was the heat of that fire that we could feel it on our backs as we 
  turned to flee, let it consume us also. But it was not so. The black fire took Scant, but did not 
  advance any farther.  
  It seems that we are safe – at least for now. Our foes that remained within the city, 
  however, must surely have perished in the fiery holocaust. If so – then the tyranny of the 
  Scarlet Sign in Onnwal and the war against it is at an end.  
  But at what cost?   
  Afterwards, the szek, Jian Destron, summoned the dukes and barons and all the men 
  of the Army of Rebellion to him before the walls of Halmarn. He stood in their midst, atop a 
  wain, as Geldrenn had. He appeared drawn and pale, but there was fire in his eyes and steel 
  in his words when he spoke.  
  
   
  “Men of Onnwal, brothers this day in battle, bloodshed and grief, hear me. We have 
  suffered and toiled under tyranny for one and ten years now. For one and ten years we have 
  long to be free. In our deepest despair we have feared to hope, and in our highest hopes we 
  have dared to dream of a day when victory would come, when the Scarlet Sign would be 
  swept from our land and the blood of our fathers, our brothers, our children would be 
  avenged.  
   
  That day has come. We are free at last. But it has come at a cost, a terrible price. The 
  blood of those who gave their lives not just in this battle but in the thousand battles, 
  skirmishes and ambushes that have brought us here to this final victory. Scant, the city of my 
  fathers, our capital, the dearest jewel of Onnwal burns. Its people cruelly slain by the Scarlet 
  Sign in petulant vengeance.  
  We have lost much – and I thank each of you for the sacrifice that you have made, 
  that all of us have made. We have lost much, but we cannot despair.  
  Houses and temples and palaces can be replaced. Lives cannot.  
  Your victory this day was not in killing the Strawhairs, it was in escaping their 
  vengeance. In living you make mockery of their nested machinations. In living, you defy their 
  spite. In living, you can rebuild this land, remake what was lost, recover Onnwal to the 
  strength it possessed of old, when we bowed to no one.  
  It is you who will do this, in farm and croft, in palace or in temple, on ship and on 
  shore. It is on your shoulders that Onnwal’s future depends. Bury your dead today and 
  grieve for the fallen, but remember that the task of rebuilding our city and our land begins on 
  the morrow.  For it to you that Onnwal’s freedom is entrusted. It is a trust none of us can fail 
  to uphold.” 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Living Greyhawk/Metaorg Material/Onnwal/The Fall of Scant.pdf