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[Deacon Drake]

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The city of Britain, for once, was still and quiet. The usual crowd at the West Britain Bank was almost completely dispersed. The city seemed barren, when it became apparent that all hope for the city was lost. The forces of Despise seemed too much for many people, so they packed up and moved away.

Despite the best efforts of the Regency, the Royal Britannian Guard, and other loyalist militias, the armies of Despise marched forth. Even the Town of Wilmeth was torn out by its roots during the invasion.

A few knights stood behind the Great Wall running through the middle of the city, separating the north from the south. They had no alignment or loyalties, they just fought for the good of Britain.

Several Generals loomed near the wall as well, on the northern side. The knights were throwing explosion and conflagration potions over the walls, but it seemed no use. Without the support of the Loyalists, Britain was destined to be taken.

One of these knights was Steel Skye. He too was losing hope, knowing that even if the invasion was fought back, the city would never be the same. He had just attempted, with miserable failure, to quell a dispute between the Zog Cabal and an apparent doomsayer, spreading lies about Zog's existance. He was too tired to go on.

When he reached the main gate of the Great Wall, one of the Generals was going at it with its massive club. The gate would not hold out for long, and even it did, they would find another way through to the south. The smell of smoke filled the air as several buildings in the north went up in flames.

He walked westward toward the river, which was now devoid of merchant boats, to the Poor Gate. What portcullis was once there was now bent entirely out of shape, one of its bottom spikes impaling a poor young fighter. Though no humanoids from Despise managed to make it through the gate, they were drawing ever closer. A small band of warriors was keeping that area of the city occupied, while another was defending Castle British.

Without hesitation, Steel picked up his bladed staff and joined the fighting.

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Hours later, covered in blood and sweat, the tired Steel was about ready to collapse. Most of the fighters had lost their lives fighting back the invasion. As he looked up, he could see a massive figure approaching. It was an ogre lord, but it wasn't covered in the typical rags of one. It was a General, and he was alone, completely unable to defend himself. He stood himself up with his staff and got into a crude fighting stance.

The massive creature grinned, and prepared to knock the small man's (a rather large man, but small to the ogre) head off in one swipe of his club. He reared back, but a split second later, was unable to perform any action, or even think.

Steel watched in amazement as a massive cannonball slammed into the ogre -- or what was left of it. He turned his gaze to the fortified wall around the castle, and through a spot that had apparently been blown apart, he could see the silhouette of a massive ship, that barely had clearance through the canal that ran through Britain. It was the Celtic Wind, rebuilt at last and stronger than ever.

The fighters of Britain saw hope in the cannons and archers aboard the ship. Without remorse, and without fear, they stood up and continued to fight. Hope was restored in the guards of Britain, and slowly but surely, the forces of the invasion were being turned back.
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