The trees thin, not by nature, but by hatchet and axe. The Deepwood is fought here in a battle for sanity. Pulling from the treeline you see the mighty walls of Verum. You glance back behind you into the woods. The line you lead is long and weak. The trees are swaying in a disconcerting manner, as if trying to keep you in.
You urge the broken people forward. They cheer as they see the walls, cries of thanks and sobbing break out at the sight of them. Some sixty feet high and bristling with spikes at the base, the walls stand vigil against all that would threaten the city. Framed in the light of the rising sun you can make out patrols of heavily armed guards walking the parapets and watchmen on the walls. Massive gates rise high in their midst and the great iron Bull of Verum glares at you from atop the gates' towers.
As you approach, still thirty paces away, a horn sounds through the air, causing all to look up and halt. Atop the walls above the gate, a dozen guards part, and make way for a man with a gleaming helmet topped with a feathered blue plume. He strides forward and extends a warning arm to your company.
"Bastone has fallen, we are all that is left, open the gates," you call.
"What in the name of the One is this?" he shouts, ignoring the fact that you have spoken at all, gesturing to the refugees milling behind you. "You expect to be allowed anywhere near the walls of Verum? These gates do not open for mobs that emerge from the Deepwood."