Ahead of the four massive walls of the Bastion, the League began to scar the earth. Three distinct camps rose like cysts upon the landscape. To the left hung the Orange Sun of Oizen, its banners snapping with a desperate, frantic energy to reclaim their lost honor. To the right, the Singing Cock of Ezvania fluttered over a city of silk and noise. In the center, dominating the approach, flew the Twin Towers of Habadia alongside the Charging Bull of Kakunia.
They hadl all agreed that for the first week, there would be no blood.
No desperate rushes, no suicide runs against the stone. Instead, they would labor. They would fill the outer ditches with earth and wood, assemble the skeletal frames of siege towers, and prepare for a grind that would be measured in months or in weeks, depinding on the assaults would go.
