Preparations for the defense were going well at least, and The King had been informed of what they knew so far, but it was seemingly a worryingly high chance that the justifications for a potential war here could be left to the court of public opinion. Which in a situation where somebody had put in months of advanced planning to decide in advance the outcome, by redefining truth was a very bad thing.

To counter that somewhat the best of the diggers were outside digging trenches with terrifying speed, while others piled all the removed dirt on the defending side. If anybody was going to invade this city by charging it they had better be a mountaineer or something of the sort. To add to the difficulty most of the cities eateries were pouring all the grease from their cooking down the slops. In Mibbet’s opinion barricades had never smelt so good.They had considered stakes, but quickly figured out that if they were trying to convince the world that they were not child stealing monsters then it would be preferable to avoid painful perforation even if the enemy did invade. The last thing this situation needed was more justification.

Mibbet was being escorted around the field by Errol, and a Bewn-ard clan member whose mother definitely did not win any prizes for creativity in naming their pup Werrerd. The Garuw in question was built like a brick outhouse designed by people who chewed up iron ore and spat out nails. He was actually human tall, and in this case a particularly well built human, and if they had remodelled his armour using wood would have been quite literally barrel chested. His ears drooped down at the side of his face almost to his chin, and all that could be said about his eyes was they were there somewhere, as his face had a lot of floof, and a lot of folds. In one paw he held his weapon, a big hefty looking glaive he’d padded out so as not to accidentally kill anything. (A distinct possibility considering Mibbet was fairly sure ninety percent of his body was pure bulk, and the rest was mostly crease.) His conversational skills were limited to a snort, or a slightly longer snort. (At least to humans, to a Garuw a tail can say a lot, and the tiniest nuance could make the difference between a friendly paw-shake and going out for drinks, or getting smacked in the face by an irate Garuw who is insisting their mother was an absolute saint. Which as you can imagine implies a hell of a difference sociolinguistically speaking. Tail language could also be affected by breed as different tail types complicated things magnificently.) On top of his armour he also wore a tatty old flat cap. (When Mawri had asked him about this in the past he had quickly signalled that a helmet was useless to him as nothing could reach his head anyway and that his cap was infinitely more comfortable. In all fairness to him it was true that most of his injuries barely reached his chest.)

Of course around his neck a tiny barrel was strung too, it’s all very well preaching unity of the different clans. But there was a difference between unity and stating you were no longer a Bewn-ard, that and he did tend to like a quick nip of the booze on occasion, and the ban on hip flasks didn’t apply to relics, artefacts, or symbols of kinship.

Mibbet was working with a few others, carefully instructing them to churn up the dirt as much as possible on the approach to the city. She wanted any army that was planning an approach to have to practically go on all fours or be forced to take the road, and short of messing with the forest they had done everything in their power to make sure that happened. Dirt was piled high behind the main gate, and it was carefully soaked in case of fire arrows. Then of course the guard at the smaller side gates was reinforced, and additional frames placed behind them almost as tall as the walls themselves that could be used to give anybody trying to sneak in that way one hell of an inconvenient headache. Mibbet had cooked up an evil scheme and an extra layer of false crenellations were added to the walls, but only secured by wet sand. They almost felt sorry for the invaders here, but they had to make sure this city did not fall, no matter what.

************************************************************************

Back at Hawayden things had gone from bad to worse, with another wave of disappearances, and a few carefully phrased whispers in the right place the city was ready to blow at any moment.

Then finally the only “proof” the city needed was provided. A young Garuw maid had saved her young master from dying in a typical noble power struggle, and ran to Howla ’tmuhn to claim sanctuary, and given old family debts Mawri and Kawn had been obliged to accept it. The uncle who of course didn’t wish to be implicated in the crimes his dear nephew had witnessed, and so had screamed about the kidnap of the legitimate heir, before naming himself as the temporary acting head of the family. (By which I mean he decided to act like his stolen headship was temporary while setting up everything in the best way he could manage to make sure the situation would never change, it’s amazing how fast a few coins in the right, or wrong pockets depending on perspective can influence local politics.)

So they now had their “just cause” and nothing would convince them otherwise. Blacksmiths in the town, and surrounding villages went into overload on production, making war gear out of whatever they could get their hands on. (For some reason there was rather a shortage of cooking utensils in town right now.) Before long it was time, and the militia turned army began to march.