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Here you sit, reclining against a pile of rubble, armor black with soot and red with blood. The fortress, at long last, has been taken, and its would-be conquerors captured or destroyed. As the dawn sun begins to climb the distant hills, a fine mix of red and orange lights the remains of this poor fortress. Its tall black tower, felled and broken, litters the courtyard with crumbling black stones and shards of iron. Its once-proud defenders, overtaken by the enemy, now fuel the pyres that burn against the daylight.
The few that survived owe their lives to you. With the destruction of the tower, the prisoners were released from its arcane magic, and those that could be recovered are being tended to by the faithful. Karius, the man you personally rescued from the torment of the spike, has been fully healed, and wishes to speak with you.
He is not alone. The vast majority of the valiant force would clamor for your attention, were they not restrained by their commanders. Erivrus, though separated from you by death, of all things, requests your ear from the safety of the realm of the gods. Through all of this, the gods maintain an open link, appraising you of all you might wish to know.
The frost demon has reached Kharok. A sudden burst of anti-scrying spells greeted its arrival, shutting out a great expanse of the frigid North. Siskiv and your other companions wish to join you, but the particulars of their transport are up to you. The sergeant, as you know, is grievously injured, though recovering. Seven fortresses on the Western edge remain under Forusian control, all with non-active towers. Perin's main forces will arrive at the fortress line within two weeks.