The city breathes, shallow and stained, as the last echoes of war curl into the frostbitten air. She came like a herald of winter’s will--Avalanche, veiled in frost and shadow, her voice a chorus of glacial ruin. From beyond the northern wall, she spoke but once, demanding Arabel’s ruler within the hour.
But the storm did not wait.
From the east, they surged--orcish fury unleashed in blackened waves, battering the gates with tooth and azure flame. With the ferocity of a defender's heart, adventurers rallied, pushing back against the Azure menace at all costs. Some defenders even remark upon the strange forces emerging in defense of the city: strange gusts of wind, made singular and material, along with treants oozing rot, rose to meet the orcs and their Azurespawn along the forest-line roads east of Arabel.
For a time, the old heart of the city was lost in blood and smoke, its stones trembling beneath the weight of ancient hate. Yet still, Arabel did not fall.
Adventurers carved through the chaos like stars defying night. The People’s Militia, loyal to Sleathe, held fast amidst the ruin. And inch by inch, through fire and scream, the invaders were repelled. The orcs broke. They fled, howling, back into the teeth of the Storm Horns--but the wind carries no peace.
In the crags above, where even moonlight fears to tread, flames of azure now bloom--unnatural, flickering like forgotten gods rekindled in ice. They burn without heat--they burn without death.
Sir Malcom DeSchurr, grim as the hour, calls for vengeance with the coming dawn--a counter-siege born in steel and spell, the War Wizards at his side. Lord Delzuld has flung wide his vaults, casting coin like blessings upon the city’s battered champions. Yet beneath the brief cheers of today's victory lies a shiver. The war is not ended, with some even ruminating it has only just begun. And beyond it all, a low, dreadful cackle rides the icy chill drifting down from the mountains.
