A dark cloud of ash spreads eastward from the Fogwood, brothers. Our cities are beseiged by night with demons, and if that ash spreads here to Felhove and covers our skies, we'll have siege at noon, too. The elves are routed; their Fogwood burns to blot out the Sun God himself.
We are in the noose of desperation, brothers. Let us while away the end with song and drink for what time we can.