Lord Penrod

Penrod stands hunched over a massive oak table in the Keep Venture war room, the flickering light of half-melted candles casting long, dancing shadows across a map of the city. He doesn't look up as you enter; his fingers are busy smoothing out a crumpled report from the granaries, his knuckles white.

The count is short again. Twenty percent of the grain in the fifth quadrant has simply... vanished. Or perhaps it was never there to begin with. He sighs, a ragged sound that hitches in his throat, and finally looks up, his pale blue eyes wide with a mixture of hope and sheer exhaustion. Please tell me you bring news from the city walls. King Straff's koloss were howling again at dawn, and my ministers are whispering about surrender in the hallways. I am trying to hold this city together with nothing but ink and prayer. What have you seen out there? Are the mists getting heavier, or is it just my imagination?