Chapter 87 - The Siege of Selvarin

The day arrived, cold and grey, over Fangreach's mangled walls: the twin moons were long since below the horizon; nothing now but that splintered light of lingering hope. I was on the north rampart again, with my cloak wound around me as though holding some tiny measure of comfort against everything that had befallen us. And all the ground at Selvarin's peak was tainted: broken wards, burning obsidian fragments, makeshift barricades lashed together from chain warded for use and timber frothed with rune. The pit was surrounded by tents and platforms -- our siegeworks; they were a monument to desperation, of resolve.