"We're surrounded, sir."

Exhaling deeply, the Commander nods at his Captain. He rises to his feet,
taking stock of his camp.

The southwestern tower had proven to be a very defensible location, and they had
held it for nearly a year against the assault. The Darkfriends - paladins and
dwarves and even men - have long held the southeastern tower.

The Commander crosses his arms on his chest, peering north from the top of the
tower.

Nightwalkers come from the north, swarming like a plague of rats. In their
midst, new forms take shape. Conjurers walk amongst demons, summoned from some
gods-forsaken plane to join in the war. The northern half of the encampment is
dead, grey, blighted by the perversion that has taken over. He is the third to
take command since the initial invasion. The status quo is unsustainable. His
legacy will NOT be one of inaction.

The Commander turns toward his Captain. "We attack."

"Sir?"

"We cannot hold forever. These creatures are gaining strength. I would rather
die fighting than cower here, surrounded and hopeless. On the morrow, we regain
the initiative."

The Captain nods once, a grim smile on his face. The pair retreats to the lower
level of the tower, where they unroll a stack of maps and plan their offensive.