The accommodations in the Grafs manor were a considerable step up from the taverns and dives they usually slept in. It wasn't all good news however. The winter winds were howling outside and with windows shattered and doors broken from their hinges the icy wind was difficult to escape. Cydric and Camilla solved the problem by commandeering a downstairs parlor and rigging a series of quilted blankets to the door to keep out the cold. Snow had begun to fall and was growing in intensity, blanketing the afternoon in leaden gray. Camilla wondered if any of the bandits they had run off into the woods earlier in the day would survive. Maybe, the Drakwald was filled with caves and overhangs that might shelter a man in a blizzard, though that depended on it being unoccupied by something that would kill faster than the cold would.

"Luckily," Cydric said as he stepped through the quilts carrying an arm load of branches, "whatever these things were they left plenty of firewood." There was already a merry fire blazing in the stone hearth on the far side of the room, but it was likely to be a long night. Gunir didn't seem to think there was any chance of the tree things reanimating, but the dwarves had cut up the remains that hadn't already been shattered by axe blows or sword strokes. The garrison had been called out and was on the walls in full strength, a miserable business on a night like this, but nothing anyone was shirking after the events of the day.

Camilla poured two glasses of the Grafs excellent brandy and took one over to Cydric as he deposited the timber with a clatter. She doubted the Grafin intended for them to have the fine spirits, but there was enough confusion that nobody had noticed or cared that Camilla had acquired several bottles during the ongoing clean up.

"What do you think they came for?" she asked.