[GM Post]

Otto von Kruber was dead. It had happened so quickly that the man himself didn't even realize it happening, only a brief flash followed by eternal darkness. His soul, weak as it were, lingered in a trance until a whisper of a necromancer anchored him and brought some semblance of temporary clarity to the late baron.

Concern for his family warred with the fear of the unknown, and the former eventually won. Just by a hair. He refused to act in any way that will endanger his family. Only with Solomon's agreement to it will he agree to the binding deal and remain as one of the summoned repertoire.

Outside, the attempt to reach out to Ragnar the Red was met with an obstacle. A different force was in the process of pulling the soul away, its source distant yet inexorably connected to the northland warrior. Ragnar's spirit was much more lively than the baron, taking the death in surprisingly casual manner as if he's just in for a ride.

[b][color=#ed1c24][i]Endless battle? The Ironhand offered the same! I'd rather join the ancestors' eternal warband, but if ye got a better idea...[/i][/color][/b]

The foreign force seemingly pulsed with dissatisfaction at the attempted bargaining, the barbarous father of the northlanders exerting more power to pull the soul away. Yet he was distant and his strength limited, the connection should be easily interrupted by a seasoned necromancer. If one was daring enough to try.

Ragnar's uproarious laughter was almost audible in the physical realm.

There were mixed response from the various dead. Some accepted, some did not, but the rank of Solomon's undead followers will only swell after this evening. Most of the casualties were from the mercenaries, who got killed nearly to the last man. Some of the baron's servants and villagers died in the conflict, but not as many as one may expected. A significant number managed to gain shelter in their cellar, though with the houses collapsed they're mostly stuck down there until rescued.

Finally, on the outskirt of the fort, Solomon found a wisp of Asevor's soul. The false archmage was more than a little miffed at his manner of demise, beaten by a band of ignorant fools and a freak of nature that weaponized wild magic. Now that he's dead, though, he didn't seemed overly worried at his state. He did not trust the necromancer, and flat out refused the contract. Whether it's out of pride or something else, Asevor refused to elaborate.

Back in the fort, the prince gathered himself as he finally gave the rescue party a lookover. He stepped forward, clearing his throat to grab the attention of those present before half-bowing in gratitude. Courtly and impeccable, only marred by the fact that he's wearing a pajama somewhat drenched by the rain.

[b][color=#d896ff]"Pardon me for my lack of manners, brave adventurers. The past few days had been a rather harrowing experience."[/color][/b] He straightened up, eyes resembling his father's scanning the room to commit to memory the faces of his rescuers. [b][color=#d896ff]"I am prince Alec of Kindeance, and I offer you my heartfelt gratitude for a most daring rescue. This debt, I shall never forget."[/color][/b]

That was the moment Yvonne choose to reappear from the cellar, dragging a firkin cask of presumably some alcohol one-handed with a few large mugs tied to it. The mercenary paused, noticed who's at the center of attention, and her visage split into a wide grin not unlike a certain cat from a wonderland fairytale.

[b][color=#a4161a]"Hey, it's little Alec! Good to see you in one piece!"[/color][/b] She studiously ignored how Matilda glared in disapproval, electing to lift the cask onto the blackened table before cracking open the top. Fragrance of grape and alcohol wafted from the content, some splashes of deep burgundy spilled from the impact. [b][color=#a4161a]"I've found the wine! Oh, there's also a weird man down there. Dressed like a servant and drunk out of his bloody mind. Thought you guys would want to know."[/color][/b]

She idly grabbed a bread from the repopulated table, courtesy of the foreign swordsman. It's cold, and probably started to turn stale already, but who cares - she need the calorie.