The aftermath of the brief, brutal skirmish in Porto Pescar settled like dust in the ruined town. The surviving civilians, huddled under the comforting golden glow of Ceanna's protective wards, stared with wide, disbelieving eyes at the strange group who had descended like vengeful gods. Dead Merrow warriors, giant crabs blasted to pieces, frozen crawlers – the evidence of the swift, overwhelming power was undeniable.
Alaric maintained his pleasant, non-threatening facade as he continued his questioning of the old fisherman, whose name turned out to be Mateo. Other survivors, emboldened by the safety offered by the Steele contingent, began to chime in, adding fragments to the grim tapestry of the Confederacy's plight.
"You asked about others fighting back, stranger," Mateo said, his voice raspy but stronger now, thanks to a cleric's healing touch on his arm. "Aye, there are some. Sparks of light in the darkness, bless their courage."
