The journey here had been perilous, to say the least. While there had been rumors of some resurgent power that had entrenched itself into the forsts of the northern Marches, building a power base in the bones of an ancient fortress on the river, we certainly hadn't expected this...
The Baron had been wholly uninterested in our messenger's missive demanding tribute, and I understand he spent more time flirting with his wives than actually considering our demands. We had thought nothing of his idle comments that attempting to invade his holdings would be a futile, costly endeavor.
We were wrong.
Throughout our passage through the forest we had been harried by what seemed like an endless stream of foxen guerrillas, harrying our forces night and day and demanding round the clock watches lest our supplies be torched by foxfire and our very souls be wrenched from our bodies in the night. Worse, when we came across the rare break in the trees we were harried from above by what some of the men described as a scarlet dragon with flowing black hair.
When we finally came to the fortress and overcame it's titanic floral guardian, we were exhausted and had little reserve supplies.
The commander reassured us, saying that tonight we would dine in the halls of our enemy on the spoils of victory.
We were therefore wholly unprepared for what followed.
A Platoon of foxes, an entire damned platoon of the soul-stealing demons, were waiting along the walls, raining spells down on our heads like living siege engines alongside elven archers who filled the skies with their arrows. When we took cover and attempted to dig in and outlast them we found ourselves flanked by another platoon of lupines assisted by still another platoon of catfolk, many of whom supported their bretheren (this i understand is, in fact, literal) with Lumian spells. Our lines, battered by flaming explosions and the wrath of the elements called down on us by mystic means, had no hope of holding out against what came next.
An entire platoon of minotar warriors descended upon our ragged front, joined by a squad of orcs, three immense hellhounds, and at least another squad of leothrans, led by a kobold outrider atop a centaur leading the defender's charge at the command of a diminutive fox wielding a wicked foreign polearm and joined by what appeared to be a completely different breed of fox wearing a shining silver mask who decimated our forces wielding strange abilities. From the skies, the dragoness rained fire and devastation onto our beleaguered forces, until finally the commanders gave the order to retreat. But it was too late.
Reinforcements from the Undermountain, apparently sent by still more spawns of the Baron's accursed loins who worked for a noble house in the city, had cut off our retreat and we were forced to parlay with the Baron and his wives, each of whom appeared to be nothing but radiant with pride for their brood's victory. The whole fort was abuzz with the sounds of celebration, as it was apparently "the first excuse I've had to get the whole family together at once for something" in the Baron's own words.
Do not attempt to invade this land. Or at least, perhaps wait a generation or two before making any such plans again. The family that controls it is far too numerous and too powerful to be stopped by conventional means at this time.
