As the sun set, it became apparent that something was afoot. All fires on the other side of the river were put out, leaving deepening darkness. It was hard to see, but the harsh, quiet mutterings of the enemy carried clearly over the water.
Rather than shoot indiscriminately into the darkness, Piter ordered his archers to sent a few fire arrows over to the far shore for illumination only. The dull thrum of bows began, sending tiny arcs of fire across the river. Tiny black shapes could be seen running about as they landed, extinguishing the tiny points of light.
Satisfied that they had found their range, Piter ordered his elves to fire in earnest. The sky was suddenly filled with lights, like the sparks from a fire. The orange light cast garish reflections on the broken surface of the river.
Shortly after, the far bank was illuminated by a red glow with black forms running frantically about, trying to put the fires out. The damp night air was soon filled with harsh cries and screams, and the stink of burning flesh drifted with the smoke that crossed the waters.
Despite the fires, they saw the bridges bristling with gnome and goblin archers as they were pushed out into the current. They held their wood and leather shields above their heads, and tried to prevent the bridges from catching any more of the fiery rain of arrows. Piter felt a pang of misgiving and sent for Baldric, who came, bleary-eyed, having been woken.