Dear Urist McAxedwarf,
You were assigned to train in your barracks when the siege arrived. You were also given an adamantine battleaxe, made from some of the few precious adamantine wafers we have thus far collected, worthy of your status as a legendary axedwarf. So why, why did you decide to drop your shield and axe and waltz outside to shake hands with the goblin master lasher? And by "shake hands" I mean "have both arms lashed off before having your brain ripped out of your skull in short order." You couldn't even have waited until the siege passed the line of cage traps I have set up to gather material for my experimental forgotten beast system? Well, now you are dead and stuffed into a nondescript coffin.
Dear Urist McBonkers,
I'm sorry you lost an arm trying to rescue Urist McDumbass axedwarf. Perhaps if you had visited the hospital to get it looked at instead of continuing to bleed out while doing individual combat drills, you wouldn't have become so miserable that you threw a tantrum and whacked my broker/bookkeeper/manager in the face with your silver warhammer, causing his head to instantly turn into a fine mist of dwarf head, skull and brains. Which caused one of his marksdwarf friends to throw a tantrum and attempt to punch a war dog to death, only succeeding in breaking its back and splattering blood around. Then you decided to go stark raving mad. Your stuff will be reassigned to the next "volunteer" to the hammer squad and your dead body will be placed into a nondescript coffin next to the previously addressed dumbass. As soon as you starve to death. Which I would appreciate if you would hurry up and do.
Dear Rest of Military,
(Or at least the ones who responded to my orders to go out and try to rescue Urist McDumbass instead of run off downstairs and mill about before deciding to go back on duty.) You routed the siege. A couple of you got titles. A couple of you added to your already ridiculously-long kill lists. Such as "Nil Typhoonwork, the Tin Soldier of Caves" with 43 notable kills and counting. (Clad, however, in steel, not tin, and wielding Stindurad "The Strifeful Beard", an iron short sword.) Mmmmmmmmaybe I should have had enough faith in your skills to go save the elven caravan before the siege got to them, but meh, they're just elves.
Yrs
Illustrious Overseer