After the battle ended, the valley returned to tranquility.
The heavy stench of blood mixed with a urine-like odor permeated the air, and the morning sun cast slanted beams into the valley, creating tangible columns of light. The dust in the air, still unsettled by the fierce battle moments before, rose and fell, appearing peaceful and beautiful.
Woodworker George, however, did not feel so calm. His temples throbbed steadily, accompanied by his racing, excited heart.
Lowering his head to the ground, everywhere he looked was an assault of green and red.
The goblin corpses lay scattered in twisted, broken forms across the uneven ground of the valley. Some had shattered heads, brain matter splattered on gray-brown rocks like bizarre graffiti; others had been disemboweled, their incomplete intestines attracting the scent-tracking insects from above; many more lay bent at impossible angles, as if forcedly twisted dolls.
