The fire crackled fiercely in the heart of the kobold village, flames leaping high enough to paint the undersides of low-hanging clouds with shifting orange.
Ragnar had ordered the celebration himself—an act that felt more like defiance than joy—determined to burn away the lingering stench of fear left by the cubic monsters' mechanical onslaught and the ogre's earth-shaking fury.
The night air carried the sharp sweetness of roasted tuber roots, the green bite of crushed wild herbs, and the musky undertone of too many bodies finally moving without the threat of immediate death.
Laughter rang out, bright and brittle, as kobolds linked scaly arms and spun in dizzy circles, tails lashing like excited whips.
For the first time since waking in this alien world, Ragnar lingered at the firelight's ragged edge, arms folded tight across his chest, simply watching.
*This could almost be Earth,* he thought, the familiar ache blooming behind his ribs.
