A part of you – the part of you left over from when you’d never worked with mages before, never fought on a real battlefield before – thinks that the sight of this many bodies, this much death,
should be accompanied by the stench of blood. The air should reek with it, with the dead thick on the road leading north from Paltina.
Instead, the air still stinks like whatever explosives they used to collapse the bridge after Yggdra crossed it.
Other than the obvious pain on the faces of the ones who died on their backs, there’s no real sign that the soldiers were just killed.
You step gingerly around them, trying not to actually walk on any of the bodies. It would be disrespectful.
Behind them all, standing dead center in the middle of the road, is the mage who killed them in the first place.
“So, what the hell?” you ask conversationally, careful not to look threatening. You try not to let your grip on the axe slung over your shoulder grow too tense.
“Soldiers don’t exactly just up and attack each other, so what gives? What’s your game?”
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