It was a few hours past sun down, just when the majority of the army's men were huddled around roaring fires, eagerly, but silently, scarfing down their dinner after a long day of saddening toil, digging graves for brothers and sisters slain by the enemy's treacherous blade and pyre.
There was none of the usual cheer and festivities in them that you would've ordinarily seen after battle and bloodshed, for it was no true battle at all, but merely craven carnage, wholly without honour and glory, stripped clean of simple dignity that could never be put to song. Well, with the exception of a depressing dirge or a wrathful, vengeful war chant, as how could these warriors ever forgive or forget such a deceitful affront.
