Dust motes danced in the beams, and the air carried the faint scent of damp earth and lingering blood from the recent battles. Gribnox and Murkfang sat on overturned crates in a collapse area of the mine, papers and maps spread out between them like a patchwork even though the accuracy was left to the imagination. They were repairing their chain of command—reassigning roles, tallying survivors, figuring out who could still swing a pick or hold a spear. The goblin numbers had been gutted; every name crossed off was a knife to the heart.
They were suffering the aftermath and there was no way in hell they would be able to to resume work in this state because nothing was stopping the orcs from coming back to finish them off.
Gribnox leaned forward, his dented armor creaking, and filled Murkfang in on everything he had missed. "Byung is amazing," Gribnox said, voice low but steady.
