The morning after the battle, the camp was eerily quiet. The goblins worked in solemn unison, repairing fortifications and tending to the wounded. Though victorious, the toll of the fight was clear—burnt barricades, scorched earth, and rows of exhausted warriors reflected the cost of survival.
Lance felt the need to just heal everyone, but a little pain could be good to reinforce value, or something of that nature. He was still going to heal them though, and he would up doing so before the day was out. In the end, he didn't have the heart to allow such suffering out of a minor cause like pain and gain.
Now, he stood at the edge of the camp, staring out at the wreckage of the battlefield. His eyes narrowed as he traced the lines of crushed grass and churned soil where the battle had been fought, observing with more detail under adequate light. Somewhere out there, the demons could be regrouping and plotting their next move. At least, that was what occupied Lance's thoughts.
