Morning light spilled across the village. The entire settlement had become ruins. Although they had salvaged quite a few things from the blaze, many houses had already burned down. Suppressed sobs occasionally rose from all around as soot-covered people gathered the bodies of the dead. From time to time, friends and family broke down in wailing grief. This night had brought them too much pain, but it had also made them much stronger. The surviving militiamen looked like true warriors now. They still stood guard around the village, wary of a possible second attack by the Lizardfolk.
Given a little time, they would grow into qualified warriors.
Soren sat atop the watchtower, smoking. The Pipe had been given to him by the militia captain. It was not high-grade tobacco, just the cheap kind that cost one Silver Daler for a small pouch. He packed the tobacco into the pipe, lit it, and took a deep drag. Then he stared into the distance in a daze. Last night's brutal battle had reminded him of the approaching Time of Troubles. Such battles would become common in the days ahead, and even more brutal, merciless Slaughter would follow.
His arm still throbbed with piercing pain. The cut-away rotten flesh was regenerating, and the itching, numbness, and pain mingled together, leaving his expression slightly twisted. He raised the Pipe with a faint tremble and took a deep drag. There were no painkillers in this world. Though he had a data-based template, it could not dull his sense of pain. Even nerves tempered to extreme toughness in the past were not much use against the agony of cutting away flesh. He needed to numb himself a little and temporarily forget the wound on his arm. "Here."
The militia captain walked over. His eyes were bloodshot,