Five hours have passed since your men retook the field with an exchange of arrows. You're sitting in the command pavilion, alone, looking over sheets of parchment. Finding out who died, whose command they were under, and how many were lost has been a struggle. And the real battle hasn't even started yet.
Your official census has yet to be updated, but you've gathered a rough estimate of the losses sustained.
Roughly a hundred men have been put out of action with their injuries. A further fifty have died.
And you suspect that many of the wounded will soon join the dead. Arrow wounds are prime targets to catch the rot.
You were fortunate—and armored enough—to escape the battle uninjured. Regardless, you're still down many good fighters. Outside, the construction work is still underway. The traps are being laid at a greater rate now. The whole field is now covered in them. You only hope they're marked properly, lest some poor sod on your side loses his leg.
As some men work, others relax and recover from their shifts or wait for them to begin. Carried rations and foraged rabbit are cooked above open fires. The general mood of the camp is anticipation-fueled excitement, morale having improved since the losses sustained earlier.
You wonder how well morale will hold after the battle begins. Your own morale is barely being sustained by the mug of ale on your desk.
Obren stands just in front of the opened fabric "door" of the pavilion. He says dryly, "Knock knock."