"Come on, man, I—"
The rebel's begging turns into a cry as he's struck through the chest. But the rebel is still very much alive, and very much in pain. The executioner pulls the blade out, then stabs again. This second blow silences the rebel's cries.
You turn to the rest of your blood-soaked regiment and your shocked foraging party.
All around you lie the bodies of the dead.
Next
It's evening now. The sun hangs low in the sky, illuminating the hundred-yard stretch from your camp to the river. By this point, the traps have been fully laid. The ground is torn up, littered with hundreds of makeshift devices, some effective enough to drop a warhorse.
The work crews have returned to camp. By now, the medical tents are quiet. The wounded have been treated. Many will expire of their wounds in the coming days. Many already have.
But it is quiet.
And you find yourself without anything important to do.
It's a strange feeling, not being needed. The foraging parties have all pulled out of the forest. Their supplies are no longer needed for the night. The work crews are all back. The schedule for patrols and watchmen was already established by Obren.
Truly, you hate inaction. You feel an intense urge to constantly occupy yourself. To constantly work, or fight. You feel as if you're wasting valuable time that you could spend elsewhere.
Even if there's nowhere else valuable to be.
And so you drift, mind pondering your next move.