Galin stood atop the small hill and looked over the field. The carnage was so fresh, some of the bodies still had steam pouring from gaping wounds that bled red rivers into the cracked ground, making a brown mush that stuck to the boots of the scavengers picking over the bodies.
He watched them move over the field. Sometimes they would encounter a warrior who had not passed on. An expert knife thrust would help them. The vultures would begin stripping the man before he had stopped twitching and move on as though it was the most ordinary of things.