The land near Gale Castle is still filled with a thick smell of smoke.
Even though the fire has been put out, the charred, dark-red wooden framework still occasionally emits wisps of smoke.
On the flagpoles surrounding the camp, thirty-nine witches hang in neat rows, their blood and pus sliding down their swollen bodies, solidifying at their toes.
The witch rebellion last night dissipated into the void almost immediately after Nidesar arrived and launched a javelin charge.
Except for the mere five or six witches who managed to escape, all the witch slaves were either captured or killed.
Yet, sitting in the main seat of Gale Castle, Nidesar displayed little joy.
His face was sullen, silently stroking the back feathers of a sand sculpture.
The sand sculpture stood on the table, glaring menacingly at the nobles gathered around the black wooden long table.
