The air over the valley plains was filled with the smell of ozone, molten rock, and roasted meat. Night had fallen, and the only light came from the campfires of the survivors and the red glow of the Crimson Briar Patch still burning itself to cinders.
The raid had cleared two quests in a single brutal push, and exhaustion weighed on every survivor's shoulders.
The party was worn out in a way that went beyond physical fatigue. It was the bone-deep weariness that came from fighting monsters that could crush you with a single misstep.
The raid was victorious, but the mood was far from celebratory.
Fires dotted the makeshift camp. People gathered around them, eating whatever rations they had, drinking whatever alcohol had survived in their inventories, and mourning those who died.
They ate without tasting; the food was just fuel to keep moving. Each bite felt heavy, like swallowing stones. The weight of the dead hung over them all.
