Looting the Dead
The stench of the battle was overwhelming. Iron and sweat, offal and smoke all permeated Freedom Province City and it's surroundings. Vultures and ravens ate their fill as slowly the city returned to life. The townsfolk who had huddled in the underground caverns relit their hearths and forges and ovens, often speaking in whispering tones, as if their city was a tomb. They remained wary, many surprised the town had repelled the demon and his followers, but accepting of a second chance. Most renewed their efforts, replacing destroyed wooden buildings with ones of stone. Some looted bodies of picks and steel and studded armor and packed them away for future use. Others arrived at the barracks and volunteered, a 4-pointed patch over a golden blaze stitched on their arm.
The five remaining cavalry buried their dead and slipped out of the city with their heads low, even as the townsfolk who saw them cheered. The wizards' bunkhouse and school remained deserted and some spoke as if it was a curse that felled every one. Over half the militia lay dead, but those that remained carried a quiet dignity and their voices new weight in the city.
A simple shrine was erected in the grove for those who had fallen; three of the stones that had fallen on the city laid in a triangle, a fourth on top making a rough pyramid. It was festooned with green pine garland, draped with a single silver needle hanging on a colored ribbon for each who fell standing against the dark. Around it were placed personal items from dozens of families.
A lover's crown of maple leaves and dried roses left by a pregnant baker's widow. A stuffed hippogriff placed reverently by a tearful red-headed girl. A simple woolen wedding dress left by a weeping fletcher. A hundred other things, from simple flowers and wooden carvings, to a string of pearls and a delicate lantern.
They were gifts, every one. Gifts sewed or bought or traded for and never given. Gifts for a birthing day, or a wedding. Gifts hoped for, and gifts hidden. The stone shrine came to be known as the Gifting Tree, and Dalyne its tender. The 2nd day of Sagitaa became Gifting Day (also known as Freedom's Gift, or the Gift of Heroes, or just The Gift), and the ranger found a true and proper home for every item placed there. Those gifts which spoke with too mournful a voice would come to find a place in a small chapel also erected in the grove.
As a reminder, opposite the Gifting Tree was placed the Pile. Armor of leather and chain, helms of solid steel, picks and mauls and swords, stacks of gold coins and silver, all gifts for those who in the future would stand and fight. Even items not from the battle have found their way to the Pile, placed by craftsmen too old, or fearful, to fight. Around the pile were placed five flat marble stones, perhaps 2 feet square but with rounded corners, and on them were gifts for the heroes. No one knows the origin of all of the items, but many rumors abound.
For the newest of the heroes, a black contraption of unusual make provided contrast to the delicate milk white marble. It looked like a quiver of lacquered bone, a little over a foot long, with 8 silver points protruding from the bottom, while a handgrip etched with simple runes and a bone and wire trigger was indented into the top. A wood and leather box was open next to it, where 8 silvered spikes, perhaps 9 inches long, rested on red cloth.
For the frost dwarf, an odd-looking item rests on the stone slab, looking a little small in comparison. It is a carving of a yeti standing on a brass base, it's arms over it's head as if in a rage, standing about 8 inches tall. It is stark white, heavy and emits a soft blue glow. Written in dwarvish along the base are three phrases. The first is 'velden tame' , the second 'riedr hrid' and the third 'snjar krellr'. Four 10-lb cold-iron blocks also rest on the stone.
Raistca's stone rests a little out from the others, as if the craftsman misplaced it, and it carries a sickly red glow, as if it is at odds with the purity of the of the other stones. A redwood recurve bow sits upon a cherry stand and oozes a thick red light. Whorls and arcane patterns slide along the wood, and the string shimmers like mercury. A large pile of acorns rests slightly off the to the right of the stone.
Several children sit enthralled at almost all times around Jerel's Gift, though most don't understand why. It looks to be a heavy stone, perhaps 18 inches wide, and it shimmers with an internal light. Swirls of bronze streak its surface, and some swear they hear the sound of breaking waves if they stand near long enough. Steam fills a small portion of the grove as heat shimmers in waves from the object.
The air around the final item fairly crackles as it hovers four feet above the stone, spinning slowly. A silver-shafted, black headed mace, more than four feet long with two inset steel handles at the base. The head is cubed, with five faces clearly visible; one of the faces produces a soft glow, alternating azure and white, and a single rune flares with sparks of silver. It is called Gatekeeper, it's name etched in a 5-piece pictograph on the shaft. It is the greatest of the weapons the demon's army carried, though no one knows its purpose, and some fear what magics it might contain.
At the edge of each stone is a parchment, providing one-sixth ownership of a twelve-person sloop to be named later, commissioned by the Mobility Union and to be built by unnamed craftsmen.
Each night bunting and paper streamers and candles line every road and street, proclaiming at least for a little while that people dwell here, against all odds, burning softly against the black winter sky. And at least for a little while, that is enough.