The bloody night was finally over. Victory had been won for the people of Fallowmere Hold, but it came at a staggering cost.
As survivors stepped out from their homes, their relief at being alive swiftly curdled into grief at the sight before them.
The Hold was in ruins — splintered houses, scattered bodies, rotting degenerates strewn across the ground. The air stank of blood and ash. It was devastation made flesh.
Cries of morning pierced the silence.
Families who had lost their own could not contain their grief, and their wails were carried like a cruel wake-up call across Fallowmere.
Children found their parents either twisted into degenerates or lying dead where they had fought to protect them. Parents clutched the mangled remains of their kids. Brothers wept for sisters, and sisters for brothers.
