An awkward relief and silence always fills the battlefield when the fighting is done. What once were screams and bashing and clashing of metal and wood is now replaced a gentle breeze, the distant celebration of those who survived, and the agonized cries of those who barely escaped death.
Warriors and thieves alike take their tokens of the day. Coin and armor, weapons and gore, each with their reason for stripping the field. Each watching carefully for the other with fear or rage.
Even those who drink with joy this day, this night will weep. Not at all for those they killed but certainly for those they lost. Some may not see the rewards of their acts beyond their stories and meager rewards. It is their lords and king who will reap those with a moment pretending the rest are of importance.
For many, the end of conquest is a life spent back upon the farms. Their swords traded for the plow, but their pride always their own.
For the rest it may be the next battle that will pay them, the next slaughter they can rob, or the wars of words which rule over all with or without the hands or works of those lower.
Such is the way of a folk divided by those who are high and those who are low, where honor has died an ancient death and its stories forgotten by all.
A prompt response