“This is only the beginning,” Guffo said with a huff. His bloodshot eyes surveyed a scene of carnage the likes of which he hadn’t seen in a generation. Snow drifted down white, as pure as his hopes for his people had been so recently. The flakes turned gray where they mingled with soot and pink where they fell upon the blood of the fallen.

Brash in his youth and new-found warrior glory, Thal sank a spear to end the last whimpers of an enemy soldier, “And we will be their end.” The two men considered each other carefully. One stood as the last of the old guard, the voice of wisdom. The other stood as the paragon of youth and vitality.

The fifty or so remaining of their village eyed them warily. War brought many things, not the least of which were the inevitable power struggles from within. The only thing that seemed certain in such times was death.

Guffo pronounced in flat tones, “We bury the dead.”

“We bury our dead,” Thal clarified, “and burn theirs.” Guffo only shrugged and set to the task.