This battlefield was so different from most others. No weapon was used here except the heat of a dragons flame. Whereas usually the field would be covered in a thick stink of a slaughterhouse, the smells of blood and gore and other fluids released by the dead or dying, this one was covered by the sickly sweet smell of barbecued flesh. The screams however where the same, the screams of soldiers knowing their time has come, the screams of those wishing their time, to release them from their pain. The babbles of man who’s minds had broken under the incinerating dragons attacks, the terror of its being causing just as much damage to the mind as the body.
Slow, steady, ever watchful for the dragons reappearance, Salar made his way from body to body. This one yet lived, and was patched up, that one was off to whatever gods call he heard. His body was quickly searched, bindings, potions, anything that might help the next unfortunate soul. Supplies where rare, few of the knights carried potions, and the dead rarely had any cloth left on them after the fire passed by.
Salar rolled over a corpse, its full plate still uncomfortably warm from the dragons last pass. He tried to ignore the smell that escaped the a armour as its limbs where moved. The corpse grunted. The knight tried to open his eyes, revealing only empty sockets, the orbs of his eyes having burst from the heat. His mouth tried to open, but the lips had been fused together. They ripped, nowhere near the line where they where supposed to. He tried to breath, to speak, but his tongue no longer obeyed him, and as he inhaled, he was cut short. Surely, wracks of pain would have contorted his face where it still capable of such movements.
Salar turned away, his gut tied in knots, he tried not to think of what the knights torso, covered in metal armour, must have undergone… the state it must be in. A whispered breath escaped the knight, filled with the sickly smell of chard tissues. Salar gave up his battle to contain his stomach and released its contents. As soon as his heaving was back under control, he turned back to the yet living corpse. If there was a cleric anywhere nearby… He risked raising up a bit, to look around. Nothing greeted him but a greater view of the bodies strewn around the field.
It had to be done. With a prayer to Sept, that this mans suffering may be ended in death, Salar run his dagger across the mans neck, releasing his soul of its torturous existence, sparing it the next minutes before it sought departure on its own.
Such scenes where far from rare, though thankfully there where few who clung on to life even against their will, if they still bore any. It was not long before Salars stomach was completely drained, and his sides ached from constant efforts to purge him of anything that remained.
Wary with fatigue and disgust, he moved on.