The evil settled back and waited for a response. His was almost instinctive, as if merely witnessing the scene dictated his actions. He reached down and took up his sword, and saw another hand wrap around an axe. He retrieved his bow, and he his mace. Even the priest came forward and took the small wooden crucifix swaying from a hilt. But not all the men had taken back their belongings. Some had grabbed their dagger or halberd and escaped back along the path to the east. Others crossed their arms in front of the pile, rebuking those who had taken. After it was clear no other ally would be gained, as if of collective mind, those willing made for the north. The evil receded out of sight in the same direction, and the moon made clear the path they would take. Even the geography of the terrain seemed to point to some culminating point, in no way of benevolent nature. The men knew they would not come back from this, the evil had made that very clear and proved it so. But still none of them so much as looked back at the others yelling for their senses to return to them. Step after step, they neared a confrontation. And they began to sing.
Enough shit people. Move.
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