By sunrise, the Ashmork village square had been transformed into a place of mourning. The usual noise that filled the settlement had disappeared, replaced by a heavy silence that seemed to hang over every goblin who gathered there.
Hundreds of goblins stood around the center of the square, many with their heads lowered while others stared quietly at the large wooden pyre that had been constructed through the early hours of the morning.
Thick logs had been stacked carefully upon one another, leaving enough space in the center for the body of Elder Varg. His old red cloak had been cleaned of most of the blood, and his silver hair and beard had been carefully arranged.
Molu had even placed his staff beside him, the same staff he had carried for decades. He stood before the pyre for several minutes without saying anything. His usually cheerful and careless expression was gone, replaced by a tired sadness that made him appear older than he actually was.
