The fire from the battle yesterday had destroyed much of the village; all the thatch roofs of the huts had turned to ash. The clay walls of houses and structures turned black from the heat, speckled with white ash. Many of the clay structures and homes had been destroyed from fighting; the reanimated corpses had purposefully leveled as much as they could before sunrise, leaving short crumbled clay walls as remnants of the village.

Parts of the grand hall had crumbled; the spiked wooden pillars once surrounding it burned to ash. Many men vigorously defended that area as their final stand. Several bodies littered the hall; some lay back against the wall, dying slowly as the morning sun continued to dawn, coming through the clay windows, reflecting off the pools of blood.

During the night of the attack, a middle-aged man who was not native to the tribe whom lived amongst them had been watching over the village from a hill while carrying a goat who had wondered off back down. Seeing the burning dragon survive unnaturally long, he felt his gut telling him to stay away, climbing into the tree beside him, taking the goat up with him in his arm, where he watched all night.

Once the morning had risen, he groggily got out of the tree, the goat still tucked in his arm, he sets it down. Most of the corpses had burned, leaving the village scattered with bones. The once grassy land was replaced with damp soil.

He heads down towards the village, finding bones everywhere. He finds a rope and ties the goat to a post, going out to search for any survivors left, wandering around in the direction of the grand hall, which stood mostly intact.

The bodies here aren’t totally charred; many wear destroyed leather armor underneath metal plates on their chest, back, legs, and arms, which would’ve been expensive for the tribe to produce.

He picks up a spear, poking some of the bodies with the blunt end to see if any of them react - they all seem to have bled to death.

He eventually makes his way over to the body of a woman who seems to be lying on something. He places the blunt end of the spear underneath her, flipping the limp body over it's arms sprawling out as it falls onto it's back.

He makes a sudden noise of surprise, his eyes widening, finding a newborn child and furred dragon with fur colored white and light grey - similar color to the trees - wrapped in a pelt of similar colored fur.

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He knew the tribe had been hunting these furred dragons for a while now, but could they really use such strong magic like what happened last night? Non-humanoids had never been recorded using magic before.

He checks if they’re alive; they’re not bleeding. He presses his head against their chests, barely hearing their small heartbeats. He feels greatly relieved, though troubled, knowing this furred dragon is the offspring of the one who massacred the entire tribe, but also the one who kept the newborn child warm all night within the pelt, sharing their heat together.

He does not have the callousness to leave either child, choosing to take care of the boy and furred dragon, picking them up, which causing them to stir. The child begins to cry, noticing this person is not his mother. The furred dragon stirs because of this, ending up with its head and talon over the newborn in an almost hug, causing the newborn to instinctively lean into the furry warmth and calm down.

The man stares at them, trying to think of how to feed them - because he knows he can’t lactate.

He eventually remembers the goat. In the Fiarum tribe, he had learned that when a mother died during labor, the child would be fed from a goat - and also cursed among the tribe due to superstitions.

He carries them out to the goat he had tied up, untying the rope from the post and carrying the goat back to the hall. The goat had been around newborn goats before they were all killed or ran off last night, so he assumes she’s lactating.

Once he arrives back at the shelter, he places the goat on the table, holding newborns underneath the goat to feed from it.

The morning fades into midday; he spends his time scavenging, taking gear from the bodies and cleaning it off, suiting himself in armor with a large sword prototype sheathed on his back that was heavy to swing. He clears junk out of the grand hall, which he had made into their shelter, letting the newborns lay together in a wooden crib he had carried into their shelter.

After that, he drags the bodies outside, digging a grave site for them off in the distance.

Evening falls as he finishes hauling the bodies to the grave site, beginning to dig the graves for them and placing large stones as markers - unengraved because he did not know their names.

Once night falls, he heads back; the goat wonders around the shelter. He had placed a small boulder at the door to stop the goat from wondering off.

He falls asleep next to the crib, totally exhausted, his gear lying beside him.

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He wakes up the next day at midday due to his lack of sleep, sitting up tiredly and rubbing his eyes, then getting up and feeding the children. He decides to spend most of that day building a harness out of thick cordage to carry them on his back as he does his work.

Once he finishes, he resumes digging the grave site for those who still had flesh on them. During that time, he planned to dig a large hole to put the scattered bones from around the village into.

Days pass as he continues, falling asleep on the ground beside the crib exhausted every night from labor, falling asleep easily.