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Harlan shifted his weight, keeping one hand pressed firmly on Gre’s wound as he reached out with the other to clear the dirt off the tombstone's face. Freshly carved into the ancient slate was a rough drawing.
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Harlan turned his attention back to the dying man beneath him. Using his teeth, he popped the cork off a small glass vial of healing salve from his belt and poured it directly into Gre's open wound.
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A heavy silence fell over the graveyard, broken only by ragged breathing, the hiss of blood on cold stone, and the quiet crackle of the ruined campsite. The Ghasts were dead.
“We cleared them!” Dirk panted, wiping black gunk off his knife.
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Just beyond the edge of their firelight, a pale monstrosity—standing at least two meters tall—was dragging Tristan through the mud by his legs. Its long nails dug deep through his leather boots and into his flesh, leaving dark trails of blood in the dirt.
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