Urneil lies on the back, his great leathery wings already beginning to curl, his limbs and claws limp, his eyes closed.
Cal is still coughing and spitting, and plumes of acidic smoke rise from her leather armor as she regains her composure and takes deep breaths. Gideon looks at her with concern, but busies himself with his bow on the other side of the great scaly corpse filling the street. Markus consults with one of the town guard, their arms moving as they recreate and critique the battle with words and gesture. Solara stands next to Keino, the cleric’s strong presence giving comfort as the druid looks down, watching the last drops of ichor ebb from the star she has carved in the dragon’s forehead, and with them, the last hopes of regaining her memory.
The smith has run back to his home, for safety and to gossip. The loremaster is on the roof of the warehouse, preparing the mayor’s body for removal. Dervan, the half-orc gaurd lieutenant, directs other guardsmen to do the same with Loab, but attends to Callam’s body himself, lifting the gnome like a child or a doll of great value. He calls out to the crowd in a voice both strong and gentle, “I think that’s enough for tonight. You men, secure the scene. The rest of us, and those bearing the dead, should repair to the meeting hall. It’s getting late and we still have much to do.”
So, what do you say or do next?