Tantras

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Forester had lived in Shadowdale all of his life, and in the recent battle against the forces of Zhentil Keep, he had fought bravely to defend the bridge over the Ashaba River on the western edge of the dale. Now he toiled alongside his friends and neighbors, hefting bodies onto carts, trying to identify dead dalesmen. A cleric of Lathander who could write almost as well as Lhaeo, the scribe of the late Elminster, took down the names of the dead as the burly fighter called them out.

"Here's Meltan Elventree, Neldock's son," Forester said flatly as he grabbed the dead boy by the arms. The fighter had ceased to feel miserable after he'd moved his dozenth corpse. Now, after having hefted over fifty dead bodies, including close friends and even relatives, Forester really only took particular notice when someone was noticeably heavy or light.

"Poor lad," the cleric sighed. He moved his face close to the wax tablet he held and inscribed the name of the farmer's son. "Neldock will be heartbroken."

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