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	It's a beautiful setting, really. All one might have to do is take up a rake and cover over the corpses of eleven Goblins with the glorious fallen foliage, and this might just be an excellent spot for a picnic! Maybe do something with the humanoid leg which is now charring over the fire, venting ever darkening smoke that only burning skin can produce. That kind of picnic was valued by no one who still drew breath along that stretch of road. Well, we hope. I honestly have no idea what horrible things lurk in the hearts and minds of the average adventurer anymore. In any case, without the potato salad and cucumber sandwiches, can a group of stalwart adventuring types really put on a decent picnic in the midday autumn hours? I shouldn't risk it, myself. 

	 While some inspect equipment and others look for tracks, others admire wine, and of course, there was the obligatory argumentative back-and-forth that came with the territory of a new group. A fly on the wall might extrapolate that this would not be last similarly tense conversation between these people, and I personally wouldn't bet against the fly. 

	Things to note: The baying animal sound from somewhere in the distance has not been addressed directly as of yet, though it has not sounded since. Two hogsheads of unopened wine lay unclaimed upon the field of battle. Another one lay opened and thoroughly pilfered, obviously the founder of the Goblin's drunkenness. While the weapons have been looked over and a few claimed (including all of the remaining arrows, though two bows and quivers remain), the bodies of the fallen have not been thoroughly ransacked as of yet. They are, however, being dragged into a neat row by the Bard's hickory-smoked beast of burden for comparative ease of stated ransacking. The party's lent wagon and mule are still back up the way you came. No sound nor sight of it has been detected since this skirmish began. Remains of what is left of the (we assume human) body are yet untouched. And I am positive that there is another issue or two which could be addressed by an observant and/or inquisitive soul. 

	Avonshire Township lays to the north along the road about another hour or so, the group's wagon was left to the south just past the rise, and the whole region seems to hold more mysteries than most agricultural areas have a right to. It's a hell of a day to be alive.