When the din of battle has faded to the moans of the fallen, when the sun has turned to a blood red orb on the horizon, a new sound rises. it is a song, distant of strange but growing nearer, louder and, indeed, stranger. It comes from neither north nor south, east nor west, but from all directions, even above and below.
Then from every hidden hollow, even shallow cave, behind every boulder and stump, they come. They sing the song of the fallen while they pick over the remains of the dead, like vultures but seeking greaves and helms and axes and meager pay still hidden in boots: the Goblins have come to their bizarre bazaar and will leave in their wake only the naked dead.