There is a strange serenity that sits upon the field of a battle ended, when the fiery cacophony gives way to cooling blood and silenced cries. It is said that the morning mists come to claim the souls of those lost, left confused in their anger, fear and duty. Regardless, the strewn debris of life and passion lay bare for the taking by those who might wander by.
Others may see shadows in those mists, moving figures of slow precision, and reverent care. Known only as the Grimpickers, a name imposed on them by humanity, they prefer not to be seen as they go about their practice of macabre salvage. If approached, they flee with ethereal speed and without sound.