The tyrant is dead. His generals, all but a scattered few, follow him across the bridge of swords to be judged harshly for their earthbound villainous deeds. The people crawl bewildered from their homes and basements, blinking to the brightness of the setting sun as if awakening from a slumber, the idea dawning that for the first time in as long as anyone could remember, they are free.
A voice, loud and clear echoes up from the valley, joined by a second and a third. Tail-biters already claiming credit, positions of power in the emptiness of sovereignty. Each claiming prominent role in the overthrow, assuring their places in history, while the heroes, their swords growing heavy in their exhausted hands look back at the horrible trail of carnage and death. Their hearts rend in victory and remorse as images of their friends and comrades flash suddenly before them. Bathed in sunlight, they look back at the darkening sky and watch ghosts pick themselves up and begin a long march to the bridge of swords, their faces optimistic, their eyes afraid.
And the heroes, the survivors, slowly turn with a wave and salute and make they way down the slope, picking their way through the blossoms of arrows and broken weapons of war into the shadow of twilight.
The barkeep, lighting his lanterns and opening shop spots them stumbling down their path and a tear rims his eye as the stub of his arm flares an ache of memory. He rises on his toes and blows out his lantern. He is closed, but leaves the door open in welcome for them, for the new heroes, where the ale and stories shall flow like the river that flows beneath the bridge of swords.