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"...and may Mother Myrrah welcome our fallen brother into her waiting arms."

The old priest then reached down and set the pyre alight, sending brother Finn's soul free of his earthly shell. With the flames slowly creeping up the wood bed, the funeral had been concluded. Thick, dark smoke billowed up from the burning logs and up into the midday sky. It seemed even the world around us understood this sorrowful day, as the sun was hiding behind a blanket of gray clouds, casting a shadow over the proceedings.

The field in which the funeral was held was a small way from town, and as such, there were a few of our wolves standing by as guards, watching over the attendees as well as the priest and myself. I could see the sorrow on everyone's faces as they began to say their goodbyes to one another. Dressed in dark red, they all looked like specters of death. Fitting, then, for just such a day. Some of them walked my way and I offered what kind words I could to those that seemed most in need.

Slowly, the sickly-sweet scent of burning flesh reached me, and it brought back memories of other such funerals over the years. It was always a sad day when we had to bid farewell to one of our own, and brother Finn had not been the first that year. As the smell of his burning body continued to flow about, I was reminded of all the people who'd we lost, many of whom had died giving their lives in service to not only our goddess, but to our fair town and her people. The losses were never easy. It's like a small piece of yourself dies too, and you're forced to carry on without these people in your life.

I could only imagine how the families felt. Each funeral, I could tell they were holding it together just long enough to finish the ceremony before they would return home and break down in peace. I could even see Finn's father, a stoic man of very few words, balling his hands tight enough to make his knuckles turn white, his eyes shimmering with faint tears fighting to escape.

The heat from the fire grew stronger, and as I looked over, I could see the small blaze of the funeral pyre had now completely engulfed Finn's body. I then ushered the remaining people away from the site, asking for them to stay safe and have a relatively nice evening. I knew that later on, many of them would be at the tavern, drinking and telling stories of their shared experiences with Finn, laughing and joking to try to ease the pain of his loss.

After the last few people had departed, I turned my eyes once again to the pyre. Standing close by the burning remains was the dear Father MacDonald, the old priest in charge of the church, as well as my mentor. Dressed in simple black clerical vestments, the same ones I myself was wearing, he looked like any man of the cloth you'd find. Wiry gray hair stuck up from his head, but there was a noticeable balding spot around his widow's peak, which was altogether not a bad look for him. It made him look like a wise teacher. This presence was complimented by his spectacles, further adding to the scholarly appearance.

With each step I made towards Father MacDonald, the crunch of fallen leaves sounded out. Autumn was here in full, the nearby trees almost entirely bare of any green at all. In contrast to that, the field surrounding the town was as bright and alive as if it was still the middle of spring, and the wildflowers were jutting out from the soil with such pride. It was like the grass and flowers were mocking the trees, showing off that the slowly advancing hand of winter did not frighten them.

I then stood beside my teacher. The crackle of the fire before us roared on. The old father and I stood there in silence, watching as the flames ate Finn's corporeal form. We stood there until the setting sun had fully disappeared beneath the horizon and the silver eye of Myrrah started to rise in its place. Soon enough, the pinks and purples in the sky gave way to the dark of night. Eventually, not a hint of the sun could be seen, and it was then the father and I finally moved.

The majority of Finn's remains had been eaten away by the fire, only cracked bones and singed hairs left. An odd small bit of muscle and sinew still here or there, but overall, there was no real way of knowing who had once been there, save for the wolfish skull. The older priest saw to putting out the fire, emptying a few buckets of water to douse the whole affair. For my part, I put on some heavy leather gloves and began sifting through the pile before me, taking out any still intact bones.

While I was busy with that, Father MacDonald stopped beside me. I did not look up, but I could easily recognize when the man needed to say something. I waited for him to gather his thoughts.

He let out a small sigh. "This makes three," he said, his voice burdened with grief.

Pausing my work, I turned my gaze upwards. The old priest looked tired. The lines on his face seemed deeper than usual, the bags under his eyes darker. There was a scraggly half beard along the man's face, owing to the fact we both had to get up early to get everything prepared for the funeral. It wasn't often the old man looked quite so out of sorts.

I straightened my legs and stood, giving a sad smile to the father.

“Myrrah has them now," I said, offering some modicum of comfort. Not that it lessened the pain of loss any. Not really.

He nodded and picked up the now empty bucket, mumbling, “It's always harder when they're young." With the remnants of what little water was still in dripping off the side of the bucket, he departed back to town.

The town was surrounded by a large circling wall of stone. A nice defensive perimeter to keep out any unwanted troublemakers. Placed along the wall at even spaces were a few small towers, from which guards were stationed as lookouts and such. All in all, the town was one of the safest in the southlands.

When he was close to the gates, I started to place the pile of charred bones into another bucket we brought for just such a reason, and then looked to the now dark skies. Myrrah's silver eye was rising, keeping her watchful gaze over her children. I said a silent prayer and then followed after my mentor. As I neared the gates, I saw the guards waiting for me.

Placed outside the entrance gates to town were two of the wolves. One would describe them as a hybridization between man and beast, which wasn't entirely inaccurate. They did indeed look like this base description; coarse fur covering a basic human shape, the canine-like skull complete with pointed ears and a muzzle full of sharp teeth, the almost backwards bending knees on the hind legs and how the feet looked like they were standing on their toes. All in all, it was an apt way of explaining their appearance.

The two guards were known to me, of course. How could they not be? After all, the wolves worked closely with Father MacDonald and I. I'd known them since childhood, back before they had joined the wolves and still retained their human looks. One, the man, was a sandy colored canine man with long shaggy fur, while his partner was a wheat blonde furred lass who kept her fur trimmed neatly close. I always found it interesting how the transformation kept the person's hair color in this manner. Both were dressed in the dark leather armor of their calling, and strapped to their sides were their blessed silver swords.

Upon my approach, both of them offered friendly waves, which I returned in kind.

“Damn shame about Finn," the shewolf muttered. Her voice was deeper than most women's---scratchier, too---which didn't come as much of a surprise when one spied the several cigar butts at her feet. It was a wonder she didn't sound like an old man with how many of the things she smoked. Even so, when she spoke that simple line, her voice was small, almost a whisper.

I bowed my head briefly and responded, “He's with Mother, now. May her embrace ease his soul of all his burdens."

Her brows furrowed for a moment. Her mouth opened, but then she paused, seemingly unable to find the right words. The guardsman appeared to find them for her, however.

“Doesn't do much to ease our burdens," he spat out.

“I know," I said. I let out a long sigh and continued, “It's just the only words of comfort I can really say." Before heading through the gates and back into town, I reached up and placed a hand on his leather clad shoulder. “But I miss him, too."

He looked to the ground for a second before finding my gaze once more. I could see a few bits of water at the corner of his eyes. “He was a good man."

The wolfess mumbled out an affirmation, “One of the best."

I offered a smile and agreed with them both. “That he was." After giving the man's shoulder a firm pat, I wished both him and his fellow guard a good evening before departing.

Past the gates lie the little town of Blackthorne. My home. My life.

My boots made small squeaks along the cobblestone street still wet from the passing storm earlier in the day. The slick stones reflected the pale moonlight, giving the streets a hazy glow. I wasn't alone out there; a few people, some who'd been at the funeral, were wandering about conversing amongst themselves in small groupings. Still others could be seen entering the tavern down some ways from the gate. It was hard to make out exactly who was going in, but the red flowing cloth on some showed at least my assumptions about the funeral goers was right.

Just off to the right of the entrance lay a stable. At this hour, all the horses were in their pens and sleeping as peacefully as could be. The young stable hand was checking in on the creatures and seeing that each was doing well. He was a good lad.

As I walked, my eyes roamed around the mixture of brick and wooden homes and shops lining the sides of the roads. They gave Blackthorne a certain charm to it. They made the town seem a bit older, more rustic and pleasant. Homey, I suppose one could call it. Granted, I'd be biased, seeing as this was my home, after all. Still though, there wasn't any other way I'd describe it.

I meandered by the tavern, and had a quick look through one of the large windows. Inside was the usual sort, drinking and gambling and sharing stories. But I could see the usuals were joined by a number of the funeral attendees, their red robes draping on the backs of chairs. It didn't take a genius to know the sorts of tales they'd tell tonight. They'd all have a good laugh with some cards or dice, all the while swapping memories of their times with Finn. The good, the bad, the sad, and everything else, all to help keep him alive within their hearts. I spied Finn's father among the crowd, happily raising a toast and throwing back a mug of beer before slapping down a winning hand in a game of poker.

I suppose we all cope in our own ways.

I said a silent prayer to Mother Myrrah, hoping that they'd all be able to find their peace with this tremendous loss.

Small splashes echoed down the street as I returned to my walk, stepping into puddles of rainwater that had yet to disappear from the morning. Water seeped through the bottoms of my trousers and coated the lowest part of my legs, giving me a slight chill as the night air brushed against me.

Through the roads I kept on, my destination nearly in sight. It was only after turning three more corners that the old church finally came into view. Standing atop a small hill was the wide timber framed building, the white paint chipped away in some small spots. The large entrance door was one of thick oak, and was currently ajar. A beautiful handcrafted stained-glass window sat above the door, depicting a faceless woman laying her hand upon the forehead of a kneeling wolfman, an image straight from the holy scriptures. Standing off to the side of the church itself was the bell tower. Tall enough to be on equal footing to the protective walls around Blackthorne, the belltower was just as old as its counterpart. The bell within, however, had been replaced some time ago.

I found myself already walking through the door to the church, shocking myself with how quickly I had climbed the little hill. After heading inside, I could see on the far side of the church stood my mentor, right beside the altar. He had gathered a small piece of yellow cloth, and was currently wiping a ceremonial dagger which we had used earlier in the day. Likely, he oiling it for future use, if I had to make a guess.

The interior of Blackthorne's church was much the same as any. Or at least, the same as the ones I'd seen in other towns. Wooden pews lining up symmetrically twinning both sides of a long aisle extending from the entrance door all the way to altar. The altar itself was a simple wooden table with a clean white sheet draped over it. Nothing too fancy, just what was deemed necessary.

My boots' thudding steps were muted by the carpet along the middle aisle as I walked towards the father. It was a nice and thick purple colored strip of matting, matching one of the iconic colors of the Myrrah faith. The other color, of course, was a brilliant white, which was more than accounted for by the sheet on the altar, the curtains adorning the wide windows of the left and right walls, as well as a few cloths resting over the backs of the pews as decoration.

Father MacDonald continued his work as he eyed me making my way over. He didn't say anything, only kept oiling the blade in silence. It was not a pleasant silence. It was one filled with regret and grief, as could be seen as plain on the old man's face, twisted up in anguish over the loss of another young townsperson. While Finn had been the first wolf to die that year, he was not the first one his age. Before him was the lass Willow. Poor girl had got bitten by a nasty viper while out gathering wood. Didn't last even a day. I could hear the wailing of her mother and father on the very edges of my hearing.

Lost in memory, I saw the priest move his mouth and gesture with his free hand, forcing me back into the present. I sheepishly asked for him to repeat himself.

“I said, are those all the bones left?" he asked while waving his hand towards the bucket in my arms.

Looking down, I noticed there was about a good two or three handfuls of charred bone in there. They'd make some decent bone meal or ash. Perhaps the farmers could use that. Better for the remains to get some application out of them rather than just be buried like the pagans would do.

I stated, “I'll deliver them to Graham in the morning before service."

He nodded at that and went back to oiling. Absentmindedly, however, he mumbled off, “Shame, losing such a promising young man."

Similar words to the gate guard. And just like then, I spoke my line about Finn now being with the Mother. Unlike the guard, the priest let out a short breath and a smile returned to his face.

We all cope in our ways.