19 April 2021, 02:13 PM
Any New Caledonian familiar with the Songthorns can be assumed to have learned of the funeral. Both brothers are present and performing the rites. As of this opening post, those who attend can either look from a distance, listen, or join the circle and howl. The latter has major spiritual implications, so please consider whether either of the Songthorn brothers matters that much to your character on a personal level!
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It was the day of a great work long awaited. The setting sun shone through the rustling canopy of young leaves above. Many hours, many days were spent in preparation after the younger Songthorn made his offer to the elder. And from that day, both found the time to contribute, as they were meant to – none other were left to perform the task after all. The place they picked was quiet, removed from the constructs of the Gone which New Caledonians called home, though still within the boundaries of the pack’s lands. Green dominated the surroundings, though the area they chose was a clearing where the sun-warmed soil was pliable, willing to accommodate an entire tribe.
With the Songthorns’ combined efforts the place had been growing new markers over days. Bellad and Ierian alike, at times assisted, brought round boney white and gray rocks and laid them out in patterns. The clearing slowly grew into a stone garden that from a bird’s eye view presented a map of the stars the way the fallen tribe had known them. Oldenseal, Asmin, Foxglove and other heroes of the tribe, some who gave names to the families – Seedtale, Willowcall, Rootseek, all laid out in dotted lines of stone. In the middle was the spot reserved for the mound, not yet covered.
Those more critical of canon and tradition would perhaps have called their rites a farce. But the Songthorns, finally, were past excuses or reasons to neither let the dead rest nor the living move on. Many things meant for this funeral to be a proper affair were missing, most of them beyond recovery. The last two wolves from the Slave Lake tribe could only do their best. As ordained, they each toiled in every one of their forms – one for each stage of the burial.
In Roaming Paw they dug up the hole, digging it deep, deeper than the sole object they would bury in place of corpses with their rictus grins. It still needed to be deep enough, for they had much to lay to rest.
In Weighted Claw they dragged a primitive palanquin of branches. They still felt heavy even without their sordid cargo, without bodies piled upon them. Instead in their place rested but a single bark-shielded scroll.
In Deft Hand they dirtied their palms in the soil in which they had deposited the list of names. Onlookers would see them both shift as one, place the effigy gingerly into the grave, then start covering it with dirt, burying it.
Every now and then, Bellad would look up at Ierian. He saw his older brother work the grave with great focus. Occasionally the elder too would look up. Then their eyes would meet, silent looks passing between the two siblings with their glances each shaded a slightly different shade of orange. One would nod at the other. One, as ever, would share strength with the other. One would pardon the tears of the other.
They had audience and they knew it. They accepted it. From the King and the Isiltári, to friends among the Lords, the Distinguished, the Commoners, members of the pack were made aware of the Songthorns’ intentions, whatever their reactions might have been. With the scroll buried, the two Songthorns got up to their feet. They stood in front of their tribe’s grave, surrounded by the stony constellations, and looked at each other.
There was meant to be a living circle formed around the grave. That of survivors raising their voices up high in honor of the deceased and the Myriad. But they had only the two of them to work with. Both Songthorns had lamented the fact with some blend of embarrassment and bittersweet sorrow to those in whom they have confided when it came to the funeral. They could only do their best and let their duo be as sonorous a circle as they could.
Bellad was first to lift his head high towards the darkening skies, and let loose a howl. Then Ierian joined, a lower, but no less piercing note weaving itself together with his younger brother’s. If sound could have color, it would no doubt swirl up to the sky in ribbon-like coils. But with what they had to spare they stood up tall and sang their loss to the heavens. The clearing rang out with an emotional cadence of a tiny circle of two singing the funeral rites of the many who no longer remained.
With the Songthorns’ combined efforts the place had been growing new markers over days. Bellad and Ierian alike, at times assisted, brought round boney white and gray rocks and laid them out in patterns. The clearing slowly grew into a stone garden that from a bird’s eye view presented a map of the stars the way the fallen tribe had known them. Oldenseal, Asmin, Foxglove and other heroes of the tribe, some who gave names to the families – Seedtale, Willowcall, Rootseek, all laid out in dotted lines of stone. In the middle was the spot reserved for the mound, not yet covered.
Those more critical of canon and tradition would perhaps have called their rites a farce. But the Songthorns, finally, were past excuses or reasons to neither let the dead rest nor the living move on. Many things meant for this funeral to be a proper affair were missing, most of them beyond recovery. The last two wolves from the Slave Lake tribe could only do their best. As ordained, they each toiled in every one of their forms – one for each stage of the burial.
In Roaming Paw they dug up the hole, digging it deep, deeper than the sole object they would bury in place of corpses with their rictus grins. It still needed to be deep enough, for they had much to lay to rest.
In Weighted Claw they dragged a primitive palanquin of branches. They still felt heavy even without their sordid cargo, without bodies piled upon them. Instead in their place rested but a single bark-shielded scroll.
In Deft Hand they dirtied their palms in the soil in which they had deposited the list of names. Onlookers would see them both shift as one, place the effigy gingerly into the grave, then start covering it with dirt, burying it.
Every now and then, Bellad would look up at Ierian. He saw his older brother work the grave with great focus. Occasionally the elder too would look up. Then their eyes would meet, silent looks passing between the two siblings with their glances each shaded a slightly different shade of orange. One would nod at the other. One, as ever, would share strength with the other. One would pardon the tears of the other.
They had audience and they knew it. They accepted it. From the King and the Isiltári, to friends among the Lords, the Distinguished, the Commoners, members of the pack were made aware of the Songthorns’ intentions, whatever their reactions might have been. With the scroll buried, the two Songthorns got up to their feet. They stood in front of their tribe’s grave, surrounded by the stony constellations, and looked at each other.
There was meant to be a living circle formed around the grave. That of survivors raising their voices up high in honor of the deceased and the Myriad. But they had only the two of them to work with. Both Songthorns had lamented the fact with some blend of embarrassment and bittersweet sorrow to those in whom they have confided when it came to the funeral. They could only do their best and let their duo be as sonorous a circle as they could.
Bellad was first to lift his head high towards the darkening skies, and let loose a howl. Then Ierian joined, a lower, but no less piercing note weaving itself together with his younger brother’s. If sound could have color, it would no doubt swirl up to the sky in ribbon-like coils. But with what they had to spare they stood up tall and sang their loss to the heavens. The clearing rang out with an emotional cadence of a tiny circle of two singing the funeral rites of the many who no longer remained.
![[Image: pretty-flowers-hi.png]](https://www.clker.com/cliparts/X/p/h/2/9/r/pretty-flowers-hi.png)