Concept shamefully stolen from an RPG.net thread which I have long lost the link to. Apologies all around.
“The funeral will be soon, yes?” Old Gunther spoke casually, but his gaze was intense. “Been three days already.”
“Well, with the frost and the cold…” Artir began.
“For that reason is my asking,” Gunther grunted. “Solstice coming.”
“You know Helda’s been sick. We can’t get to the kiln.”
“My own you can use. Small, but it will burn.”
“I don’t-“
“Artir! Whatever you are thinking, think it not. He will rise, yes, in his time, but he will not be the man you knew.”
Artir hung his head as the snow fell.
“The dead must be burned,” said Gunther.
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