Bless the spirit of our dead

The glow of the rising sun spilled across the vale, casting warm light upon the somber preparations. The young Morningstar knelt in the center of their temporary camp, surrounded by the tools of his craft. A small clay pot simmered gently over a fire, its fragrant steam carrying the earthy notes of the herbal tea he was brewing. The psychedelic blend, a delicate mixture of elderflower, chamomile, mugwort, and psilocybin mushrooms was meant to guide the mourners into a state of reflection, connecting them to Vayne's spirit and the Summerlands.

His jaws gently reached for a bundle of dried herbs, their scents mingling with the smoke curling from the fire. "Lavender for peace," he murmured to himself, sprinkling the blossoms into the fire. "Rosemary for memory." He added those to the fire as well, adding to the aroma before he lifted the lid of the pot with deft paws, watching the colors swirl together, his mind heavy with thoughts of his brother.

Behind him stood a crafted statue, a life-sized effigy made to honor Vayne in place of his body. Though it's frame was simple (wooden and bound with twine) it bore a striking likeness to the departed. Even the spotting of his coat had been etched into the wood; Oath had spent hours adorning it, layering moss and intricate patterns with vines and flowers.

Now, he added the final touches. He knelt before the effigy, carefully affixing a carved wooden mask where the face would be. The mask bore etchings of the Judilian runes, representing Vayne's virtues and his connection to their shared faith. With steady paws, Oath secured a garland of marigolds around the effigy's shoulders, their bright orange petals standing out like tiny flames against the muted tones of the wood and vines.

As he worked, Oath's voice rose softly in a song, a hymn to the Summerlands that carried his hope that Vayne's spirit had found peace despite his body being unable to return to the earth. The melody wove through the air, blending with the crackle of the fire and the faint rustle of leaves.

"Cudros, shepherd of souls,
Guide the wayward to the light.
Through the veil, where shadows fall,
Lead them to the Summer bright.
In your wings, a peace profound,
In your gaze, rebirth is found.
Cudros, keeper of life's thread,
Bless the spirit of our dead."

This moment of preparation was as much for Oath's own heart as it was for the others who would gather to mourn.