Post by Alden J. Blethen on Jun 14, 2010 0:03:09 GMT -8
"A quick bath, hell even a hose," he thought after delivering the heads to Herne's Shrine. There was work to do, and sometimes, not enough time to make one's self comfortable. He's done this before, or more to the point help do it, be he never thought that he'd ever have to do this duty for a packmate, a family member.
The worst of it had been done by Sister Razortounge's gift, those healing flames. "How did she do that... no focus she deserves better." A quick trip to the house and he has all the things he needs, plenty of water, soap, a brush, a comb, and plenty of clean cloths.
He starts at her feet. Carefully cleaning them, removing the blood, and the muck, and the mire from the huge claws and the thick fur. "Much easier to do with homid feet," he thinks to him self. He continues the long and detailed intensive process of cleaning the body.
It wasn't until her reacher her belly did he realize he was humming the same sad song his Grandmother would hum when she was asked to perform this duty. It seemed right to continue the tradition. With out words he gave her the best he could. She would be a hero in the eyes of the sept, she would be remembered as she was in life, a beautiful spirit trapped in the deformed body. "What sin could she have done in her former life, to have been cursed ," he wondered as the come worked out every knot and tangle in her fur.
Next was the brush. The death had come so recently that it still made the coat shine, as the natural oils were smoothed across the fur. Next would come the braids and knots, but she wasn't a Fianna, and the last thing he wants to do is insult her and the spirits by giving her the wrong set. The task done, he raises his hands to Gaia, "Fam , hun a was rhyfelwr chyflëir rhagoch. Bucheddai ag Balchder , Anrhydedda , a Callineb. Carai 'i deulu , 'i sept , 'i chiwdod , a 'i cenedl. Bucheddai 'r chyfundrefn chan 'r hiachawr , a ydy destament at 'r chryfder bendithiaist ni pawb ag. Chymer 'i i mewn at 'ch arennau , canfod a gwna mo d at mwyach boeni , a pryd dydy 'n barod chyflea 'i bacia i mewn i 'r olwyna." He lowers his arms and looks across Rea's body, not feeling pride, or satisfaction in a job well done, simply a sense of completion.
The worst of it had been done by Sister Razortounge's gift, those healing flames. "How did she do that... no focus she deserves better." A quick trip to the house and he has all the things he needs, plenty of water, soap, a brush, a comb, and plenty of clean cloths.
He starts at her feet. Carefully cleaning them, removing the blood, and the muck, and the mire from the huge claws and the thick fur. "Much easier to do with homid feet," he thinks to him self. He continues the long and detailed intensive process of cleaning the body.
It wasn't until her reacher her belly did he realize he was humming the same sad song his Grandmother would hum when she was asked to perform this duty. It seemed right to continue the tradition. With out words he gave her the best he could. She would be a hero in the eyes of the sept, she would be remembered as she was in life, a beautiful spirit trapped in the deformed body. "What sin could she have done in her former life, to have been cursed ," he wondered as the come worked out every knot and tangle in her fur.
Next was the brush. The death had come so recently that it still made the coat shine, as the natural oils were smoothed across the fur. Next would come the braids and knots, but she wasn't a Fianna, and the last thing he wants to do is insult her and the spirits by giving her the wrong set. The task done, he raises his hands to Gaia, "Fam , hun a was rhyfelwr chyflëir rhagoch. Bucheddai ag Balchder , Anrhydedda , a Callineb. Carai 'i deulu , 'i sept , 'i chiwdod , a 'i cenedl. Bucheddai 'r chyfundrefn chan 'r hiachawr , a ydy destament at 'r chryfder bendithiaist ni pawb ag. Chymer 'i i mewn at 'ch arennau , canfod a gwna mo d at mwyach boeni , a pryd dydy 'n barod chyflea 'i bacia i mewn i 'r olwyna." He lowers his arms and looks across Rea's body, not feeling pride, or satisfaction in a job well done, simply a sense of completion.