As bodies disappeared beneath mud, Dayraven wished he knew some fitting words for the occasion. Someone in the world would grieve for them. A mother, a father, a brother or sister, a child. For someone, their deaths would bring home how fleeting the world was. Moments before, their flesh had contained their lives. The elf-shard brushed against his awareness and whispered in his mind, seeming to say that death was cold and lonely. When they packed the last of the soil in place, they wiped their muddy hands on the grass.
