The sun dipped low in the sky, its once-blinding light now a waning glow that cast long, cold shadows across the ancient landscape. Theodas, Ochrea, Bjorn, and Chief Thrian emerged from the oppressive darkness of the ruins, the weight of the past clinging to them like a second skin. The warmth of the day was slipping away, the light fading as night crept closer, bringing with it the dangers of the unknown.
Chief Thrian surveyed the surroundings with a practiced eye. The land was quiet, too quiet, as if the world itself was on the precipice of anticipation for their next actions. “We’ve got a few hours of daylight left,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the group. “I could guide us back, but it’s risky. The terrain’s unforgiving, especially after dark. We might be better off making camp here, inside the ruins.”
Silence descended upon them, each member of the group weighing the risks in their own minds. The ruins could end up treacherous, filled with ancient traps and the lingering echoes of a long-forgotten past. But the alternative—stumbling through the wilderness at night, with unseen predators lurking in the shadows—seemed far worse.
Theodas was the first to speak, his voice steady, but underneath, there was a current of something darker—weariness, perhaps, or maybe the quiet acceptance of what had to be done. “We’ll camp here. Bjorn, see if you can fell a few trees nearby. We’ll build a pyre for the bodies. Smoke will cover the smell of blood, keep smaller predators at bay. Chief,” he turned to Thrian, “I need you to gather the Elvish bones, place them in your ring of holding. Make sure there’s nothing around that could kill us in our sleep. I’ll coordinate with Ochrea to move the bodies and keep watch until the fire’s ready.”
Bjorn grunted his assent, already shifting his focus to the task ahead. But before he moved, he paused, glancing back at Theodas, something hesitant in his usually resolute demeanor. “Any parts of the Frost Trolls worth keeping?” he asked, his tone almost too earnest, the question hanging in the air like the last echoes of a bell.
The question drew surprised looks from Ochrea and Thrian, but Theodas raised an eyebrow, a fleeting moment of surprise passing through him. There was an earnestness in Bjorn’s eyes that made Theodas reconsider his initial reaction. With a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he replied, “I’ve heard their…testicles can cure certain, male issues, if you’re interested.”
Ochrea let out a soft chuckle, while Thrian shook his head, a wry smile breaking his usual stoicism. But Bjorn, ever the pragmatist, seemed to consider the idea seriously. “Could fetch a good price with the traders,” he muttered, as if thinking aloud, his practical mind already calculating the potential profit.
Thrian clapped a hand on Bjorn’s shoulder, his voice lowering. “Theodas was jesting, lad,” he said, though a glint in his eye suggested he wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea. “But go ahead and take them anyway. Can’t hurt to have them.”
The group moved with the grim efficiency of those well-acquainted with hardship. Thrian collected the Elvish bones with a quiet reverence, each piece a reminder of a mystery that somehow connected to both the elves and dwarves. As he moved through the ruins, he uncovered a few trinkets—small, ancient objects that might hold value or power, though nothing that appeared to be a trap or had a semblance of danger. The furs the Frost Troll mothers used were gathered and stashed in a cleaner corner, though they were fouled with the stench of blood and other unmentionable stains.
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Outside, Bjorn had already felled six trees and was preparing to haul them back. He’d fashioned rollers from the first tree, easing the burden of carrying the others. He worked with a relentless focus, the kind that comes from years of knowing that survival depends on getting the job done quickly and efficiently. Meanwhile, Ochrea was nearly finished moving the bodies into a pile, though she had avoided the Frost Giant mothers and their children. Whether out of respect or reluctance, it was clear she had left that task for someone else.
Thrian noticed her hesitation and was about to step in when Theodas intervened. “I’ll handle it,” Theodas said quietly, his voice carrying a weight that made Thrian pause. There was something in Theodas’ tone, a subtle hint of finality, that made it clear this was not a suggestion. “Your talents are needed elsewhere. We’ll need you to create two stone fortifications for the pyres if it’s going to be completed this night.”
Thrian considered, then nodded. “It will take all my strength and energy. I could just build us a shelter for the night,” he suggested.
Theodas shook his head. “The dead should be put to rest first—for their peace, and for ours. Besides, hard work and an honorable purpose will make it easier for us to sleep than just four walls will.”
Thrian met Theodas’ gaze, understanding the unspoken meaning behind the words. There was something about this place, something about the weight of the dead and the ruins, that made it impossible to simply walk away. The dead demanded respect, and the living were the only ones capable of giving it.
Thrian accepted the reasoning, turning to his task. Theodas, meanwhile, set to work with quiet determination. The air around him seemed to grow colder as he approached the bodies of the Frost Giant mothers and their children. He covered the children with furs, lifting their smaller bodies out with care, his hands moving with a gentleness that belied the harshness of their situation. The mothers were too large to move intact, so he used his skills to break them down into more manageable pieces, then employed the spell telekinesis to carry them—all the while maintaining a respectful air despite the gruesome nature of the work that needed to be done.
By the time they finished, night had fallen. The pyres were ready, the wood piled high, the bodies arranged with as much dignity as they could manage. With a nod from Theodas, the flames were lit, roaring to life and sending shadows dancing across the ruined landscape.
The four of them stood together, their faces illuminated by the fire’s glow, the flickering light casting strange patterns on their bloodstained clothes and weary faces. Sweat and blood mingled with the dirt and grime that covered them, their exhaustion palpable. They watched as the flames consumed the bodies, the crackling fire the only sound in the oppressive silence of the night. Ash rose into the sky like snowflakes, a fleeting reminder of what had once been, before settling back to the earth, covering the ground in a fine gray dust.
For a moment, time seemed to stand still, the night pressing in on them as they stood in silent contemplation. Each of them was lost in their own thoughts, the weight of what they had seen and done hanging heavy in the air. However, this labor…this respect for the dead seemed to make them feel lighter.