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 t was said that the sun always sets in Westfarthing, but the townsfolk knew better. The sun itself would set upon the sea in all its glory, and each night would turn the water to blood. The simple farming town kept well within the security of their village at night, for they believed the forest that separated them from the sea was full of spirits and daemons, so much so that it held the name of Spiritwood. Each morning, the mist of the sea would blanket the town with its mystery, only to dissolve each day with the rising sun.
But in the midst of this afternoon, it was more than Leshiis that kept the villagers inside the borders.
It was late September, and usually Westfarthing would be merry, in celebration of Harvestide. The tents were finished, but the tables were donned in black. The bells of the Sanctuary were muffled with wool, and all around was serenely quiet. The creak of a wagon slowly made its way through the town center. Two coal-black draft horses pulled it, and their hooves were muffled with cloth. Footsteps silently echoed through the dirt streets as the procession moved past the stone carving of Mokosh that graced a fountain there.
When Shahrressa passed the iron gates of the cemetery, she felt an icy chill pass through her, like fingers of the shades that lived there. She pulled her ebony cloak tighter to her. Her brother put his arm around her, and she looked at him gratefully, but neither said a word: speaking during a funeral procession was anathema to their beliefs.
The horseman drove his cart to the deep, rectangular hole that had been carefully prepared. The soft earth rose up in a mound beside it. Gies, the town Priest, stepped lightly from his seat atop the cart. With his book in hand, he padded softly to the front of the grave.
He gestured with his hands, comforting signs of faith, and began to speak.
"Beloved," he began in a soft basso, "it is time to lay our Brother, Sven Silversteen, to rest...."
His voice carried on in prayer for Sven, who had been killed the day previous in an accident while setting up the tents for Harvestide. Just three months ago, Shahrressa had happily been a guest at his wedding. Dobrynya had looked so happy as a fresh, blushing bride, dressed in white linen with her hair braided down to her waist. Shahrressa turned her eyes to the young widow. Dobrynya wore the same linen gown, now dyed a black obsidian... even her bridal veil, she wore, dyed. But her hair had been shorn in the manner of widows. Shahrressa knew Dobrynya's braid lay in the hands of her dead husband, within his coffin of oak.
Geis continued, expressing the feelings of the village. "...so stunned to lose one so young, with so much promise..."
It was her eyes that were her most defining feature. Of all the maidens of the village, Dobrynya’s eyes were not the sky or sapphire blue of the other girls, but green - green like emeralds that shone with an inner fire, and so large in her face that one could lose themselves in those eyes. Sven had. But now, the fire was extinguished, and Dobrynyas’ eyes were empty and hollow. Shahrressa wondered if she would ever recover from her loss.
Dobrynya's mother cradled her daughter as she collapsed, sobbing. There was talk about Dobrynya's reactions to Svens' death... it was said that she had not spoken since she was told, but the tears of grief poured from her eyes continuously. She had not slept for these two days. Brother Geis's words of comfort were lost on poor Dobrynya, but his speech continued for ten full minutes.
"... and we now commit Sven to the comforts of Morinka, our Mother Earth. May he now and forever rest in peace."
Shahrressa watched while six of her strong brothers lowered the oaken box into the ground as Geis made gestures of faith, and chanted prayer in the Gregorian style. It was hard for her to believe that a few days fore, she had been laughing with Dobrynya about their hopes for a child, and her woe about the state of her hands after being wife for three months... and now....
The priest threw a shovel-full of dirt onto the box, and Dobrynya began a mournful wail. It was all too sad to behold. The congregation turned and slowly walked away from the cemetery.
Shahrressa's mother tapped her on the shoulder and led her away by the hand. Once past the iron gates, it was permitted to speak. "Shahrressa," her mother said, "Come and help us with the tables." Shahrressa nodded. "Yes, Mother," she agreed, turning to give Dobrynya one last mournful glance, and her eyes went open in shock.
A soft gasp escaped Shahrressa as Dobrynya screamed in agony.
She pulled the priests own knife from his belt and plunged it deep within her breast, collapsing into the hole in which her husband had just been lowered.
The priest and Dobrynya's family stood there shocked as the wailing from within the grave slowed, and then stopped. Shortly thereafter, the strokes of a hammer were heard, as her kin began to shape yet another coffin.
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