Rodan handed him the bag. Nongul's face went white when he looked inside.

“A Crossing. Damned Jakt Agor and bloody Kirosi!” The curse fell from his lips easily, the paw telling him all he needed to know. Furlon's death, as horrible as it was, probably spared others the same fate. Had the beast been able to make it all the way back to Harm's End, the Kirosi might have been able to get inside their village walls, and kill many more people before it was killed. The idea that his friend's death might also be a blessing left a sour taste to his mouth.

There have been many Crossings over the last couple of centuries, one about every ten years, and the result of each Crossing was always the same.

Death, destruction, and despair followed in the wake of all riivaaja of the Jakt Agor.

Survivors told stories, told of beasts within those borders, how they enjoyed killing, and seemed to love the taste of blood. They were fast, strong, and very hard to kill. This wasn't their first encounter with those creatures, and it wouldn't be their last.

“What should we do first?” Rodan pushed himself away from the wall and straightened his clothes, asking for the guidance he so desperately needed.

“We need to tell his wife. We'll need to have a council meeting about her allowance.” His poor wife is now a young widow with no means of income. Their lives were fairly tough before his death, but Nongul wouldn't abandon Akeena in her time of need.

“What about Ta'rak? You've heard the rumors of the falling out they had before Furlon left.” Rodan had no interest in a clash with Ta'rak, a man whose metal had been tested time and again. He seemed to be a bit down lately, but only a polkkypaa, a fool, would anger the man on purpose.

“Yeah, I've heard. That issue is now done. Ta'rak will have to deal with his grief in his own way. The Ancient knows he's had enough to last him for the rest of his life.” Ta'rak would have to be told, but he didn't relish the idea.

“By the time we tell Akeena, he may already know. News travels around here pretty fast.” Nongul closed his eyes for a moment, swallowed the lump in his throat. Furlon was his friend, and although it was his duty, he still felt the sadness of his death. He had to keep his own grief buried. With Rodan so inexperienced as an Elder, he knew the Raaka would call on him many times in the next couple of days.

Ta'rak met them just inside the gate. His face looked like stone, but his eyes made both men step back. Where gray eyes should have been, twin black marbles stared out at them.

“Ancient preserve us.” Nongul caught the whisper to his left and could only nod his agreement.

* * * * *

Hannele sighed in pleasure as she read the passage. The scroll in front of her was hand copied from the original, well worn, and expensive. These treasures usually contained valuable information, history, or even a contract. This one was a simple collection of songs and poems, and she read it purely for pleasure. She looked up from the writing when she heard a noise.

The front door to her home opened slowly. She looked up, saw a face she knew quite well, rolled the scroll holders back together, placed it on the table in front of her and stood.

She didn't have to ask why Ta'rak came to her home instead of the mausoleum. She was the Kalma Hoiva, the caretaker of the dead for Harm's End. Her profession was an honored one. Only a polkkypaa would fail to show her the respect she deserved, and such a person would suffer at the hands of the rest of the village for failing to show her that respect.

Hannele's predecessor had taught her that anyone who came to her home did not need the pleasantries. When they had lost someone dear to them, they needed her services, and would not be able to engage her in small talk.

“Show me.” After putting on her ceremonial robe, she looked Ta'rak straight in the eye. He walked back outside to a horse with a body strapped across its back.

Ta'rak pulled his knife, cut the straps, lifted the body into his arms, and cradled it like he would a child. He had a fear that he would cause the body harm, or Furlon undue pain, although he knew that his friend was already dead.

“Follow me.” She turned towards the mausoleum, a fairly large building to the right of her home, and opened the door ahead of him. The mausoleum was the largest building within Harm's End, and no expense was spared in its construction. All the mausoleums within the Ostyr Agor were built with stone and mortar, and the architecture spoke volumes about how the people felt about their deceased family members.

The front room was furnished with wooden couches that were padded, strictly for the comfort of those who grieved. This would be where people would wait for her to take them to their family's vault. Three hallways led from the main room, the left one turned into a large room where she prepared the bodies for their Final Rest. A small room was attached to the body preparation area, for her supplies. The hallway leading to the back of the building was lined with several small vaults in the walls. Each vault was of varying size, but the average was one foot square, and a couple feet deep. Each vault had a cover made of silver lined glass, with a silver frame, and each vault was used to house a few small artifacts of the deceased. It was customary for parents and children to share a vault. Some of these vaults held entire family lines for several hundred years. Some were empty as the family line died out, with no remaining family to care for the vault. It would be emptied, and the artifacts put in a clay urn that would sit on a shelf in the hallway. No family artifacts would be disposed of as that might incur the wrath of their deities.

“Put him on the table. Who is it,” she asked quietly. Hannele led him down the hallway.

“Furlon.” She could see that his grief was being held in check, but just barely. She knew that Furlon was his friend, which meant she had to walk carefully, but she also knew that the dead man's family had little money. His personal effects would have to be used to pay for the shroud.

“The poor girl,” she said. She felt saddened at the knowledge that Furlon's wife would now hold the title of Leski, a widow.

“His effects will go into a vault, for his wife. He will be attended to properly. Cotton, full pyre, vault with silver and glass sconce, food and drink.” He laid a bag on the table. The sound of silver coins clinking together could be heard as it landed on the table.

Hannele looked up into his face, and stepped back a bit. His eyes, for only a brief second, looked like deep pits filled with pitch black tar, no iris, no white, just blackness. For the first time in her life, she knew why this man had such a fearsome reputation.

The black faded, and he once again looked like the man she had known for years. His eyes had been the exact opposite of a Raaka's. A Raaka's eyes were pure white with no other color present, while Ta'rak's eyes looked like they were as black as onyx stones.

“It shall be done.” Hannele let her breath out in a rush after he turned and left. Many years ago, she had once considered Ta'rak to be a suitable man to marry, but Jaana snagged his heart before she could make her intentions clear.

In the years since his wife's death, she could see the man's pain and knew there would be no way she could bring back the happy man she once knew. Although it pained her to remain aloof and alone, Ta'rak would have been the only man who would not treat her differently for being the Kalma Hoiva.

In the eyes of the village, she was a holy woman, and there weren't many people who could get passed that aspect of her role.

She took a deep breath, cleared her thoughts of her past, and her loss. Furlon was someone important to Ta'rak, so she would do her best. Not that she didn't do so every time. She was always careful to be respectful towards the dead. There were procedures to be followed. She had learned from her predecessor on how to treat the bodies, and how to prepare them for their Final Rest.

“Now, let's see what you need my friend.” She sliced the straps that held the tent around his body and opened the leather he was wrapped in.

“Oh! Kirosi Ena!” The curse fell from her lips as she opened the tent. She stumbled back from the table and the blade fell from her fingers. She had seen the condition of many bodies in her time, but Furlon's body nearly made her gag. The body was mauled, clawed, chewed, and partially eaten. Her mind quickly took in the missing parts, tried to figure out how to fill in the voids, while her senses reeled from the damage.

“Your poor wife! My dear Furlon, I hope the Ancient granted you a swift death, but there is no way I can allow your wife to see you like this!” Normally, if the body was not too badly damaged, their loved ones would be able to visit them one last time. She exchanged her outer robe for an apron and picked up a few of her tools.

It was going to be a long day.