Palamedes walked into the tiny little temple holding the urn.
It was amazing actually, how such a large man could become… such a small thing. All that remained of Hagen Greatthews could be carried in Palamedes’ hands.
He kept walking through the temple. Small groups of Trolls were kneeling in prayer, whispering things in their strange tongue. Well, strange to Palamedes. He had no doubt it made sense to them. Eurydice had once told him that originally all Nightfolk had spoken a language like the Trolls. He’d tried to imagine what that was like, formulating thoughts in such a different tongue but he just couldn’t.
Palamedes took a deep breath. Everyone else was doing their part in the aftermath of Tolometto. The Kizaks had head home with Agrican and a load of Ghoulish prisoners, Morgaine had been carrying a mysterious package that she’d given to Quiet to drop off… somewhere, Justinian was looking after Their Graces--he’d seen him serving Malina as a horse when he left--so that just left Palamedes, here to deliver the body of his friend to his people.
He blinked, as an old Ogre with a shaved head quietly stepped in front of him, and smiled gently. It occurred to Palamedes that he must be the… Gothi, that was what Hagen always called it. He raised the urn. “Ahh. Yes. I… This is about… Hagen. Hagen Greatthews. The Cthonique Guard.” Palamedes coughed. “He… he told me he was going to sacrifice a goat, and… go to Kitvekh, and… he died, and… well, I’ve brought you these ashes so… so he can at least go to Kitvekh…”
The old Ogre continued to smile at him. Palamedes wondered if he even spoke the Common Tongue. Few of the other Ogres in the Watch seemed to--or maybe they did, but didn’t care to. Had anything he’d said made any sense to the man? And then the Ogre took the urn, and nodded. “To Kitvekh,” he said, his voice thickly accented.
Palamedes nodded in agreement. And then, as the Gothi moved off with the urn, singing a strange sad song in Trollish, the Erl knelt and wept.