A crowd stood mingling in a tranquil meadow, all chatting as they waited for the event to begin. A wooden pyre stood not too far away, and those who weren’t mingling waited in line to go pay their respects to the dead.

  “Which of these women look like a homewrecking whore?” a voice asked Ellen from her side.

  She turned to see a muscular woman dressed in black—well, another woman dressed in black. Ellen like everyone save her dwarven companion was dressed in the black of mourning. She appraised the woman, and then deciding to play along said.

  “The halfling over there for one, I know for a fact she cheated on her husband last year,” Ellen said, pointing to a halfling woman she’d had a brief fling with the year before.

  She’d ended it when she’d realized she wasn’t attracted to the diminutive woman.

  Grom had called her racist, but Ellen couldn’t get over the thought that she was sleeping with a child. Plus, she was pretty sure she wasn’t actually interested in women. She’d been pretty sure, but she had a experimental nature all things and decided it would take further non-halfling relations to confirm.

  “That one too,” Ellen said, pointing to Rosa, a perfectly nice herbalist who refused to sell the ingredient for Ellen’s magical studies at a discount in exchange for private tutoring.

  Ellen didn’t know if she’d ever cheated, but she was getting into this.

  The pair of women occupied themselves evaluating every other woman—and a few of the men—on how likely they were to be a homewrecker.

  The visitations ended and the ceremony began as the two women speculated, growing more and more into the game as they went. Grom went up to the altar, dressed in a pure white robe as was tradition for clerics in such settings. He’d woken up covered in bruises from the events of the last night, but as an adventuring cleric, it was nothing to raise any fuss over. If asked why he’d not healed them, he had a few lies prepared he was fairly sure would work.

  Having quickly memorized the standard speech, he droned through it all with a convincing level of piety.

  “What are you doing?” Linar asked Syril, who was picking up clumps of grass and dropping them in front of him, watching them as they fall.

  “Gauging the wind,” Syril answered.

  They were both in the back of the crowd, nearly out of sight behind a tree, but for very different reasons.

  “Why?”

  “So I can see which way its blowing,” Syril said, pointing in the direction of the pyre to emphasize the point.

  “Which you need to know because…?”

  “So I don’t inhale smoke that used to be a human,” Syril said, exacerbated.

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  “So…” Linar began scratching at his chin, “You’d be okay inhaling the smoke if it was an elf?”

  “Of course not,” Syril said quickly, not liking what Linar was getting at.

  “Then why did you specify human? Not person? Or are you one of those elven folks that don’t think the short lived races are people.”

  “I don’t see why not wanting to breath people in makes me the bad guy in this,” Syril said. “I’m half human!”

  “Then why do you call yourself a half-elf?” Linar asked. “Are you ashamed?”

  “I didn’t make up the naming conventions!”

  As the two groups played their game and bickered, Grom went on with his speech, reaching the end.

  He’d been most nervous about the conclusion of the ceremony. Anyone could memorize a speech from a book in the temple, it was the request for resurrection that had him on edge. At the end of every ceremony, the cleric would beseech their god, that should it be their will—and the dead not perished from natural causes—that they be brought back to life.

  Usually, that didn’t happen, and some dramatic effect occurred anywhere from a candle flickering to the ground shaking. As the time came, Grom coughed and nervously stacked his notes on the lectern as he prepared.

  Finally, he worked up the courage to move on. He had a plan—one he was fairly sure would work—but he was nervous someone would see through it.

  He turned to the pyre prepared behind him, holding a candle in one hand and the other outstretched to the sky.

  “Cland, oh god of the brave and true adventurers! See your humble servant,” he bellowed out.

  His voice felt louder than he expected.

  He prepared the simple cantrip he planned to cast to emphasize his effect before continuing, letting the pause build dramatic tension. The plan was simple, to finish the beseechment and cause a light wind while simultaneously causing the candle to grow brighter. Both were easily in his power as a cleric supposedly of Cland—and while he might not know why Cland had chosen to grant him the power he had, he did know the limits of those powers.

  Once the cantrip was ready, he continued, holding it in.

  “If it be your will, raise this mighty warrior from the dead so that he may continue to serve you!”

  Now Grom was certain his voice was louder than it ought to have been. Birds in the nearby trees flew away in fear at its volume. Despite the strangeness, Grom continued, releasing the spell he held, focusing on the wind and the candle to channel its effects.

  A sudden gale rose behind him, just as to be expected, but where he’d only meant for it to be a short, weak one—just enough to billow his robe—it continued on, growing more powerful as it went. The candle in his hand ought to have been blown out by such a wind, but instead it grew more intense, elongating and extending out toward the pyre unnaturally. Instead of touching the wood and setting it alight—not as Grom had been planning but what he expected at the sudden turn of events—the flames touched Bill’s still form and spread out all over him.

  Behind Grom, the crowed cooed in awe at the scene, though from their vantage point it had only looked like a particularly dramatic lighting. From Grom’s he watched in horror and confusion as the flames covered Bill with unnatural speed, not seeming to burn him nor the wood beneath him.

  Then as quickly as the wind and flames had appeared they died down and an unnatural stillness filled the meadow. The flames around Bill condensed, disappearing from his limbs and head, contracting down into a single bright flame just over his heart until that flame too vanished, sinking into his chest.

  The gasp for breath that Bill yelled out next could be heard all through the meadow, without need for magical amplification, followed shortly by an equally audible shout.

  “Linar! I’m going to kill you!”

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