[P] the dead cry out in the moon-glow;

[Isra]

It's a tender night that finds her in the mountains among the ash and what little is left of the bones of creatures not as lucky as she. The stars and moon are bright over head and somehow the graveyard mountain looks lovely in such a silver glow. A grotesque sort of beauty, dead things surrounding a unicorn in a borrowed skin who doesn't know how to live.  She would be better off as bones. The goats and birds were better at living than her. They thrived once in these mountains and she remembers watching them with something akin to jealousy a hot fluttering in her heart. Now she only watches what is left of them in the mountains and touches her nose to brittle bone instead of warm, furred flesh.  Isra moves among them with tears in her eyes. It's a bitter loneliness this night, a time for healing, for burying the past in loam and ash.  Ahead she can see what is left of a set of horns. The skull is half charred but Isra knows what beast it once came from. She remembers what sound their hooves made as they floated like angels down the mountain-side. She remembers how brave they were, to fight and live and tame the rocks that not much dared to thrive in. Isra idolized the goats and the freedom that made up every moment of their lives.  Oh to be a wild thing, she thinks, to know not language and such an unnatural sort of suffering.  She's silent in her digging, knees bowed against the ash and rock. It stings under her skin but still she digs her horn into the dirt over and over again until a hole opens up before her efforts. Behind her a dozen other mounds of dirt rise up like spots of darkness in the silver-lit land.  Isra is tender as she catches a curved, blunted horn with the brutal point of hers. Their horns catch together, sea-marked girl and charred skull, and she drags the remains into the hole. It's a morbid sort of burial and she refuses to her her telekinesis to bury the wild things. It was mortals that killed them and mortals should bare the responsibility of burying the dead.  This is the work of men, broken men. There are no gods here on the mountain, only Isra who sobs as she starts to bury those horns that once were borne so regal and proud upon a noble creature who deserved not to burn.  The night is still young and the moon glitters on all the bones she has left to bury. It's a sea of dead before her and somehow it suits the way her chain rings like an old church bell that been swallowed up the salt-water, muted and full only of sorrow.  * * * * * the religion of the dead lives in my bones @Random Events @Raymond