"They would come to him, the people of Vrykstaad Hill, and adorn small lanterns to his mane, whispering in shaking, mournful tones the name of their departed, and the prayer of them finding their light so that they may be led to rest. The lanterns were the stars, the gateway, the beacon.

This was the duty of those who continued the tradition of the first one. Asceamnon Reix. God of the lost spirits. Walking the winter snows with a priest of the Matraes oxt Caernemwrought, Mother of Dragons as their guides through the winding paths from the outlying farms to town or city center.

Vrykstaad Hill had many losses this year. Each deeply mourned, bringing the cries of their names from those they left behind, in hopes the dutiful reix would whisper each at the shrine of the shining path. It was a slow, cold walk this year. But with the pain came knowledge that the spirits of those both lost or nearly forgotten would be lead to the beyond. It was a time of mourning tempered with faith that loved ones were once again safe with mother dragon.

And when the guide paused, offering his prayer, 'Catuoes soulos aeir wext tou'magisa placidus, Reixos, aotas tou brecaes uolin iuerilon. Bext sose iumlon harknon a- uolius lorrthamni aen firlandus crilicalus'. 'Grim hearts lift with peace, reix, that you guide them home. Let this world hear their names one last time.' The journey to the shrine was one lit only by the lanterns guiding spirits.

Lit only by stars.

And at the stone, covered with the sigils of hopeful grace, those names would pass Lorrnathi lips once more, and find the shining path beyond."