When the Old Mother Ganjuru returned to Orea, She who gave birth to all things, she was grateful, and ever proud. Proud of her long life, her daughters, her pack. Grateful that finally she could rest. She performed her own last rites, according to Zinka customs, taking off all her clothes and adornments, and placing them in the fire. Then she danced, her favourite, telling the story of a willful daughter, as the light of the flames danced across her weathered skin. All who watched knew her then, and when it was over, they turned and left. Alone, she stood before the fire, covered in clean sweat, before she began walking to the Place. There, she sung to the Moon, He who watches, and with her final breath, as the clacking of the Hestra rose about her, called on the Hand, that beckons into darkness.