Woe, woe to the godless,
Who never found piety, penance,
Or peace! Woe, woe to the godless,
Who never loved shepherds
For want of their fleece!

They say the unholy drown full in their cups,
With no holy work to do,
They sing prayers to the god of 'never enough,'
So love I'll just pray to you

Woe, woe to the godless,
Who never found piety, penance,
Or peace!
Woe, woe to the godless,
Who never loved shepherds
For want of their fleece!

"H-hope that's you in there," he murmurs, running a hand along the thin strands of ivy laid across the effigy's skull. "Would hate--would hate to think this was..."

The man falls silent, and the effigy holds him. It cannot speak. There is no mouth, no lips or tongue.

But it holds him still.

The effigy turns what might have been a face towards him, but instead he focuses as best he can on the mortar, which he upturns into the flame before it.

The bone dust and dried leaves disappear into the fire - and he crumples to the floor. The prayer is cut short, and the effigy kneels by him.

Somewhere in the twined roots of the effigy's construction, where a ribcage might have been, something bright and green blooms. The verdant light suffuses the wooden effigy, and it begins to move more naturally, fluidly.

"Always fading, never gone - funerals never settled on," the former breathes.

Behind him, draped across a stone table, an effigy begins to twitch. It's crudely made - the suggestion of a humanoid form, something approaching human but not quite there - but begins to rise, nonetheless.

"Always autumn, never frost," he continues. "Withered fire on paths long lost."