As the three men walked, Garulf spoke gently, hoping to perhaps instill hope into Tassik and Horace; the death of the Tree was tragic, to be certain, but all things die in time...

"Truly, we are blessed, even in the face of such tragedy, my friends," the Fist said, glancing to each man in turn, "Perhaps we may yet find the road ahead to be easier... perhaps the other newcomers, the warrior hearts who came shortly after I did to this place, will be willing to aid us with the exodus." Once they reached the clearing of the Tree, Garulf somberly dug into his satchel, retrieving his censer and a few pinches of myrrh, which he lit with a tindertwig. Holding the chain almost reverently, he stood a few paces distant from Tassik, allowing the shifter his space, and motioning to Brother Horace, he spoke softly.

"In the end, all things die... but for something so great as this Tree, with a spirit of its own, perhaps it would not be amiss to offer our prayers, though our own kindred perhaps it was not." Softly, the Fist began to chant in the tongue of angels, his hand moving ever so slightly, that the censer began to sway just enough for air to enter the censer, and fill the air with the scent of incense.