The man in the audience continues his thoughts, surrounded by a multitude of worried faces. He sports a white eyepatch on a black cloth wrapping around his balding head, with visible scars beneath it, reaching onto the tattered remains of his ear. His high black coat collar covers mutton-chops, and his eyes are sullen and stern.

Amos (thinking): Forgive me my hesitation, your divinity. I only wish that this same reverence had been given to my son's remains. Tainted as they were... they belonged to a lord of the Spirefort.

Halea's mask continues to stare into the fire as she returns the thoughts.

Halea (thinking): Your son had no part to play in this charade, Amos Ellery. And I dislike sullying my claws with such a blight, even indirectly.

Beneath the mask, the high priestess's smile is unbending.

Halea (thinking): But worry not. His flesh has fed many a crab and seagull. That is honor enough for one such as he.

Amos bows his head slightly.

Amos (thinking): ...Your word is law. The body will be ready soon, will it not?