A light on Cenae

TWWolfe stared at the funeral pyre, torch in hand. The man lying there looked alike enough to him to be his twin, or more likely his father. And for all intents and purposes, he was
No Tuathan could live forever, unlike the Miletians who came in on the soul stream, but the leaders of the Wolves had circumvented that, by passing the title of TWWolfe on to a successor when they retired or died. Those chosen looked like the last bearer, acted like him, and ensured that, to outside eyes, there was no noticeable change.

Wolfe looked at them man on the pyre. He had led them to uladh against Fenrir, had bled the company white to try and stem the tide. Of the 1000 who had gone out, only 400 had returned back to their home camp on the Cenae meadows.
The old Wolfe had been a bard, and so when the war was over, he traveled back to iria, to gather songs and tales of the bravery his people had shown there. He came back with a subtle poison rushing through his veins. Its name was despair.
He founds few songs, and almost none that told of their bravery. But what was worse, he found that almost no-one remembered them. In all his travels, he only met one person who knew him. Somehow, this was too much. He had come back, lay down, and simply wasted away.
So a new Wolfe was chosen. Privately, he wondered if the old one had had an over-inflated sense of importance, but even he was troubled by the lack of rememberance given them.
TWWolfe put the torch to the pyre, and the dry wood blazed up, consuming his predecessor. He held a vigil there, waiting until the sun peaked over the sky and there was nothing left but scattered ashes.
“Perhaps we shall need to help the people remember us” he mused as he walked away. “A stone monument alone is no fit memory for us.”


((I thought up this a while ago when i wanted to play a Tuatha, but wanted to be able to keep the same general character. thus, a dread pirate roberts-esc tradition. ))