Post of the Father

I carried my father's post on my left shoulder as I walked back to the front of the property. I took care to avoid the golden post, though I knew it would not harm me. It was merely an omen, a message from the gods, but it was better not to tempt fate. In my right hand I carried a fleshing blade, a tool that had not seen use by our line for more than four generations.

The god-corpse remained where we had left it, pinned to the ground by a rod of faith. I stood looking down at it for a long moment, steeling myself for the work to be done. Then, with a sigh, I heaved the father-post from my shoulder, planting it in the ground mere steps from the god-corpse.

I knelt down to the god-corpse and lifted the blade, sunlight glinting off its metallic surface. Above me I could sense my father's wooden eyes, staring sightlessly as if in disapproval of what I was about to do.

Then I began my grisly task. I worked quickly, eager to be done, but deftly, and within the hour, I had peeled the face from the dead god.