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~ The station chaplain leaned back from the altar, surveying the arrangement. The cactus from his office stood prominently in the middle, a loud reminder to keep to hope. The small figurine of Death, a hooded gryphon with face unseen, took the dignified position behind and to the left of the cactus, while a small bowl of incense to be an offering to these and the many gods rested to the right. The coyote nodded quietly to himself, and strode back to his office for his robes. Those in attendance would soon be arriving, and he needed to be dressed for the part.

~ It had been scarcely a week since in the incident in the shipyards, but the schedule and tempo of the station didn't abide delays in ritual. In his robes, Chaplain Hatch practiced his lines. Over and over again he read aloud the paragraph to be spoken in memorial, until it was nearly rote and hollow to his tongue. He couldn't afford to lose his voice part of the way through; this wasn't a ritual for himself to feel. It was for the families and the rest of the friends of the yard workers lost.

~ "...and so the expanse of beyond, deep and abiding, may accept the carrying of holding the dreams of those who..."

~ The coyote halted abruptly to the sound of the temple's front door sliding and muffled shuffling of feet. He sighed; time to step up to his part. As he carefully arranged a friendly grin across his muzzle, he was silently thankful that the gods of old were nothing more than myths. He wasn't entirely certain that he'd be able to explain to one the nobility of his deceptions. On his way to the sanctuary he lifted several candies out of a bowl; the children could use a reason to wear a smile as true as his was practiced.

~ As there was still some time before the ritual, Chaplain Hatch spoke with those who arrived; exchanging short bits of story, expressions of grief, and the occasional hug. The sorrow he felt for these people required no feigning. He simply had to let honesty slip around his guard a bit, and switch to hugging rather than try to thread the needles of conversation that drifted to particulars of fates. He knew most of the folks in attendance, except for a few in what appeared to be well worn business suits. These merchants smelled strongly of the grains and spices they no doubt ferried across the depths of space and sold amongst the stars.

~ The chaplain was never quite sure why stangers would attend these services, though there were always at least a few. They bore no connection to the lost, nor those who remained. The only hint of connection he found find amongst any of these traders was the gryphon who seemed to carry some amount of guilt about her shoulders, though her tone was kind and welcoming when he greeted her. After a bit of smalltalk and a brief tangent onto the nature of corn, Chaplain Hatch could have sworn that he managed to provoke a meager smile from the hen. Before he could ponder this matter in any detail, his wristwatch reminded him to begin.

~ Gently striking the bell on his way to the altar, "Here, in this place of travel, trade, family, and friends, we remember those who's paths have taken them beyond our...", he began to recite while lighting the incense.