Gunnar Thorvaldsson, long-time Seansailear (Chancellor) of Ireland, is no more.

In full armour, with all his weapons, Gunnar's body lies at rest in a Viking dragon ship, laden with fineries from his shire as well as timber. There is a gentle evening breeze towards the sea and the sun just about to set. With a nod I give the command, and the sail of the ship is unfurled, and the rope attaching it to the port severed.

Silently and majestically the ship glides with its solitary, deceased passenger towards the sunset.

On the shore there's a bonfire, giving light and warmth to the group that has gathered to see Gunnar off on his final voyage. A dozen arrows have been set in the ground next to it. I lit the first one, pull it, and send it flying in a fiery arc to the deck of the ship.

Farewell, old friend. May your spirit find its way to where fallen heroes dwell.

I set the bow aside for the next to give a parting prayer or thought for Gunnar.