O Wail, Ye Dwarves, and Despair!

And let your cries be a dirge! For we consign this day our noble Carpenter, Rigoth Dodokaved, Sole Survivor of the Horrible Winter of 1051 to his final resting place upon the rough-hewn Talc of Graveyard Stockpile #42 almost one year from the day when we came upon him in the spring of 1052.

It is our deepest regret that our supplies are so meager at this time that we cannot annoint the chalk floor of his workshop with a symbolic drink of ale or wine, but rest you easily Rigoth! I swear by my beard that as soon as our still is operational I will take in my own hand a mug crafted of the dolomite we struck the day of your death and a vessel of that righteous black mineral will carry the first product of our still so that you can be properly remembered. Until that time, let this water from the underground river serve as a proxy for the real thing, as it had to in too many of the last months of your life.

There are those here today who say you starved, but those who knew you best know you were laid low by the Horrible Winter, although it took a year for your bane to do its work. We will remember you whenever we sleep in one of your willow-log beds, or draw water from a well with one of your willow buckets. We will honor your sacrifice with our industry and build our cliff-face settlement into the exemplar of Dwarven craftsmanship!