"It was their fault," he thought, as he stared down at the shrouded body.
The mourners doused the body in black pitch from the clay urns they carried. It would take a while to burn, even in death, she was resistant to fire.
He held the torch in his left hand, in the other was a torc of black metal and a sickle of the same, the sickle periodically glowed the sickly green color with hints of puss that spoke of bound sorcerous energy. He tossed the torc and the sickle onto the pitch covered corpse of his sister, before bending to pick up the suit of leather armor that lay at this feet. It was patched with portions of leather writ with arcane sigils, it too joined his sister's body.
Instead of throwing the torch, as was custom, he approached the body atop the wood pile and held the flaming brand to the pitch, welcoming the roar and rush of heat that bathed his skin in harmless warmth. He stood there long after the other mourners left, long after his father spat in his face and his mother held him, her body shaking with soul wrenching sobs. He stood there, silent, his face blank, until the fire finally ate his sister's body and burned his torch till it was a short, sharp piece of superheated wood.
He took up the torch and pressed the flaming tip to his brow, right between his bushy black eyebrows and the horned ridges they hid. It took some time, but eventually his flesh sizzled and he could stand it no longer, he hurled the torch into the pyre, finally speaking as he did so. Just the barest whisper above the crackling flames. No one was near enough to hear him anyway, but he spoke nonetheless.
"If not for them, my sister, if they had not left you. It is my fault, I am responsible, and nothing will bring you back or change things, but they wrought this with their uncaring callousness. Vengeance will be cold comfort to me, and none to mother and father, but I will take it nonetheless."
Then he left his home, pausing only long enough to spit upon the black rock of the gate.