Stings looked at the bottle. "'Firebreath', huh? That should work just fine." He took the bottle and left, leaving the others to decide whether or not to follow.
He doused the wood with the liquor, leaving about half for the second pile that he was going to need to make, his eyes tearing a little from the smell. It certainly seemed to live up to its name. Then he stepped back and sat down near the crude make-shift pyre, far enough that the flames should be harmless but close enough that he could reach out to it. He took a meditative stance and willed the fire to start, sending a string of his determination out to the soaked wood.
The alcohol warmed, then his magic caused the slightest spark. The alcohol ignited, the flame starting to consume the wood and the victims' bodies. Stings stood, his job done, and backed up a couple of paces, watching with respect, sorrow, and pain. The fire would last for a while, and after it was done, the land would be scarred with the burn, symbolic of how the world would be scarred without those who had left it.