Grendel Strand
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It had to be hidden.
It had to be buried so that they could be remembered. So that the rebel dogs did not defile it.
A simple obelisk hanging from the roof of the catacombs. The names of Loyalist Sons and Daughters etched into each of the seven sides.
Among them were his father and brother.
Vel Anir had forsaken gods in favour of mortal leaders, replaced ritual with respect but even so Grendel could not deny the hallowed nature of this place.
A story and a half of space lit by dozens of candles and small fires. Visitors in black. Silent mutterings and shoulders still shaking with grief.
Grendel Strand let his hood down and breathed in the smell of bones and burning wax.
The walls were bones. The world above was as far away as the clouds themselves. Here the world was right again. It made sense.