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Gritnea
I thought I'd go and learn, to understand, to see Hell made manifest in the physical realm. A cold day. Clouds hung above Gritnea Tower, as crows sang in mocking welcome. Not crows of Kilvas-they would find no reason to sing here.
No-one would.
Gritnea is a museum of sorts now. A silent reminder, not widely advertised, but a reminder of the full scope of possible depravity nonetheless. Testament to what happened once, so it may never happen again. I see the chains, the collars...I can imagine the Feral Ones. Laguz in both forms, bound like wild animals...like the beasts they would become. Like mannequins and dolls, prodded, played with. Dancing to the tunes of their puppet masters.
What did the guards think? They in their black armour, often stained by the blood of innocents? Blood they did not spill directly, but let spill just the same?
Rows and rows of death. Sliced bodies. Discarded corpses. Records of how long it took them to die. The lucky ones. Those not reduced to mindless beasts. This was not death row. This was not execution. This was murder.
Did I see any ghosts at Gritnea? No. And I'm not surprised.
None of the dead would seek to return here.