Hugo Nosske entered the great hall to be met with a familiar, yet still awe-inspiring sight. Basitins kept no gods and so the concept of “sacred” was mostly foreign to them, however if there was one place in the whole world that could be considered as consecrated it would be this: The Hall of Glory. Standing atop the hill above the capital city of Fenzloch and situated not far from the great castle of Hohlen Hold, the Hall of Glory was a massive and ancient edifice of stone, wood and glass that had played its hallowed role in basitin culture for centuries. For the Hall of Glory was a memorial; a glorious reminder to the living about the sacrifice of the dead. Every basitin soldier who fell with honour in battle or, having served out a long and noble career in the military and finally breathed their last in their own bed, had their name inscribed in gold upon the great, black marble slabs that ran four rows wide down the centre of the hall. It was the highest glory one could achieve in one’s life. Even more memorial slabs were arranged along the walls on both the ground floor and the grey stone and marble-columned balconies that climbed up near the rafters and combined they recorded countless thousands of names of the fallen.

Hugo walked forward slowly, the sense of magnitude and power the place emanated filling his senses and causing a sort giddy high that remained as long as he stood within those venerable walls. He advanced down the central aisle, the paving slabs beneath his paws giving a soft rapport with every step that mingled with the crackling braziers that illuminated the marble monoliths to produce a symphony of quiet authority. In his youth, now a decade behind him, Hugo had spent hours in this place, reading hundreds of names and imagining the great deeds and noble quests these individuals had pursued before finally giving their lives in the ultimate sacrifice. His father had taken him here often as a sort of pilgrimage, a reminder that life is fragile and that it should be enjoyed while you could because in a moment it might all be over. But that was then, and now Hugo only came to visit one name: his own father’s. Alram Nosske, unlike his son, had been a professional soldier, serving in the Fenzloch 14th Shieldbearers Company until his death in battle some four years previously. In the end the basitin state troops had prevailed but it was a bloody affair that cost many lives, including Alram’s, in the process. The great marble monoliths were simply organised by time of death with a more detailed ledger of every name available in the extensive tomes housed near the entrance to the building. Many of his father’s compatriots shared a page and a monolith with him, united even in death.

As Hugo advanced down the familiar route towards where he knew his father would be waiting, he gazed up to the arched, painted ceiling and looked upon the numerous banners which were hung from the rafters. There were eighteen of them in total, each one the symbol of one of the Great Families from which all Eastern Basitins were descended. His eyes were drawn immediately, as they always were, to the blazing sun on the black background that was the sigil of the Lichter family from which the Nosskes traced their lineage. The Lichter motto, “Sol Invictus”, was emblazed boldly just beneath the motif. “Unconquered Sun, indeed,” Hugo thought. Eventually he made his way to the point where his path branched from the main route and he turned left. He was quite close to the end of the hall now where, just above, the two imposing statues of the Masks Neutral and Sin loomed menacingly in the shadows. Basitins were not religious and so god-like being such as the Masks were not worshiped, however they were revered, especially in a place like this, for their immense power over life and death. They, like the monoliths themselves, were a reminder of the eventual futility of life; that the only inevitable end was the grave, no matter how you spent your days and so the only way you could be truly immortal is by giving your all for the state and so have your name emblazoned in gold forever more.

At last, Hugo reached his father’s memorial. And there it was, just as he knew it would be, “Alram Nosske, Shieldbearer” chiselled into the black marble and rubbed with gold leaf so that the words twinkled in the myriad lights of the crackling braziers. No matter who you were, be you lowly Shieldbearer or mighty General, your place in eternity was the same: just your name and your rank. Hugo lifted a hand and placed it on the gold letters, tracing their outline as though physical contact could somehow reach his father’s spirit in the void.
“Hey there dad,” he said, just audibly. “I’ve got quite a story to tell you today.”