Tomb. Not shrine. ‘You have a grave?’ said Skedi, surprised. ‘This shape belonged once to a human,’ she said. ‘In a time like this one she was hunted, killed, then buried here. For pity, and admiration, people brought flowers, prayers, books. They read to her their thoughts, new ideas.’ Her voice grew distant, fading, and her robes darkened with grey dust and darker patches. Blood. ‘And in her place, I took shape. A different being in her form. A symbol of truth against all brutality. It is a pity, that such things come around again.’
