Private, Pendzez. Hill of Graves.
Ever since his intial meeting with Jantus, Jefferson had been growingly curious of the dead ghouls in the pack's cemetery. Its locate was thankfully remote and out of the way; though the trip to visit it was a bit tedious, the cyclops was grateful that the cemetery was hidden within the trees out in the distance where "dropping in on it" was unlikely. It was difficult to preserve and protect a bunch of unspeaking graves when they had no mouths to scream with and the Patriarch was further distracted by tending to his still-living underlings, but regardless Jefferson always worried that something unfortunate would come across the graveyard. The last thing he wanted, ultimately, was to come across the boneyard strewn apart and completely ruined, the graves disturbed and corpses unearthed. The cyclops had seen many lifeless things in his time, many dead by his own fault, and with that experience he knew the respect necessary for those dawdling in the afterlife.
As he had expected, however, the cemetery was eerily silent and untoyed with as it always was. The graves were unmoved and stilled, the air chilled with the beginnings of December, and the earth hardened from the cold. The air in the cemetery was always slightly colder than that in the surrounding area, mostly due to the noticable lack of sunlight that the wall of trees bordering the boneyard cut off in their canopies. He wondered briefly about Skoll as he walked through, taking a few minutes to stare listlessly at the dead man's marked grave before wandering on, mind clouded with the musings of a one-eyed idiot curious about the afterlife. He smirked, very quickly, as he wondered if the dead bragged about their life adventures with one another after they'd passed on.
That smile faded quickly when he thought of Iskata, however. Her life hadn't been easy in the least; there was nothing for her to brag about. She was raped, her children hated her at one point or another, and she's struggled with Inferni for most of her life. Somewhere along the way, the poor woman had died, but the cyclops had never found out how or why or when. Such questions bruised innocent thoughts every day, yet Jefferson knew too much time had passed for he to ever find out just what happened to the blind woman in the end and why she'd never come home. If she had just made it back, perhaps he would have been visiting her instead of some long-lost hero he'd never even heard of but the rest of the world adored.