Sir Alasdair squared his shoulders and set his broad jaw, then led his party directly up a much overgrown path towards the foot of the keep. It was a steep trail up to its outer walls, and one that looked not to have been traveled for many years. There was indeed a question as to whether anyone still lived here at all, for the amount of activity they saw on the walls. Which was none. No movement. No sound of alarm. Nothing. And upon closer inspection, the stones that made up the walls of the keep were stained with algae and overgrown in places with lichen and moss, making it seem very much as if it had sprung out of the rock itself instead of being planted there by the hand of man. There was a cold, lonely feel about the place, which seemed to infect the men of their guard. Many a wary look was cast up the towering walls, and many a hand clutched the hilts of weapons. Yhalen felt it himself. Desolation, and a sense of decay that repelled the casual visitor. If he’d not been under the duress of Alasdair’s guard he’d have happily turned and left this vale for more welcome places.
