Etched III
Serf
- Local time
- Today 9:12 AM
- Messages
- 1
- Age
- 32
Area: 200,000 SQ FT
Population: 150+
"The moon shone splendid white in the obfuscated, ominous sky. It was the main wellspring of light that could be seen for miles."
Carved and built deep into the mountain side from a plane far from what this world existed on, Castle Leinhart stood poised. Its dilapidated exterior a mockery to the grandness hidden within should a person even get lucky to make their ways uninvited. To first reach the Castle beneath its bright glow lay heavy gates, icy to the touch should you dare open them. Revealing behind the sight of a little grave yard, unbeknownst of whose stones lie some locals speculate; are the skeletal Keepers of the estate. Owls, crows, and swarms of vampire bats shudder overhead, their silhouettes casting hazy shadows across broken stones of those lost and dead. Their eyes scrutinizing eerily as you approach.
The uneven cobblestones underfoot worn smooth from years of use, pitted from years of abandonment littered with dead leaves and branches that crunch underfoot. The path winds its way through hedges and leaf barren trees creaking in the wind. Pathetic patches of dead grass, dull and dim as though it had lost the will to live and quit its quest for growth. And a single desolate oak, influenced by the breeze whispering into the perpetual night with its leafless branches. All led to Château Choisel. Enhanced as it was with foreboding figures and carvings, stones of night creatures placed about the rooftop and balcony staring with blank marble eyes, gaping mouths, horns and claws to speak of vile evildoings inside. The way to the entryway was congested with hedges and briers whose thistles gave a last effort to stop an unknowing visitor's progress.
Pruned plants, long dead and abandoned flanked the steel swinging doors. They easily swing open with surprising silence, a sound counter to their dilapidated state. The ghost of hand on the shoulder, a puff of breath on the ear sends chills down the spine, characteristic responses to the sudden drop in temperature enough to drive one back toward the way they've come. The clucking from an imperceptible host and the flutter of movement just out of sight - all lead to one conclusion, this was not a safe place for mortals to tread.
Yet, the domicile of a heretic dark lord that drunk down the curious cat.
Carved and built deep into the mountain side from a plane far from what this world existed on, Castle Leinhart stood poised. Its dilapidated exterior a mockery to the grandness hidden within should a person even get lucky to make their ways uninvited. To first reach the Castle beneath its bright glow lay heavy gates, icy to the touch should you dare open them. Revealing behind the sight of a little grave yard, unbeknownst of whose stones lie some locals speculate; are the skeletal Keepers of the estate. Owls, crows, and swarms of vampire bats shudder overhead, their silhouettes casting hazy shadows across broken stones of those lost and dead. Their eyes scrutinizing eerily as you approach.
The uneven cobblestones underfoot worn smooth from years of use, pitted from years of abandonment littered with dead leaves and branches that crunch underfoot. The path winds its way through hedges and leaf barren trees creaking in the wind. Pathetic patches of dead grass, dull and dim as though it had lost the will to live and quit its quest for growth. And a single desolate oak, influenced by the breeze whispering into the perpetual night with its leafless branches. All led to Château Choisel. Enhanced as it was with foreboding figures and carvings, stones of night creatures placed about the rooftop and balcony staring with blank marble eyes, gaping mouths, horns and claws to speak of vile evildoings inside. The way to the entryway was congested with hedges and briers whose thistles gave a last effort to stop an unknowing visitor's progress.
Pruned plants, long dead and abandoned flanked the steel swinging doors. They easily swing open with surprising silence, a sound counter to their dilapidated state. The ghost of hand on the shoulder, a puff of breath on the ear sends chills down the spine, characteristic responses to the sudden drop in temperature enough to drive one back toward the way they've come. The clucking from an imperceptible host and the flutter of movement just out of sight - all lead to one conclusion, this was not a safe place for mortals to tread.
Yet, the domicile of a heretic dark lord that drunk down the curious cat.
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