The Castle
The Castle “Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.” ― Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven Shrieks echoed, mingling from near and far. Human, orc, gnoll. The gnolls were the worst; theirs was a twisted, hideous laughter. Don’t listen, he thought, desperately trying not to. But … how could he not hear? Philbin pressed himself into the wall, but for all his desire to be one with it, its surface wouldn’t yield to his need. Move, damn it, he thought. But his body betrayed him. Coward! You bloody coward! Some Knight Protector, you turned out to be! But Marquis Clement never said it would be like this, did he? He spoke of honour and chivalry and protecting the weak, of orcs and gnolls and bandits, and even of Ur-Flan wizards, but he never once said anything about walls that flowed and bled like they were torn by …. By what? Darkness? Colour? That nauseating, undulating blend of colour that defied any description short of the emotions that mirrored it: sickness, hatred, horror? It smelled as much, too: if sick and iron and rot. And what of the noisome cacophony that flowed with it? It rends the soul to hear such a thing. Beads of sweat rolled from his brow. They stung his eyes. He closed them. Wiped them. And opened them again to the rippling ink and colour that threatened to unhinge him. Okay, he thought, said, whispered, and made to move his foot. He actually heard it scrape the floor. “Shhh!” He stopped, having hardly shifted. Philbin squinted and a shape resolved ... read more!

