![]() ![]() ![]() In the dim, wavering light of his single candle, he writes. It will be tonight, if it is true, he knows.īreaking his gaze away from the distant silhouette of the prison, he draws a sheaf of parchment from a regal oaken desk, seating himself at it. He adjusts his neat silver hair and high-collared black coat. ![]() His long face darkens, tightens he barely breathes. Its walls are blackened, pitted, with rusted bars like clutching fingers around what windows there are.įrom the window of his stately country-house, atop a hill lined with black pines, a man watches the wind rush across the land, and up to the walls of Harrowstone. Below it lies a pale village, sparse and sleeping, and beyond that, the great prison of Harrowstone. The moon lingers high in the sky, as if unwilling to draw closer to the earth, nothing more than a sliver of ghostly light behind the banks of clouds. A cold wind blows in from the North, and the darkened moors and fallow fields shiver with its touch. ![]()
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