Whadda ya think?
JB
THE EARLY YEARS
One day of hard walking west of Dunn’s Crossing lies the county of Gore. It has been widely rumored that in the time before time, giants unto gods here waged unthinkable war against monsters beyond imagination. In this, the fifth century of our Lord, the evidence yet bears witness to that legend. In seeming agony the land revolts against the gentle plains. Devastated crags of rock, wrenched from churning earth, overhand deep and cascading gouges in the ground that the uninspired call rivers and streams. In many places brackish liquids ooze and bubble in stagnant pools. Vapors gift the unwary with convulsive death.
In confounding contrast, a road cuts through the heartland of Gore. Built by the Romans more than a century ago, in places it has been washed away or conquered by encroaching mud and vine. Still, enough remains to follow it beneath the barren peaks and above the mired valleys. It passes by isolated and openly hostile villages. It passes by other remnants of civilization, perhaps Roman, perhaps local, long abandoned and forgotten. The road ends at the foot of a high tor, a natural fortification, covered on three sides with granite. The forth wall drops away to the sea, several hundred feet below.
Once considered insignificant for grazing, occupation of the hilltop was first disputed by local clans, later taken and thickly walled by the Romans, and eventually settled by the forces of the Duke of Cornwall. A formidable keep was constructed behind the Roman walls. The present state of disrepair was obligingly provided after a prolonged siege under the name of the latest petty chieftain, one Uther Pendragon. The ruined castle, and the area surrounding it, boasts a rich history in blood and violence. The name of the fortress is Chariot, and roughly translated from the language of the Druids, it means “the land of the dragon’s teeth.”
No one has come here for a very long time.
One day of hard walking west of Dunn’s Crossing lies the county of Gore. It has been widely rumored that in the time before time, giants unto gods here waged unthinkable war against monsters beyond imagination. In this, the fifth century of our Lord, the evidence yet bears witness to that legend. In seeming agony the land revolts against the gentle plains. Devastated crags of rock, wrenched from churning earth, overhand deep and cascading gouges in the ground that the uninspired call rivers and streams. In many places brackish liquids ooze and bubble in stagnant pools. Vapors gift the unwary with convulsive death.
In confounding contrast, a road cuts through the heartland of Gore. Built by the Romans more than a century ago, in places it has been washed away or conquered by encroaching mud and vine. Still, enough remains to follow it beneath the barren peaks and above the mired valleys. It passes by isolated and openly hostile villages. It passes by other remnants of civilization, perhaps Roman, perhaps local, long abandoned and forgotten. The road ends at the foot of a high tor, a natural fortification, covered on three sides with granite. The forth wall drops away to the sea, several hundred feet below.
Once considered insignificant for grazing, occupation of the hilltop was first disputed by local clans, later taken and thickly walled by the Romans, and eventually settled by the forces of the Duke of Cornwall. A formidable keep was constructed behind the Roman walls. The present state of disrepair was obligingly provided after a prolonged siege under the name of the latest petty chieftain, one Uther Pendragon. The ruined castle, and the area surrounding it, boasts a rich history in blood and violence. The name of the fortress is Chariot, and roughly translated from the language of the Druids, it means “the land of the dragon’s teeth.”
No one has come here for a very long time.
1 comment:
Of course, it's wonderful.
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