Warm up I

Above the turbid river, wraiths sniping and snapping misty jaws over the water, the noir facade of the Rothenburg Range rockets up. Its craggled face cringes in the sepia sun. There is one even plane among the hollows and twisted peaks.

It is here that the Rothenburg castle crouches in shadows. Its labrinthine layout pierces the mountain side, digging in and gripping itself against the pull of gravity over the edge.

A lank green creeper twists itelf over the crumbled walls. Sprouts and vines spread lanky fingers over the castle's surface and curl through ancient doorways.

The world waits.

The groan of boughs echo among the stones. Stretching arms warp and strain at the sky.

The rock works itself, shrugging.

The creak of senior knees lever their weight up.

Crusted eyes blink, knuckle the grit out.

The Rothenburg Range coughs, embarassed, and wipes the spittle off his sleeve. He flicks an odd, grey clump from his shoulder.

Van Winkle grins and goes on his way.

The End

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