Tower of Doom

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The last tatters of the storm that had lashed Nartok Keep during the night finally broke and fled before the violent crimson dawn. Sunlight spilled across the ancient stone of the keep, thick and heavy as blood, illuminating high walls that seemed to sag under their own ponderous bulk and a motley collection of towers that reached up to rake the underbelly of the sky. In the dark before the dawn, a throng of folk had climbed from the village below to the summit of the crag upon which the keep perched. They gathered now in the churned mud of the courtyard, huddling silently before a skeletal wooden scaffold.

From a window high in the spindly bell tower of Nartok Keep, a lone figure watched the grim scene unfold below. The watcher was swathed in a frayed black cloak that covered him from head to toe. Beneath the garment, a peculiar mass protruded from the figure's stooped back. He looked much like a man bent under the burden of a heavy pack.

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