Up the hill above the village, before the wilderness where Orcs thrive, is a big stone castle (is there any other kind? Like if I said wood castle you would be surprised). It's black and glassy, but not obsidian, and has slit windows set back in deep holes. It's empty (kind of bereft) and has echoes in its winding corridors. Old weeds, dried in the wind, crackle and die in courtyards under crenelated shadows.
We spend some time here, me and Bêbe (Bêbe and I then, grammar-nazi) sometimes come here as I recuperate (which is to do cuperating again). We bring cold tea to drink and pickled eggs and leaves to eat.
We don't, and won't, say much to each other. I'm still suspicious, and she's still closed. She's waiting for something, something I should say or do. I don't know what it is. And I'm not fucking trying hard in the discovery phase of this particular project.
Fusel is a shadow on us.
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