Den Theme: Lost Manor

It was an odd landscape, mountainous, but here the forest smoked. Cracks in the earth loosed steam and the water bubbled in places. A boiling river split the land in two, on its banks a small scrap of land, just beyond the swath of raw stone which marked its floodbanks housed the ruins of a village.
Forgotten by time itself, rumor said, yet still the forest failed to reclaim it decades on. Certainly, it had become a shamble of memory, broken walls and tattered fortifications all worn sharp, ragged. All fit to rend flesh at the slightest misstep; Phantoms of its glory clung here, however.
Marble peeked here, or there, a panel of bronze reflected the light or arches stood in defiance of oblivion. As twilight chased shadow and light through its streets the air itself changed, a strange nostalgia playing the breeze and revealing flickers of 'once was' to the naked eye. Walls, faded and cracked, found themselves whole again, glistening with vibrant tiles in a shaft of moonlight. Fountains flowed anew, spilling crystalline water through gullies and along canals to meet the river when a cloud slid past. Forgotten splendor, for a breath, appeared only to fade again like some mirage. The play of imagination, of light, or something more? 

People spoke of the place in hushed whispers - Râuloc, the eerie place, Forest of Shadows they called it. There, where myth walks and the water casts warriors of the past into view. Where battles shine across rippling mirrors eternally, spirits unquiet and warring evermore. Where one peers into the water and the trees live, reaching to snatch, only to still as eyes rise to air once again.
The Land Beyond the Forest; and the Manor that stands above.
The forest, they claim, is ancient, and the Manor yet older still. Overlooking all below.

As darkness creeps closer the fog stirs like a living thing. Awakening with the night to crawl from the riverbanks and farther, spilling out into the trees. It's tinged with a miasma, sheer force and raw energy holding strangers at bay. Setting goosebumps loose into the air, to take root in the flesh of those who dare trespass on forbidden land.
Deeper in, as the trees condense it, gravity fails and compasses go mad in the wisps and coils. The fog glints, brighter than silver beneath the moon, magic taunting the mundane. Welcoming, forboding, intoxicating; as legends come to life.
The ground tilts up, steep and treacherous, but the path is clear. The soil bared, raw and dark, flecked with veins of rusty brown; Thicker than clay, richer. The world here is a sea of green all stirred by the wind, sweeping deep into chasms and surging upward to peaks where some fade to jagged brown or blinding white. The whole vistage one of surf and foam, cast verdant and broken only by threads of silver, where true water slithered between the towering peaks. 

Further on clearings revealed an endless horizon of mountains and peaks. Moon drenched valleys, and crags where water fell for miles before simply dissappearing from view as if wiped from reality itself. Still there seemed no end to the climb, and it was hard to tell if any progress had been made but for aching muscles and want of breath as labor taxed thin air farther still.
Every so often a patch evened out, groves of odd trees or streams, even a few inexplicable patches of stone, revealing themselves. Weeping birch sat bright against the firs, white bark glowing behind delicate leaves. Wind stirring them to whispers, secrets spilling into the fog, secrets of strangers in the hills and living legend as the trees closed ranks, obscuring the sky to mere specks of star and cloud. Petals spangled moss and loam where fruit trees peeked between their brethren in unnatural pairings. Apples cheek to cheek with oranges and redwood, while peaches clung to pines.
A fresh stretch of flatland revealed itself, and the air chilled. As if on cue a single, drowning note split the air, quickly joined by countless voices. Not the dull wailings of any dog but a sharper, purer note the air itself seemed to caress and urge onward. Wolves. Flickers lit the fog as it too thickened, moonlight? Specks. Flickerings. Like blue flame, but brief, insubstantial. The strain of darkness and fog on the eyes no doubt. The sound of water however was indenyable; as was the inescapable fact that - despite every burble and bubbling- the surface was smooth as glass in the darkness. Rocks floated in the coiling fog and the air hummed, but the water lied still beneath pools of shadow. Deep blues and purples darkening the night as the canopy danced to the song of still water; creaking and groaning like people bemoaning their age.

Finally, finally the peak opened. A vast courtyard stretching to the doors of an ancient, silent mansion. A castle?
Around the space paths curled outward like more streams, weaving beneath grand archways and on into the night. The only clear path was that to the doors, where tall windows hung dark, no spark of life within. The battlements cut a sharp line, final somehow - perhaps fittingly so - of pitch against black. The doors hung, ancient and enormous. Studded with brass nails thick as a fist it's frame was carved, down to the last inch; though age and weather had played havok on the fine detail it had once clearly held. Still the grandeur, and familiar figures alike, we're immistakable; and more so as the door moved with the faintest touch. Swinging out with a rattle of heavy chains and a groan of hinges, but not the slightest resistance.

The passage that opened beyond was long and lined with tapestries, red and blue against black. Guarded by Gargoyles and statues, suits of armor sentries still where the air thickened, tinged with leather, linen and woodsmoke. The remnants of eons, hearthfire and torch alike warming the space. Lighting it. Every step echoed against the stones, and after so many steps it took a moment to realize when they fell silent. Looking down to the dense carpet, in the same colors from the walls, which had muffled your movements now. Every shade vibrant against the black, and it served to reveal the true, crypt like silence of the abandoned fortress. The walls, a mix of rough stone and hewn, muffling everything beyond them as handily as once they repelled foes.
Despite the crisp mineral tinge however the air was not cold, but had instead warmed considerably from the outside. The darkness, conversely, seemed to suffer the opposite effect. Now boasting a palpavle weight to its presence and restricting even the most blinding lights to a meager pool around one's feet. Here and there though wood peeked from the darkness, or marble. Tables and furnishings settled strategically, adorned with pottery, weaponry and bric-a-brac of all shapes and sizes. Some identifiable, others completely forgein to the senses.
Suddenly stairs emerged from the darkness, elegant and winding, Rails polished and smooth to the touch, just shy of true black and boasting a ruddy tone amidst the grain. A few webs lied between the banisters, their denizens pausing as if confused by the intrusion of light and movement, but otherwise unperturbed. 

Leather peppered the air stronger on the landing, something rich anchoring it, but indescribable. Following the trail revealed a dining hall, one wall open to an open space below. A ballroom, its chandelier fulfilling the role of art above as much as light below. The wall opposite was dominated by a fireplace, while the table was, for some reason, set; all fine fabrics, silver and gold. Embers still sat in the grate, and aside it a door hung open. Inviting, almost, and the leather pulled from within, an octagonal landing beyond held another pair of open doors. To the right a bedroom, where it seemed the light was less restricted, revealing fine draping and curtains around a grand bed, all shades of blue and pale present. Another fireplace and a farther door sat within, logs stacked ready in the grate. It was as if the inhabitants had simply walked out, leaving all untouched. Everything, even centuries old fabrics, still vibrant and soft. Clearly well cared for, but there was no sign of life here beyond.

The left door was merely cracked, but closer the scent of parchment and ink infused the leather. The library was large, climbing several stories of what could only be a tower. Tomes covered every wall, and candles sat, waiting and seemingly eager for use. Here the stone dissappeared, tucked behind rich crimson fabric and dark wood, insulating the space. Still the warmth seemed too much, almost cloying, and a deep, earthy spice hovered in the air. At once grounding and invigorating. Soothing, as if safety permeated every nook like smoke. Clinging not only to the space, but to the visitor himself.
The spines boasted countless alphabets, and just around nods many subjects: Politics, poetry, weaponry, culture, myth, history, geography, medicine, botony, zoology - a table near the center of the room even teased the esoteric hiding somewhere. Arcane symbols in forgien tongues, left out and well perused. Still however no sign told anyone had been here in decades, just as the locals whisperings had implied...

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