Keep on the Borderlands; I, ii

The keep itself rose above the skyline, an enfeebled cardinal held in obligation and becoming tangled in his vestments. A protuberance among the orchards in grays and reds providing surface for lichens and vine culture gangways that offset the motes of morning light and azure horizon. This was hilly land, and forest, and it was impossible to see very far in any direction. The worn range of once mighty peaks adjacent to these holdings was only visible along the major roads and in select raised places. Deciduous wood and fruit-bearing trees crowded close to the north and west, and the gradual eastern incline gave way to tiny ponds, gardens, and the collection of outbuildings that housed what few constituted the local populace. Further still were the wilds. There was all manner of savagery: boar and brigand and standing stones. It was understood to be unsafe as are all places beyond the limits of current definition. This area marked the edge of the known and this fortress stood sentinel against horrors that might be. In this manner, the structural integrity of the kingdom proper might be secured and all the rest meant nothing.

It was built by the Buonis. The tangled embarrassment of their legacy could be assembled through local whisper. It was all the usual things. Mother ran off with father’s friend leaving two families crippled. The children received hunting magazines and killed for pleasure and drank for sport. These were heartland people misplaced. What little maintenance was performed was performed poorly. The curtain walls were cracked. The system of flues intended to aerate were clogged with filth and nests. The southern tower had all but collapsed and was therefore avoided. Termites and carpenter ants had their way with barns, barracks, and storage sheds. The interior could only be described as severe. What little furnishing and décor remained were sadly inadequate and morbidly untended. Worse were the environs. Stunted bushes broke through the courtyard in countless places. The groves were diseased and surrendered to the steady tread of entropy. The once grand entrance path now consisted of a meandering line of broken pavers that split and shifted like harridans’ teeth. The Buonis stayed inside and paid little attention as the wilds encroached. That they were left in position for so very long was a testament to the remoteness of the post and the apathy of its governing body. No news was good news. No news was the preference. When, at last, their finances had sufficiently atrophied, and word of their incompetence sufficiently spread, the caretakers were removed. That is when we came; when mother came. Mother was the castellan.