Untold centuries have passed since first I stood sentinel on this lonely mound. My cold, brick skirts pressed modestly round my granite ankles. But as if in recognition of my awesome power no human blood was ever spilt within. Only life’s juices draining from the ox, the sheep and fowl in preparation for the daily feasts once held within my smoky halls. When minstrels played and goblets raised in song and celebration of deeds of valour if only from the minds of fawning scribes enthralled and eager to placate their Lord and raise him high above his peers. Tables heavy laden with the weight of wood and pewter platters, their contents overflowing. Fruit and bread and choicest meat supplied and oft replenished by ragged boys and comely maidens whose faces set in lying smiles promising hopes of delights to follow but at a price, far above the reach of those who could only listen from without the heavy oaken doors.
When the pen takes control. 