Scref
A soft blue glow on the horizon may remind one of sunset, but for the light hues fading into blackness, against a murky, starless sky. A biting wind whistles across icy crags, the occasional flurry of ice borne upon it, flashing as it catches the light. The forlorn howls of the pitiful and the dead echo across the barren landscape, with the mountains drawing the eye.
As one wanders towards that blue light, harsh as it may be, they may seek comfort, respite… In fact, it heralds the black edifice of Scref, the prison that gives its name to the realm. A crude, rugged monument of twisted spires, crooked towers, and barred windows. At its utmost height, the lantern, the light of the Eþelweard, illuminates the land around a beacon for those with their whits, and those without.
First, one must avoid the mass of flesh, melted in the cold, of the Unbesenged. Sunken eyes, crooked teeth, and fragmented bones. Those that are lost. Those with no further will to survive, but with an anger for that which could be considered alive. They are drawn to the lantern, gazing at it longingly from the foot of the high walls. When alone, when undisturbed, the blunt steel that was once their weapons, hang limply at their sides, but when that rage is brought forth, that same flashing metal can quickly be the end of the wanderers, the Leowlar, that seek to walk the path.
When one has reached the base of the high wall, they will find that the curator of Scref, the Eþelweard, is not welcoming. Those that can must claw their way into the prison, bloody their fingers as they scrabble for handholds in the opaque wall, the rough stones grating at their skin, prying apart bars, or squeezing into tight, choking corners, so close that one can scarcely breathe. The moisture in a gasp will freeze in your throat outside, and inside is only slightly better, and once alone, the survivors huddle and shiver.
Invariably, it is not comfort you have found here, nor freedom, but you are not without hope. Patience is needed, the slow, ever dragging eternity, before that pale figure comes, rattling keys and iron chains to open the oak door that traps you. There, he will lead you down a maze of corridors, a path you will never be able to recall, treacherous as you wander across the above ashen courtyards, a single slip sending you spiraling into the burnt out pyres below.
His breathing shallows, his hunch deepens, his blue fingers, turning white as he grips his staff… Then, he beckons you, standing aside such that you may go ahead, ahead to the steps that lead only to darkness. The first step, the first step to Heowmaeg.