This is a little bit of a story that I started writing, but this paragraph got cut out becuase it was dragging down the description. I thought I'd share it because there's something about it that's kind of poetic (besides that obvious bit of poetry at the end).
It was a place heavy with waiting, waiting, waiting for something. But it was a patient waiting, waiting without expectation; it was a sense of serenity born of something far more ancient than the castle or the huge upright, flat-faced boulders in the distance, or even the ageless moors.
It was in this castle that an old poet once wrote,
Do those gods above laugh?
Ah, but how can they? We suffer,
Their creations, we suffer.
