The Tower.

She huddled at the bottom of the tower, rising like some tusk grown huge through vile sorcery. The tale of getting to this benighted isle in the middle of a semi frozen Legerdemain River, was worthy of a saga in it’s own right. She squinted up at the baroque carvings that ringed the tower at a third of its height, and stepped back into the teeth of the ice-filled north wind. Shivering involuntarily, she shrugged off her heavily furred white cloak and stood in her very expensive – and fashionably masculine – militaristic attire. Her raven feathered pelisse fluttered in the strong breeze as she raised her crossbow, sighting and firing upwards in one smooth movement. The weighted bolt trailing a length of thin cord as it looped three times around a leering grotesques neck. She dropped the crossbow and grabbed the rope in her gloved fingers, pulling sharply on it to test its strength. She looked up one more time through the falling snow, swore under her breath, and started to climb.

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