The creature that tumbled out the window earlier still writhes upon the stone. It reaches fruitlessly for the gang’s ankles nearby. With a nudge of her foot, Shyan rolls the thing away to rest harmlessly on its rotten stomach. Fassn lands beside them easily enough. A man-thing above tries its luck with the twisted sheet, but lacks the dexterity necessary to grip it, and it falls the full storey. Some of its dumb compatriots look on from the broken window.
The sun is coming up, the morning mists recede. The castle seems somehow hazy, indistinct, contrasting strongly with the lighthouse. It’s crisp, with hard outlines against the grey sky. For Abia, it positively thrums with arcane energy though its top is dark and still.
“My road is almost over,” laments Berstuun, but he makes no move to leave.
“Afraid so,” Shyan replies. She looks to the lighthouse.