The lower floors reek of battle and decay, their corridors choked with rubble and bones. Farther in, the grand halls and feasting chambers lie in ruin, where faith once gave way to madness and cruelty. The upper levels are quieter, but not still — the spirits of Scarwall’s nobles linger in endless loops of betrayal and regret.
Up on the battlements, wind howls through shattered towers, and the bell tolls for no one living. Beneath, the dungeons hum with necromantic power, chains still trembling from unseen hands. Even the guest quarters, meant for comfort, are warped — a ballroom split by crimson-stained wood and silence that strains the ears.
Below it all stretch the flooded caverns, dark and cold, where the walls sweat salt and the air carries the weight of something ancient and watchful. Scarwall is not a ruin — it’s a grave that refuses to stay buried.
