On the first floor, broken battlements and shattered gates reveal the aftermath of countless sieges. The rooms are filled with the remnants of long-dead soldiers, their weapons still rusted in defensive formation, as if they’d simply forgotten to die properly. A makeshift encampment suggests that others have tried to reclaim this place, but none seem to have lasted long enough to tell the tale.
The second floor holds the eerie remnants of habitation — a commander’s quarters, a chapel to forgotten gods, and corridors heavy with silence. Wind howls through arrow slits like whispers of warning. The walls still bear scorch marks, as though the structure itself once burned from within.
Atop the third floor, the vantage point over Lake Scarwall offers a breathtaking — and unnerving — view. The lake’s black waters churn restlessly, mirroring the storm that seems ever poised above the castle. Here, the veil between the living and the damned grows perilously thin. The spirits that linger within these halls do not rest; they watch.
The Barbican is not merely an entrance — it is a test. Those who cannot withstand its quiet dread are unlikely to survive the horrors waiting deeper in Scarwall’s heart.
