The Counting House

Somewhere out at the edge of the horizon, lightning flickered staccato, sending fingers of bright into the sky, but too far for the rumble to be heard. For a moment the outline of the Spur stood against the brooding slate sky, impossible in its complexity. Massive, stalwart, brooding in its solidity, but above the bulk of its rock-bound foundation grew platform upon platform, roof upon roof, spire upon spire all crisscrossed with walkways and bridges, untidy and jumbled in an unplanned evolution of needs. In the un-illuminated cloud shrouded night again now, just a vague outline of darker dark against the gloom of the Dal, just a few windows twinkling with oil light lamps give it some semblance of reality. The Spur. This crazy black stone edifice whose pinnacles seem to sway and waver in the night mist, madness of long forgotten architects made real.

The Dragons Whisper

Look beneath the surface, you might not like what you find.