by Shannon Lee Martin
Copyright 2013 Shannon Lee Martin
Any similarities between persons, places or things, living, dead, or otherwise, is what it is.
"So no one's ever returned?" Dyron asked the old man who sat across from him at the rough splintered table in the dirt-floored ramshackle hut.
"Ever," the old man replied mockingly. His dried voice carried serious conviction, his pale face contorted in intense sincerity.
"All who have been foolish enough to enter Bal Toroth's sacred domain have never returned. The locals have occasionally discovered the horribly disfigured remains of some of those wretched fools near their homes, sometimes right inside their very huts, stretched out in tatters on sticks and in other equally ghastly ways, as a warning to all those who may stupidly wish to discover whatever secrets may lie hidden in Castle Toroth.
"I have seen with my own eyes, with my own eyes, boy, one of the victims of Bal Toroth, and it even sickened a retired warrior such as myself. No, my boy, you don't want to be one of the stupid, because they and their kind are all dead, as will you be, if you continue on your ill-fated journey."