Snow drifts down slowly, landing on crumbling ruins with a silence that muffles sound. The crackling of a fire can be heard, faintly, and the smell of wood smoke taints the air. Bushes rustle against the frigid dawn, and hares hop about; leaving trails in the snow, for foxes to follow.
A cold stream runs under a crumbling bridge, within which the occasional trout lazily circles. Someone—or something—has made camp here, surviving off the venison in the surrounding woods.
It is a small cave, with a strategic entrance and exit, and a crack which would make an excellent murder hole by those who know how...