Stone towers stand high above the violent surf crashing down upon the jagged cliffs below. Wind whistles loudly through murder holes, sending the braziers within flickering against the brittle air.
Crystals of salt line the stone, crunching underfoot, and trailing off from the walls where your fingers run against them. It is a dour, and cold place—with furniture made from driftwood, and the only store of fresh water coming from within brackish barrels.
The main tower houses the room of their leader, with a pike-decorated throne, and dried blood caked in terrible patterns upon the floor, at its feet…
Rats skitter along the floors, and far down below it waits a pier; often covered with water, and only revealed at low tide.