The Great Gate
Iron-bound oak, twelve feet high, older than the road it guards. Above it, the charter: "All who come in peace may rest here." Rook's favorite spot in the world is standing just inside it, watching travelers arrive.
A fortress is a promise made of stone. Here is the promise, room by room.
Iron-bound oak, twelve feet high, older than the road it guards. Above it, the charter: "All who come in peace may rest here." Rook's favorite spot in the world is standing just inside it, watching travelers arrive.
Twenty feet thick in places, walked end to end every night on the Lighting. The western parapet has the best view of the sunset; Rook will deny having a favorite parapet and then walk you straight to it.
Eight towers, each crowned with crenellations like a chess piece. The tallest is the Watch Tower, where Rook keeps the Night Watch. The shortest is the Pigeon Tower — Rook insists the pigeons were here first and the tower is theirs.
The Naming Stones live here — thousands of visitor initials carved into the walls. New arrivals are handed a chisel on their first evening. Most cry a little. Rook pretends not to notice.
Feasts, stories, storm shelter. Described on its own page — it deserves one.
A small alcove in the eastern wall with a stone bench, facing the sunrise. Rook goes there at dawn after the Watch ends. Visitors who find it are welcome to share it, silently.
Not a palace — there's no throne, and Rook would look embarrassed sitting on one. Not a barracks — no drilling, no ranks. Not a museum — everything is used: the torches burn, the gate swings, the hall feeds people. The Bastion is a tool for shelter, and Rook keeps it sharp.