A mansion arose behind the blanket of morn.
The radiance of the sun covered each and every inch of masonry, as the winter wind's icy fingers coursed and caressed the tilted roofs.
The quietude was corporeal, a serene rarely seen.
"Strange," Alistair said as he strode across a desolate path. "More silent than I remember."
"Been the same every place, sir—such is the coming age."
"Ages?"
"Yes, most folks have begun to call it the 'Epoch of Whispers.''
"What buffoon created that?"
"Scared ones." Reginald propped open the gates. "More than you could count."
"Are you one?"
"Well. . . not always the brightest."
Alistair scowled. "I'd be a buffoon to believe you."
"Likewise."
"Bastard," Alistair whispered as they crossed the gates. A familiar garden was ahead.
Weird, he murmured; his fingers jerked.
The plants were darker. Some withered. Many holes lurched before sight.
