Dalton Manner stood proudly atop the Cuillin Hills in the Scottish highland region of Skye. Magnificent yet daunting, its four-hundred year old towers rose far into the low cloud which often sank from the sky during the winter months; its turrets often invisible to the few who saw it from the outside – generally tourist hikers, strayed from their mapped-out mountain footpaths.
Nobody, however, was ever seen to enter the Manner, or castle, as it was commonly described as. The descendents of the Dalton family kept themselves to themselves, their privacy protected by high walls peaked sporadically with huge stone gargoyles and griffins, strangely resistant to the weathering of their four-century longevity.
In the smallest room of the tallest and most northern-pointing tower, a young girl sat weeping against the bolted door of the only room she could call her own, more of a cell than a cosy child's bedroom. Shaking, she wiped away her tears and defiantly pushed her weight against the heavy wooden door, as if terrified that the bolts alone would not hold against the angry forces on the other side of the castle.
That fateful night, she had wished their privacy had never been disturbed. Things had never been easy, but relations had deteriorated over the past few hours when a stranger had somehow appeared inside the Manner's walls, claiming an imperative motive for his unexpected, and quite clearly, unwanted visit.
She covered her ears to block out the furious voices echoing from the west wing through the usually icily silent hallways. Shuddering, she could make out only one word from the angry cluster of voices.
And that word... was prophecy.
(A/N: To be continued...?)