It was a ruin, now.
Weather had beaten at it so thoroughly that had anyone who had lived there been alive to see it, it would surely have been unrecognisable. The walls were crumbling, grass and weeds were creeping through the cracks in the stone and had completely overtaken the courtyard, and much of the roof had caved in. No, time had not been kind to the old castle.
Unusually, it had remained untouched by looters, even after hundreds of years. Had anyone been brave enough to approach it, they would have found wind- and rain-worn tapestries and curtains crushed under broken off bits of wall or simply lying on the floor in sad heaps, bedclothes and apparel woven with gold and bleached of colour by the sun, dust covered silverware and goblets decorated gaudily with gemstones. Had anyone been bold enough to attempt to search the underground vaults, they would have found rooms brimming with treasure and piles of jewels and veritable mountains of gold.
None of the cloth was eaten at by moths, and no termites had gotten at the furniture. Mice could not be found scurrying in the corners. No birds nests could be seen on the parapets. All animal life maintained a steady five mile perimeter around the crumbling fortress.
Due to its inexplicable repulsion of all living creatures, the castle had become the centre of many a ghost story over the years. Children in the nearby town grew up hearing stories about ghouls and goblins, witches and werewolves, and all manner of creatures who might have lived there. As they grew up and lost the wonder and naivety that is present in all young minds, their fear was rationalized, and was renamed caution. "You mustn't go near that old castle across the way," they'd tell their children, "It could collapse at any moment." The grandparents were the ones responsible for passing on the legends. These stories were as varied as the day is long, but most held a common thread: almost all of the stories spoke of a curse. Who had cast the curse, and why they had cast it, was never the same. But they all claimed that the curse both protected the castle and ensured its destruction. No life could ever go near it, but the weather would tear at it relentlessly, until nothing remained but dust. (A few spoke of a prophecy, even more ancient than the castle itself, that talked of chosen ones, and broken curses, and the returns of Once and Future Kings, but these were few and far between, and not much heed was taken of them.) And indeed, the rain that poured down on the hill always seemed slightly more ferocious, the wind the tiniest bit wilder and more violent. Any weather that the little village received appeared to be a milder form of whatever came down upon the castle.
Nevertheless, though it loomed above them constantly, none in the hamlet of a town ever really paid much attention to the fortress itself, never questioned its presence or history. The children and grandparents were far too consumed by the stories surrounding it, and the parents put it out of their minds entirely, preferring not to ponder its mysteries. None, that is, but a boy named Darogan and his small group of friends.