The carriage rolled through the front gate into the square of the castle, octagonal, with a large, ugly black iron statue in the center of a patch of green. The statue appeared to depict a man with a sword, but his features had rusted away, and some his face was just a mass of reddish oxidization. However, his iron sword was studded with white ivory and red garner to make up a pattern of swirling eyes on its hilt. It was Kas’s sword, unequivocally. Kas stared at the statue as the carriage came to a grinding halt infront of the mass of iron. It wasn’t a good likeness, but Kas was oddly fond of it. It had been forged by one of the prisoners beneath Xiphos, who Kas had lopped the tongue out of for daring to give false information about his sword. But it got lonely at Xiphos, and Kas was not opposed to friendship. Shame that the prisoner had died over half a century ago, now. He was only nine years old.
Kas slipped out from the carriage, ready to get away from the stale air and Vecna’s needling questions. He tossed some words over his shoulder, the moment his feet hit the ground. “We have had guests before you, Vecna.” He smiled widely. Standing in his own territory made him feel safer, more confident, dripping his arrogance from every action. He peered at the Lich, red eyes flickering with an inner fire: coals in a firepit. “Ideally, we will never have guests after you, because we shall leave this accursed place behind.” He laughed heartily. It echoed through his courtyard, bouncing off of the carved facades of his fortress.
Castle Xiphos was a decidedly ugly building, with small windows with thick, cloudy glass, and many arrow slits and crenellations. The towers were tall, octagonal, and spiraling, everything capped in half-rusted iron spires. The inner courtyard was plain, save for that one squatting statue. The inner keep was a slightly more impressive structure, adopting a cruciform plan, with two large central towers around a single, central doorway. Gargoyles leered across the facade, and there were some interesting areas of tracery- depicting motifs of swords, hands, eyes, and teeth. The architect was brilliant, Kas thought to himself. But the citedal had simply been raised from the ground by Kas’ will, not planned, not built.
The vampire returned his grinning gaze to Vecna: “So!” He clapped his hands together, “whatever shall we do first ?”
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