One cannot lift stones such as these without a great deal of heart, and so this castle speaks not of kings, but of the workers of the vale.
The old ruins at the shire's heart have walls of stone still true and tall; with a little love and effort, it could be a home once more.
The old ruins were the kind of imperfection that one's imagination falls in love with and begins to build and rebuild, ever seeking to honour its beginnings.
The old ruins were the kind of grey that speaks of doves, of sun-warmed seals and other serene eye-treasures.
Into the blue air that swam with floral fragrance, the old ruins rose to welcome the coming of spring rains.
The old ruins were so strong in foundation, that they lasted more generations than seventy times seven.
The old ruins whispered tales of gallant chivalry to the flora and fauna, and for those wise words of adventures bold, they grew all the stronger.
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