Deep in the midst of the Highlands stands a great outcropping of black basalt, vast columns seemingly thrust out of the surrounding earth and rock to a dizzying height, a stark and desolate place even amongst such an unforgiving landscape. The first thing those approaching the Eyrie is that as soon as they come within a mile of the mountain the sun seems to disappear from the sky, rendering the land dark as night. The only guiding light to unprepared travellers are the guttering torches which flicker in the never ending wind. But perhaps the travellers will be less comforted by these torches when they realise that each one burns with a sickening blue-green fire, the colour of necromantic power. The locals call them lichflares, or corpse lights. They eventually lead visitors across the barren waste, for little vegetation grows under this eternal night, to the foot of a narrow, winding pathway which leads ever onwards up and around the basalt outcrop. It is wide enough for a horse and cart to pick their way up, and a surprising number do so, carrying the litters of those two old or unwell to make the journey on foot or by horse. The pathway itself picks its way from column of basalt to column with only a small amount of masonry bridging the gaps between them, despite that the path is sturdy and safe, so long as you stay away from the edge.

When the traveller finally gains the summit they are met with an even more forbidding spectacle. A monstrous, towering edifice built of the same black basalt, the central spire of which seems to stab at the very clouds that cover the sky. A semi-circle of the lichflares funnels the gaze to a pair of brazen doors, flanked on each side by a black robed and hooded attendant. The light brings out the cast details of the doors into sharp relief, both covered in scenes of souls leaving bodies and above it all a wild, roiling hunt rides collecting them, the first indication of who resides within. Without a word as each traveller comes forward the attendants push the bronze doors open, both perfectly balanced that they could do so with just a single hand though each door weighs more than a ton. Behind is revealed a long corridor that ten could walk abreast along with room to spare, lit by torches of the same guttering flame as before, lending the the dark, bare stone walls and eerie and unpleasant aspect. Studded along the walls are locked wooden doors which resist any attempt to pry or force them, only answering to the master of this realm, some question whether anyone would truly wish to see what lurks behind them, although in truth at least some are private chambers for the priesthood and their lord, the others? Well, perhaps it's better they stay locked.

Finally the corridor ends with a short flight of monumental stairs, at the top they are greeted yet again by two hooded and cloaked attendants who wait in front of a thick red curtain. At an unheard signal they part it allowing the next supplicant through into the grand hall. To be truthful the word hall does no justice to the structure, it looks as if it had simply grown out of the mountain itself, the walls bare basalt stretching up to half the height of the tower above. In the centre, between the entrance and the dais on the far side is a massive fire pit, the first natural fire which suplicants will have seen since entering that pall of darkness that cloaks the land. Against the far wall is a dais made of steps upon which is a marble throne, plain and unadorned, but a stark splash of white against the unrelenting darkness of the Eyrie. 

Upon it, seated in regal splendour, is Bryn yr Gwyn; the Lord of those who have passed, and Steward of the Boundary, who claims dominion over the souls of the dead and tends the boundary between this world and the next. Supplicants come to him asking that the boundary be moved for them, or for someone they love, but few are willing to pay the price.  Each is told this simple truth: