This place was dreary and dull, and standing here almost reminded Damon of the ruined city of Lysithara. The atmosphere felt muted, dull and grey or maybe just deeply dark.
His ears picked up faint sounds of crying in the distance, thin and overlapping as if many infants were wailing at the same time.
He stood in what appeared to be a courtyard fountain. The grass around it was dull and brown, bent and dried without a hint of vitality left in it.
Damon glanced around. At his side, Matia held her great war mace, the spikes of it shaped from solid ice.
Lazarak, in the form of a toddler, stood near Damon's leg with a calm expression.
If not for the crying babies, this place would have been quiet with very little noise.
He took a small step, then another. The ground crackled faintly under his boot.
"Let's go." He called to Lazarak, who nodded and followed with tiny careful steps.
