There it was: the castle, as promised. It was clearly run-down and had been abandoned for a long time and Morgan furrowed his brow slightly at the sight. Experience had taught him well that the empty dwellings of men made for excellent monster lairs. They would have to be careful during their initial exploration and remain ever vigilant for the remainder of their stay. One could never be too sure that a swarm of endrega wouldn’t burst forth from some underground hive, even months after the castle had been reinhabited. Balidvar handed out orders, but Morgan didn’t need him to tell him what to do. The witcher already knew what his job would be. He checked the utility belt around his waist to make sure his potions and bombs were in place and briefly fingered the hilts of his swords, as if to make sure they were still there -- even though their reassuring weight on his back was all he needed to confirm that. Charlemagne was left, reluctantly, in the care of those that remained outside the keep, and Morgan’s dark glare made clear to any that dared to meet it that he would not tolerate a single hair on his prized steed’s mane being out of place when he returned. 

Witchers are solitary creatures, lone hunters by both trade and by nature, and it did not take long for Morgan to separate from the rest of the expedition’s vanguard as they entered the keep’s courtyard-- the noisy, [i]noisy[/i] vanguard. The Griffin’s footsteps were whisper-still and barely even disturbed the cracked mud beneath the soles of his boots, and his head twitched as his eyes flitted from one shadow to the next, his movements almost avian in their abrupt swiftness. A single glance over his shoulder at the people behind him confirmed that Balidvar, Avery, Renar and Nadia were where they were supposed to be, and a look in Aidann’s direction was all Morgan needed to convey his intentions to the Bear: you check out the hall, I’ll do the stables. He turned his head towards the structure, which rested against the inner walls of the courtyard, and inspected it from the outside for a moment. 

It stood as silent and dilapidated as the rest of the castle. Morgan focused his senses and his pupils widened, turning from narrow slits into rounded ovals, and he attempted to divine the interior of the stables by peering through the broken windows set in its door and spaced evenly along its walls. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just stalls for horses, empty and shrouded in darkness. The witcher hesitated for a moment before his right hand reached up and over his shoulder, touching the hilt of his steel sword for a moment before ultimately choosing his silver blade instead. It left its sheath with a pleasant sound, between a peal and a rasp, that was music to his ears. 

Sword in hand, Morgan approached the stables and pushed the door open with his free hand. Like a stubborn mule, the old wood resisted him and it swung open in grumpy, stuttering jumps, creaking on its hinges with the squeals of a dying cat. Morgan winced and muttered a curse under his breath. There would be no hiding his presence from anything that might dwell within the stables now. Resigned to that reality, he crossed the threshold with alacrity and held his weapon at the ready -- just in case. 

Nothing greeted him. It smelled like mould and wet rot. Hay that had been left unattended for years in the corners of the stalls was the obvious culprit. That would have to be cleaned out, and Morgan was quietly pleased that wasn’t his job. He was reminded of the last time he had lived in a castle, his childhood in Kaer Seren, and of all the long afternoons he and the other boys had spent cleaning the keep’s darkest and mustiest corners. He dispelled the old memories from his mind’s eye and focused on the here and now. 

Everything remained quiet and motionless for the time being. The silence was almost oppressive. He couldn’t even hear the others outside anymore. Morgan inhaled slowly and ventured deeper into the stables.