The river runs true through wild upland scenery. A harsh winter beauty in this sleeping woodland glade. Colour’s subdued like the day. Water tumbling over broken stones like a thousand broken hearts. A cold lonely place.
Generations laboured to claim the precious lead ore. Scarred untidy spoil heaps are all that remain. The only other thing hereabouts is the keeper of the bridge. He hides, waiting, watching deep within the shadows with evil on his mind.
Traveller’s pass unaware of his cold, wicked stare. Patiently year on year waiting. One day he laughs and breathes his foul, stagnant breath across his chosen victim’s path. In an instant they are gone. The keeper too, back to a world that banished him so very long ago. Tree and stone alive. Ancient woodland spirits watching, hunting, protecting.