Tired

Deep below the Lothian Manor, Bors Lothian carried a small lantern down a twisting flight of spiral steps before entering a dimly lit stone chamber. Moisture beaded on the walls in some places and mice scurried into the darkest corners of the chamber at the sight of the soft golden glow of Bors' lantern. 

The walls of the chamber had been hewn directly into the stone of the earth and while it was very long, the chamber itself was no more than twenty paces wide. Enough to accommodate two rows of crypts, holding the fallen heroes and departed loved ones of the Lothian family. 

One crypt, engraved with a crest of lilies and an embroidery needle, held an oil lamp that cast a faint golden glow across the other crypts in the chamber, casting deep, inky shadows that danced like living things.