Darkness breaths from a gash in the mountainside, guarded by ancient stones. The stones carved in deep spiraling lines, worn and moss covered, wet with the sea mist.

The old king stands, sinews still strong, kept so by his iron will, his grinding ambition to be the best; and yet, here at this threshold, he pauses.  Girding himself against the unknown darkness.

No noise comes from within the cave, only the wind whishing the standing stones with ghostly fingers and the muted tide on the gravel beech bellow.

The darkness in the cave is complete. Utter.  Impenetrable.  Except at the very beginning, where he can see old pebbles worn smooth.

His men crouch, daunted, between the beach and the cave. Cowards unworthy of their beards, not fit for the hall of the slain.

A flicker of light, deep within the darkness.  A small sound of immense shifting weight.  A stone slithering down rock into silence.

The old king's apprehension rises in his chest and his courage seizes it roughly.

He steps into the cave.