Dreamlike
The wind howled and hollered around the tell, stone-grey towers. Can you see how glorious it used to be, before the monsters of time and weather claimed them? No, probably not. The wind whipped at a stone, edging it from the tower. It hung in midair seemingly. Then it fell, thundering into the moist, rain stained ground.
If you were to walk into the arch at the front, many years ago, you'd see glorious, dark oak doors, much bigger then those of today. Now, if you were to walk past the door-less arch, you see rats and dust, clouding the smooth stone floor. Breathe in, what do you smell? Decay, mold, and ash would fill your senses. Years ago, you'd smell whatever they were cooking in the kitchen, usually marvelous meals for the king and queen.
Turn around now, see that staircase? Better not stand on that, it's worn from age. It used to be grand and polished, the steps themselves looking like wonderful artwork. Up those stairs, you'd see endless rows of doors, each holding a mystery behind it's solid door. The floors up there are wood, probably eaten away by the termites.
But, there is still more to see. There, to your right, those doors are still intact, though wont be for long. Just give them a push and walk inside. This room has smooth stone floors, so you don't have to worry about hurting yourself. This was the Grand Ballroom, people of all ages and statures used to swirl in here. Women in bright reds and golds, being spun by men, dressed in black and white. Imagine torches on the walls, decorations hanging from the ceiling and walls, adding the touches to the magical dance. Those mounds up there, on the platform, the kind and queen sat there. Only those were large, pillowed seats, bland compared to the twirling figures before them.
Those stairs, to your left now, those lead to the dungeons. Wait, don't want to go down there. Even though time was ruined the walls and cells, weather hasn't washed away the foul smells or sights the down there. The dungeon is a place not to be proud of. Gore covers the wall, machines worked by men out criminals through torture not known to us now were bolted to the floors.
Enough on that petty room. If you were to climb the stairs leading up from the dungeon, the ones to the tower, you'd want to watch your step. The stairs are uneven, the walls had cracks in them, yet they still hold together, even today as I guide you through the past. When you were to reach the top of the tower, you'd probably be out of breath, wishing to just lay and be still for a moment. But it would be worth it. The top of the tower, now piles of rock and stone, used to be filled with candles and pillows, small piles of books lined the walls like a prison of imagination. The tower is where you could forget the world, or watch it from above. Without thinking about it, you'd maybe raise your arms and pretend you were a bird, or perhaps a dragon, seeing everything from above.
But, not everything is as dreamlike as I have described. The thundering of hooves on the stone was like hearing Death chuckling your name. The horses usually belongs to rebels, who didn't like how the king and queen ran things.
The rebels would set glorious rooms on fire, in seconds turning them to ash and smoke. They'd break down doors, kill cooks and servants without mercy, even crumble the walls.
Nothing is as dreamlike as you'd like to think.