Ridgefall

The village lies in eerie silence, its cobblestone streets choked with overgrown weeds and wild grass. The buildings, long abandoned, are in various states of decay—crumbling walls, broken windows, and doors that creak ominously with the slightest touch of the wind. The atmosphere is heavy, almost suffocating, as if the village is steeped in the memory of some long-forgotten tragedy. No signs of life are present, except for a few crows perched on the rooftops, their dark feathers rustling in the breeze as they watch with unblinking eyes.   The wind whistles through the desolate streets, carrying with it the occasional slam of a loose door or the distant clatter of debris. The air is thick with humidity, and the smell of mold and decay hangs in the air, a constant reminder of the village’s abandonment.   In the cemetery, the scene is even more unsettling. Headstones are covered in thick layers of moss, and some have toppled over, revealing open graves beneath. Brambles and nettles have overtaken the paths, their thorny vines winding around the stones as if nature itself is reclaiming the place. The atmosphere is thick with a sense of dread, as if something malevolent is watching from the shadows.   The village feels cursed, a place where the past lingers like a dark cloud. The feeling of being watched is overwhelming, an oppressive weight that makes you want to leave as quickly as possible, before something terrible happens.