The crooked madhouse had been made by mud and wood and hand. It stood at its bent angle in the centre of a barren plateau, surrounded by the ruined peaks of the Eakar Mountains, a natural wall threaded by narrow, violent tunnels that had been made thousands of years before. There, a god had died: the first god, historians wrote, who had ever died. Her body, no bigger than that of those who worshiped her, bleed into the ground, poisoning the soil and leaving a taint in the land that traveled through the rivers and into the animals and the men and women and children who had not realised that a war that begun around them. Broken, empty husks of huts surrounded by rusted tools and bleached bones dotted the plateau, the gravestones for an entire race that the man who stood before the crooked tower, had met, just once.
A while back I mentioned a bit I was writing about men who made gallows. This is what I replaced it with.