The castle sat on a black rock that towered above the town. The grey, stone spires soared up into the golden twilight. Mercedes was thirsty and her feet hurt, but Pilar and I hadn't finished our examination of the castle's defences. We cheered our friend up by showing her the place where they used to pour molten oil on beseigers.

As we descended to the town, dusk became dark. We walked along the narrow cobbled streets, between thick walls overgrown with damp moss and curling ivy. We joined a flow of dark shadows, moving slowly and quietly to find a good vantage point. We began to hear the heartbeat sound of the muffled drums as the procession wound towards us.


- torchlight glinted off leaves around small, barred windows set high in the walls.

Da-Doom - drum vibrations closed around us, thickening the air in the street.

Da-Doom - the first brotherhood in this parade of penitents came around the corner.

Da-Doom - They wore black robes with high pointed hoods that completely covered their faces.

Da-Doom - They shuffled barefoot in time to the slow, slow beat.

Da-Doom - The chains around their ankles rattled.

Da-Doom - Some scourged their backs with heavy, knotted ropes.

Da-Doom - Some carried heavy crosses in memory of our Lord on this Good Friday.

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