Partly hewn from the rocks, this rough shack has a roof of warped beams and shingles, yet the door has a metal grate set into the reinforced timbers. Inside, the dirt floor is unevenly covered with boards, caulked by tar, while a ladder leads down to a narrow, rounded hole, where a pick and bent shovel lean over a slanting heap of rubble. There are no windows except for a few, rounded loops, and the stout walls are comprised of motley timbers, masonry, and patches of plaster, where a former occupant had scrawled a drawing in rough charcoal. The whorls are fading and vaguely disquieting, and the shack is redolent of brine, timber, tar, and smoke. There is a hearth set low in the corner, though much of its acrid smoke lingers rather than escaping from the squat chimney. The scant furnishings consist of a pair of straw-stuffed mattresses, crowding one side of the chamber, a shelf with a clay jug and mugs on top, a rickety bench, and a crude chest. There are many tools strewn over the chest, a worn, round shield leaning resting in a corner, and a heavy crossbow lying upon the far side, quiver of bolts dangling just above the curving prods. There is also a cask of ale. A few, salt-encrusted nets are hung on pegs, along with hanks of tarry rope, and are even suspended over the low rafters, sinkers tinkling faintly whenever the gusts skewer chinks in the mortar. Ulric is frequently found on the rickety bench, just outside the heavily locked door, mending nets, honing his knife, or drinking. |