When the doors open, the sight of the majestic, expensive First Hall unerringly overwhelms visitors. An unseen band, usually consisting of the royal children's favorite string quartet but occasionally the King's yirmae, his brass players, fills the hall with traditional Urpùoian music. Huge paintings with thick gold frames depicting meadows and musicians cover the bright, cream-colored walls. The high, sky-blue ceiling shows off more of the purple and white flowers, as well as haloed angels.
Up the grand stairs at the end of the First Hall lies the throne room. Towering white columns, also marked by the Queen's signature design, line the golden door. A long emerald carpet spreads across the marble floor to the thrones, two huge wooden chairs stained a deep brown with fern-colored green cushions. Servants bustle near the walls, scurrying around to the various doors lining the three walls in front of the thrones. Behind the immense chairs lays only one small, barely noticeable door. Through the door sits a private epria tùlzin, a music parlor, for the Queen. During particularly dull or unnecessary events, she slips in, sometimes bringing a few lucky guests to please her with their musical talents.
Faint piano music invariably drifts into the throne room from the left of the Queen's seat, where some child of the court can always be found receiving obligatory zazis le epria zesa, traditional dance and music lessons, from one of the castle's many minstrels. Usually, Queen Yelged, who spends quieter evenings lounging in her epria tùlzin with the door open to hear the lessons, tries to guess the age of the child based on the songs played. She played the game as a girl with her sister Pirma. Now, she stares at the familiar floral pattern on the uncommonly low ceiling in her cozy room, feeling again like a vibrant girl in a dying kingdom, quietly vowing to save the drowning place she's found herself in.
Through heavy rain and fog, an adventurer spots a crumbling castle resting on craggy clogs above a storming sea. With her cloak wrapped tightly around her head, she sprints up the grassy hill to the entrance of the stone ruins. The tall oak door hangs from the hinges, leaning inwards and creating a gap large enough for the woman to slip through. She crouches as she enters, straining her ears to prepare herself for her surroundings, but the only sounds that reach her ears are the skittering of mice under fallen stones and the rushing of rain outside. Slowly, she creeps through the entrance, her footsteps echoing through the empty halls. In various places, the ceiling is caved in, letting rain trickle into puddles on the uneven and cracked marble floors, but the shelter is enough to keep her safe from the storm until morning.
The traveler settles in a room she assumes was once a great dining hall. A long wooden table sits in the center with chairs blown around by the sea wind and knocked over by animals searching for shelter. Two faded tapestries shift in a draft created by the large stained glass windows on the wall looking out over the sea. The woman breaks up a few chairs and creates a small fire to help her cloak dry. She lays a bedroll down to protect herself from the cold, mossy floor and gazes out the window, imagining what the view might have looked like on a sunnier day, when this hall was full of warm food and the gold trimming on the walls still shone.