Castle Descriptive Writing

Life in a medieval castle would have been ordered and organized, full of ceremony, and cold and smelly. Castles were first built in 1066, in England. Essentially, castles were the heart of the society in Medieval times. They sorted out a new social system of feudalism in place. Each new castle secured the power of a local lord over his vassals, “who was a holder of land by a feudal tenure on conditions of homage and allegiance to the land.” (Google Dictionary). Medieval castles did not have electricity back then so people would only use candles or open fires for heat and to see in the dark. Medieval castles had their own traditions such as Heraldry, jousting, and hunting and hawking.

As he sat stiff backed and upright in the hard wooden chair, Jotham looked around anxiously. He could only see three of the walls, and the ceiling, if he craned his neck upwards, but that was enough to make him very uneasy indeed. They were grey and bare - not silver grey, but a horrible murky grey, that made it seem like everything was closing in on him. The room was rectangular; not at all wide; there was perhaps a metre between him and the nearer two walls, but it was extremely lengthy; probably about fifteen metres long.

There are no marble arches and no lighthouses. The river has dried up with the memory of the empire and the bones of a dead leader have long since turned to dust. Colossal galleons and crowds to greet victorious soldiers are no longer even a memory in the minds of those alive today, simply words on paper in books gathering dust in the darkest corner of a room. There is no-one to remember the beauty of the vast city; no-one to describe the sight of the lighthouses and no-one to recall the crisp aroma of the once majestic river. All that remains are the few paintings and statues that did not dissolve with time. The dust of the bones of men, women and children long since dead has faded from existence. There is no-one left to remember the man selling wares in the street or the woman grieving over the soldier she loved. Nobody holds the memory of the child playing in the park or the servant bringing a pitcher of water to his master. The meaning behind the statue has faded from everyone’s mind. The man, whose wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command secured his victory in every battle he fought, has dissolved into nothing more than a story in a book.

Disrupted by the sound of an uncanny knock, the prince swore over the bitter winter’s night in great frustration. The sound of his footsteps echoed against the golden walls, shattering the omnipresent silence as he trotted down the staircase, that were exquisitely engraved with flowers and vines. The markings of violence were etched onto the cold marble of the scored floor. The deafening wind pounded against the walls as if rebuking his foul words and as he approached the door an aromatic smell seized his nose as he yanked the portal open. A woman was loitering in the shadow with her wrinkly hands grasping firmly onto a single rose. The swirls of incense in the air was distinctive but he never realised that it would linger on with him for

The last rays of the sun gleamed off golden domes and then shot up into the sky to spark the first shimmering of stars. Then the darkness came. Swift it fell, as though a lamp were snuffed out, and the air stilled, and an eerie silence grew. This was no rowdy city; not tonight. It was a city under siege, and word of the dark sorcery of the previous night ran from district to district, house to house, person to person. Fear ruled the shadows tonight. The house doors were shut. The inns were empty. All the city’s windows were barred.

We halted on the red damp dirt coating the rusty tracks, suddenly to a halt and leaned forward. The peeling crust of iron was heard to be scratching with the train, but we were were all anxious to see Bourke for what it had said to be. We all walked out with emptied pipes and some with wandering minds lurking in waves of colourful vivid colours. People told you the heat was glazing and the land was dry. The heat was. The land wasn’t. I would’ve like to sat down on the ground, but the ground was completely destroyed by damp sand. The heat was unbearable with sun rays gleaming on our faces. The only building near in sight was the public house centred a couple of miles. We all followed the man at the front who looked like he knew what he was doing.

The smoke left my mouth and rose into the starry Dynamo of the machinery of night. The warm ember at my fingertips faded into a long cinder of ash like the last cities of man. The burning cars emitted warm yellow light lit the dense fog blanketing the cracked pavement below, and provided the only blanket that would be on anything tonight. I bleakly looked into the distance toward the steel stained horizon. It seemed the city was ebbing - as if the last memory of civilization was receding into the past, never to be seen again.

A dark and smoky gray night fell over the green grass. An old lamp at the end of an overused power cord of a wooden pole was swinging in the wind. It lit up the surroundings of the construction and printed my moving shadow on the wall behind me. In the half-light of dusk, I walked out of the ruins that minimally protected me from the wrath of the RPF and showed my face to a fire-breathing dragon. I walked into a thick and wet mist that linked up with the wind to whisper ghostly oohs in my ears. I was scared and my legs trembled. Under the dim light, I could not see anything. The smoking of the war clouded the roof of the region and the cold breeze spread an odor of blood and brought the moans of dying people. The dense haze covering my vision

Beckett returned home at six o’clock, her mind already focused on her date with Castle. The moment her shoes were off and her purse was set aside, she went straight to the bathroom and started her shower. She wanted her hair to dry naturally, but in order for that to happen she needed to be in and out of the shower as soon as possible. She forced herself to take her time in the shower, resisting the urge to rush and end up dressed and waiting for an hour before Castle showed up.

The moon rose over the ruins of the village, bathing the roads in an eerie silver glow. Destroyed buildings, some with fires still burning within, littered the town. The old architecture crumbled to the ground, no longer able to hold itself up. The wind whipped fiercely across the battered landscape. Silence echoed throughout the rubble, not a single person in sight. The inky darkness of the night slowly became more pronounced as time moved forward.

While the “ray of light” has connotations of life, opportunity and goodness, Stoker immediately cuts off these connotations with the “tall black” castle, a representation of wealth. This strongly suggests that the symbol of wealth is blocking and hoarding the prosperity of the land – there is “no ray of light.” Moreover, Stoker subverts the conventional saying of “windows of opportunity” through making the “tall black windows” the main hindrance to the “light” of hope; the adjective “black” with its connotations of impenetrability shows the total absence of hope. Consequently, Stoker presents the castle’s windows as a blockade to a better way of life for the people at the bottom of the Feudal social structure. Moreover, the “jagged line against the moonlight sky” suggest to the reader that the capitalist castle is a disturbance to the natural order of society; it is unfitting and

A single beam of light shone thru the curtain. The specs of dust in the room danced between the rays, whisked into the air by the pleasant breeze tip toeing thru the screen door. I could feel the warmth on my cheek as I rose from the sheets, thoroughly rested. I briskly got ready, slipping on my tennis shoes, old and worn. Stepping outside, I was greeted by the painfully sweet aroma of sweet pea flowers, entranced by the blissful gleams of sunlight, and spellbound by the familiar screeching of parrots, flocking in clouds of bright vermilion.

see walls once glorious in days past Now crumbling and breaking Once so majestic and beautiful Now covered in moss and vines Once manicured and cared after Till now it barely stands on its own So weak and fragile with eroding soil Nestled under a mountain covered with trees A place where ancient people used to live They lived, died, and were born there Under a plateau of land covered in grass A place where work could once be heard But now its silent and placid coming to nothing Plants, trees, and moss grow over a well worn path Where people and children walk and run

She stood in a laced primrose red dress with her arms resting over the luxurious balcony decorated with snow white leather seats accessorized with robin blue designer pillows. It was a wet and foggy April’s day and it was drizzling ever so slightly. The small rain drops dripped down her neck like bugs. The heavens peeked through the storm clouds and showed exultant colors of coral and lavender. It was as if the sky above was whispering to her the most tragic secrets of life.

The house in which they lived affected her twinges and shuddering in no small fashion. The silent patio's whiteness -friezes, columns, and marble statues- gave the autumnal impression of an enchanted palace. Inside, the glacial brilliance of stucco and the totally bare walls reenforced the feeling of unpleasant cold. On crossing from one room to the next, the echo of footsteps reverberated all through the house, as if long years of neglect had sensitized their resonance.