You pull and push on the doors, but they don't move. You might as well be pushing on a mountain.

To the north, across flat rock (made slick with ice now), is a building of black stones, rounded and the size of heads, webbed with white mortar. Above the building's several wings rises a square tower with a crenellated balcony of the same black stone. The vaulted windows, paned with pebbled glass, are deeply recessed. You hear waves crashing from the east. To the west you see a clearing. To the south, the faint perfume of rotting canvas swirls around the ghostly flicker of colored lights.

Dred (asleep) is here.