Mogh's fortress is a ruin. Pigs root in the courtyard and roam noisily in his empty halls or drowse in sunbeams beneath a decaying roof. Mogh's once great chair is little more than kindling, crushed and splintered by generations of stout boars have scratched bulk against it.
The commote, a backwater of Hern trithing since its petty lords yielded to Arrn, is mostly the domain of the pig herds, which are both bane and boon to small and scattered villages. A few old folk have the knack of apprehending the grunting, snorting porcine tongue, and the pigs affirm (or so they claim) what the elders already knew: it is wise to stay clear of the ruins of Mogh's fort, particularly after dark.
The bandit lord and his bloody-handed reavers are long gone, but Mogh's doom is said to have come by a curse, and the curse may yet linger. Sometimes, the elders say (and the pigs, too, perhaps) that not all nocturnal visitors to the fortress come on four hooves. There are those demon swine that may choose to go about on two.
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