The docks of Scara Brae were a mess of people. It was easy to be lost in the crowds, which was perfect for any to disappear. A robed figure walked through the crowd, his/her movements careful, so best not to bump into any soul and attract any attention. He/she appeared and disappeared just as quickly, like a ghost.
The robed figure left the mob of people. Walking down an empty street, he passed abandoned buildings, once filled with people, now their only tenants were vermin. The robed figure kept walking until he/she came upon a hut.
It was a broken-down hut. It should have already fallen, but yet it stood. Its splintered wooden walls and thatch roof smelling of decay still stood like proud old soldiers unwilling to stand down. The robed figure knocked three times on the door. One long and two short.
The door creaked open, barely, but enough for a black dot in a sea of red stared out at the figure.
“Where does a man’s heart lie?” Asked a hoarse voice, like it had been use to speaking.
“For wherever his family is.” Replied the figure; the answer came n a soft, barely hearable, voice.
The door creaked a little more open, just enough for the figure to slip in.