I often write boxed text for new in-game events and locations. I find it easier to think through the sights, smells, and other sensations during GM prep and write them out, rather than improv’ing when I’m trying to write a game. Here’s one such moment.
You make your way up a narrow, rocky road that winds around a trio of peaks, clearly eroded from years without maintenance. Occasionally, you place a foot too close to the edge and a chunk of rock gives way, the stones clattering down the steep mountainside below you.
Above you, nestled in a flat spot between them, the stone walls of an ancient city rise up into the blue-gray sky. They almost seem to be growing from the same stone as these jagged-edged mountains, but it only seems that way because they tower so far above you. A thin layer of snow seems to coat everything.
The wind whips through harder as you get closer, and the wear on the majestic facade becomes apparent. The tops of the walls and towers are slowly crumbling. What was once an impenetrable defense is now riddled with narrow crevices. The portcullis has rusted in two, the dingy metal poles that remain are twisted at odd angles.
Once the players step inside the city proper, rows of magic-infused streetlights click to life.
Old shops and residences crowd the main thoroughfare, and down each alley you can see the network of streets extend further back into the mountain. Doors are torn aside. Windows are shattered–some from age, but others by impatient ruin scavengers. Shelves, tables, and hearths appear stripped of even the last vestiges of civilization, leaving only dry rotted debris.