Built at the highest point on land as flat as a tranquil ocean, the ruins of Bromholme Priory in Norfolk crumble silently as the vines burrow between walls that witnessed miracles and murder, sadness and joy, devotion and dedication. Folklore abounds with stories of hidden tunnels and treasures secreted, yet the land groans as load upon load of sugar beet is deposited amongst the heritage that is lost.
As mechanical monsters rumble amongst the detritus of centuries past there is an overwhelming sadness that memories of a glorious age appear lost forever. In the quiet of an evening, when the lumbering lorries have left and the air is still, there is an eeriness that mixes with the sadness to create imaginary beings that strive to remind the watcher that all is not as it seems.
Bromholme was a place of pilgrimage some nine hundred years hence, where Kings came to attest to the source of the wonders, a piece of the True Cross. An artefact that travelled with a Chaplain of questionable purpose from Constantinople to a tiny, little known village in the heart of Norfolk.
As the sea grows ever closer, threatening in time to suck all remnants of the priory into its depths, the secrets remain hidden and the memories continue to fade. But there is, amongst its tumbling towers, a power that seems to emanate from the very flints, where a compass twirls with no purpose and stories of legions marching across the barren fields send a shiver of fear yet a glimmer of anticipation. Such is Bromholme.