[Kor Mehathbado'ai, Customs House]
The splintered wooden door of an empty lean-to sways drunkenly in whatever direction the sea wind fiercely blows. A roster chart nailed to the building is defaced and unreadable. The yard in front is littered with bleached bones and rusting, broken weapons. Up the hill from the Customs House squats the fortress in all its frowning, massive weight.
Obvious paths: up, down.