The Sandstone Tollgate

Rapping my plush knuckles against the cold cast-iron boot scraper beside the courtyard steps, I instantly recognized its true civic calling: an impenetrable tollgate for the entire building. With morning drizzle slicking the cobblestones, mortals were tracking grit toward the threshold, completely oblivious to proper customs enforcement. Scandalous. Bracing my smoky tendrils against the damp sandstone, I dragged a stiff, wet linden leaf squarely beneath the horizontal iron blade and pinned it in place with a heavy gray pebble. If boots intend to scrape off their courtyard mud before entering my perimeter, the transit tariff is officially established. Underworld border control is open for business.