She sat on her throne; unmoved for centuries. A queen without a court. A goddess without believers. The faint echoes of worship past floated before her whilst drip after drip of rainwater fell from the ruined ceiling into a puddle at her feet. These were the forgotten lands. And she was forgotten with them.
Her eyes were made of polished glass; masterpieces. Results of a craft long dead. Almost alert, the irises shone with golden color, imitating life as they reflected the weak light of day. Thick coils of thorny growth were interwoven with the regal statue. One long arm of neglect to hold her prisoner, it seemed.
What a shame, the wanderer thought. He was young yet. Lost, cold and wet he had entered the deserted castle. Lost, cold and wet, he remained. No stories had warned him of this place. Nobody had lived to tell the tale. And so he didn’t know what cruel mistress had bid him to this one-sided audience. He never saw the golden irises follow his every move as he scouted around the throne room for a dry corner to sleep.
In the end, there was only a rasp and a venomous sting of thorns.
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See ya next time 😉
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