A ancient statue stands in the corner of the ruined temple. It has been miraculously preserved from the ravages of the elements by the half collapsed walls of the temple, but the long years of rain and wind have taken their toll on it even in its sheltered corner. It is a figure of a man, standing tall, one hand up as if to order the priests of his-dead cult. He makes an imposing figure, even with moss creeping in on him, but his face has been sparred that indignation. His eyes may have once been strong and piercing, painted brightly, but the paint was worn off long ago, and now they are simply blank balls of marble in his weathered face. His staff, which he had held in his hand, is lying on the ground, half buried by the leaf fall of a millennium. The temple around him suggests ruined splendor, collapsed roofs, ancient altars, mysterious offering placed before the feet of the ancient god, primeval rituals performed less and less regularly throughout the passing of the years. Only one, single offering lays before the god: a faded flower, and half a handful of scattered grain. He who would have scorned such a offering in his glory now rejoices that one of his disciples is still true. But he has not come this moon to renew his gift. As the full moon rises, and the hour of the ritual approaches, the wind stirs up, and the walls moan slightly at their mistreatment. The moon rises and rises, speeding toward the dawn, and still no one has come to pay homage to the mighty god. Once... once during this time a parade would wind it's way to the temple, people dancing, talking, laughing. Great nobles would offer their cattle to the priests, and they would offer them to the mighty god. All the people there would lift their voices in prayer, and, still singing head down to the town that flourished at the base of the temple's mountain. The moon approaches its zenith, and no one comes. The walls moan again, a soft sound amid the empty darkness. The wind still whirls around the ruins, gathering speed. The ancient king's proud face is still, defiant on the brink of oblivion. The walls creak and groan, louder now, louder, louder. The ancients had built well, but this tempest throws itself at the walls as if a malignant force drives it onward. The walls cave in as the time for the sacrifice passes. The statue falls from it's pedestal. The head breaks of with a loud crack. Amid the dust clouds and ruble, a shadow-wraith rises, only to be blow away by the wind, the last act of the ancient power.
© Copyright 2016 arik Z. All rights reserved.