The Marble Table and a Silent King.
Far north the cold black Spire stood tall and menacing
against the cold, freezing wind. Covered in frost and snow,
a checkered attire for the dark marble architecture, where winds
always blew southward. They took the cold chilling Hollow with
them, creeping slowly down toward a more lively land beyond
it's deathly realm. Nothing stirred amongst the Spire. Large
open windows brought whisper through the empty domain,
dancing through its long dark corridors and chambers of
brilliant dark detail. Stars watched dimly down on the darkness
that was a Vale to the quiet world below.
The Spire stood dead center on a misty, deep green lake,
a body of water surrounding the Cold tower so wide it would
take weeks to sail from end to end. Even amongst the frozen
wind, the water was warm, almost hot, steam turning the mist
and fog, so heavy one could not see past the length of his own
arm. The Depths of the Unfathomed, riddled in Legend and
mystery, shrouded in fear and loathed amongst all who,
for whatever reason, had to cross these lands. No bridge nor
walkways crossed to reach the lonely Spire, standing stories
tall above the creeping mist about. The water was still like
a bed of dark ice, no movement to disrupt its depths, as
if frozen in time itself.
It seemed no life could survive here, not a bird or snake
could be found. No foliage or tree stood, no people walked.
Only the wind howled through, humming tales and bringing news
to the abandoned world, or so as the eye could see. No clouds
we're overhead, just a beautiful Aurora or purples and deep greens.
Standing tall, the Cold Spire became more narrow as it
cut upward. It's peak was high, high enough that with the eye
of the Elven, many miles could be watched, and if one could
cut through the darkness could see far south, where the winds
brought a cold soul with them.
Watched they were. Atop the peak of the old tower, a large,
black marble table was built, a rectangular masterpiece sitting
lonely in the dark. The Aurora above painted color on its black
top, like a pool of iced water in a black room. The reflection
of the Aurora had depth, almost as if the table had a fourth
dimension, was transparent when light and color danced its
visions like a painters canvas.
The black Table, frozen in time atop the Spire, did not
stand alone. The winds carried messages, and the Aurora
overhead told the tale. For he, the Denial, Warlord of the
Hollow North sat at one end, listening, watching. He did
not stir nor move, like air had no capacity in his cold lungs.
He never flinched, blinked, or breathed, but sat cold like the
dead. The wind brought his direction, and the table reflected
his purpose. No snow touched him, no cold penetrated. He sat,
motionless and blank, awake in his sleep, living along
his death. The moon overhead could not cast his shadow,
and perhaps he was not truly there. His deep black armoured
silhouette a figment of the North, yet there he sat. Alone.
A blank stare across the table, his vision reflected colorfully
on the marble canvas in front of him. Mindless, yet he knew.
Without a word, he had beckoned forth the key to his secrets,
and even she did not understand. Like Marionettes they left the
great city to see him, alone in a world where time dwindled
in the cold like a fire so lonely that it may never had existed
in truth to begin with.
