A shape lingers darkly in a mass of stone, the terrain surrounding it lays stiff, dry as bone. Prickly vines wrap and twist around the broken, a story drifts in the quiet air, unspoken. Gleaming metal all around, and a forgotten battle cry, yet such a silent sound. A kingdom's memory is lost beneath the dust, not a single breeze of hope to sweep it from it's musk. Time has warped this foreboding place, threatening to cut it from it's last this lace.