Empty is it in the throne room; If there is anything, it is but flesh that will rot away.
The stench has already infected the air like a crawling sickness, seeping into every
crevice it can. The room is barely lit, and the ornaments are only here to remind me of
myself. Adorned not with the flesh, but the steel that also contains me in this room,
does it show me the boundaries. It shows me the boundaries of my sanctity.

There is no throne in the throne room, for that would be blasphemy, and it is only
beset with the instruments to hold the liturgy fit for me. Fit for a king. A king of an
empty throne room. The lethargy of being disowned by anything greater but me sets in
and the room grows heavier, heavier grows the burden. It is but me in this throneless
throne room.

The gargoyles’ watchful eyes do not shy away, as they leer at me. It is with nothing but
a tremendous effort that am I able to overcome their doubtful looks, their want for
more. They want me, my flesh and my soul, maybe even my spirit. If I allow it, it will
be forever a sanctity lost to the ravenous gargoyles and their need for more. Their
nostrils bleed their want and their mouths foam with a rage that is absolutely
insurmountable; It will not be long before they will consume me. In my sanctum, my
throneless throne room. Forever.