Death's Temple

The Temple of Old stood at the end of a curved and narrow path on one of the highest hills in Greece. The trees and bushes around it had once been lively and gorgeous, but were now crowded and wild. The trees were an alarming size, covered in strange leafy vines. Bracken rested among the unkempt bushes. Skeletons and old bits of armour littered the ground, dirty and rusted.

Frightening animals with wicked eyes and shining claws stalked the forest and path. Wolves, bears, escaped tigers and lions. They fed on passersby who had no light to guide them through the dismal forest. Howls and screeches echoed through the trees frequently. A bitter and icy wind rattled the leaves, throwing the stench of rotten flesh over the area.

The Temple itself stood tall and arrogant, refusing to fall to time. It had eight columns, between them three large entrances. They sat at the top of crumbling steps, which were infested with thorns and honeysuckle. Most of the columns were cracked with two on the right completely reduced to rubble, a consequence of letting vines grow up them and the walls. The angular roof was cracked and intricate carvings of the gods were warped by time. The walls were drooping and completely gone in places.

Inside, the mosaic on the floor had cracked and faded, growing small sickly plants where the sun could reach. Sharp shards of glass and clay lay strewn around, glinting in the dirty light. The paint that once covered the walls had long since flaked off and rested in piles of dust.

Chunks of marble rested in craters where the high vaulted ceiling had caved in and fallen to the ground. Oily and gritty water pooled around the broken marble and stone. The scent from the water was thick and damp.

In the far left corner was a floor-to-ceiling black curtain that fluttered in an inexplicable breeze. Behind the curtain, everything was perfectly preserved. A pattern in scarlet and gold painted to look like flames was on the ceiling; there were violently vivid images of death. The tile floor shone in the torch light, casting multicolored lights over the walls. The air was filled with the thick metallic scent of blood. The curtained area held an altar large enough for a full grown man to lie comfortably in its center. It sat at the top of perfectly polished marble steps flecked with silver, gold and bronze. The altar itself was solid obsidian, glittering maliciously in the flickering light. A bronze knife with a wavy blade and jeweled hilt sat on it; they were perfectly clean.

A shivering bundle of cloth was shoved in a corner. Every so often it would cry out or whimper in fear. It would occasionally shake violently, making the sound of chains.

Outside of the curtain, none of this could be seen or heard. No one had visited the Temple in years. No one dared.

A few miles away in Athens, a young woman sat at a table, brushing her long auburn hair. Her deep blue eyes reflected the candle light and sparkled like the precious stones on her father's favorite knife. Her dress was a light pink and the jewels and pins she had removed from her hair sat on the table.

Her face was pleasant to look at without being beautiful. She had large eyes and high eyebrows that made her look either stuck up or surprised, thin lips, and a large nose. Her hair hung in waves when it was down, but was usually help up by pins. Her ears were a bit too small for her head and she had a strange birthmark on the left side of her jaw.

Her dress was made of a soft material that she couldn't be bothered to remember. Her wardrobe was full of bright cloth that she despised with a burning passion. Whenever she could, she donned a black gown with long sleeves, her hair flowing freely and no sandals.

She avoided people and refused help from anyone. No one understood her or the strange dreams she had. She often heard voices, sometimes just whispers, other times they were shouts and screams The only one that ever had or tried to understand was Mother and she was gone now.