The Way of the Dead Gods

What a deadly, whistling breeze passes through the broken giants. The ancient stones, carved in the likeness of dead kings, stand tall and massive, their unblinking and senseless eyes gazing out upon the forgotten city. The wind tears at my coat as I lean against the calf of some mighty and unnamed potentate. His image had been set upon a throne, and I have set up camp under his chair. It’s proved little shelter from the building gale, but the dark sky above speaks of torrents and thunder and darkness. I hope I am high enough to avoid a flood.