The Fygul Cestemus had done well to conceal their last bastion of safety within the earth. What had once served as a place of dwelling to the living was now an empty crypt; half-sunken into the earth, filled with dust and stale air and the last remains of the ones who had once defied the inevitable. While the world blossomed above and around the ancient tomb, its contents would remain forever locked in the lost pocket of a bloody time long past.
And for the doll, in which its masters placed the remnants of their hope? The sound of footfalls disturbing the eons-long silence would go unheard. The once vivid and radiant flowers that had served as her bed were now joined with the dust of the temple floor, brown and withered by time. Where she had been beautiful, perhaps now the only state she could be considered in was pitiful-- with patches of rust like stains on her metal corset, and cobwebs spun across her body. Yet Ashlotte herself would be indefinitely unaware of this, her face frozen in the same serenity it had taken on in her final moments. It would be the only peace she had wrought upon herself in her fleeting, violent life.
