His chair stands empty in the corner of my prison.
I see the high back, covered in tooled red leather. A suggestion of his form remains firmly pressed into the cured skin - thigh, muscled back, a shoulder. The graceful arcs of the wooden arms are covered in a rich pattina from long use, polished by the repeated caress of his dark skin.
The chair waits in the half-light of this slit-lit room for him. An ever present reminder of the master of these towers. Azrudaur. His lingering presence vivid and alive, pressing his will upon all within this stronghold, as his body presses and shapes the chair.
I wish that this place were as empty of him as it would seem. But in the dim light of this chamber I fancy I catch sight of him, sitting as he has ever done when coming to this room. Brooding, watching, a lowering storm on the horizon, the merciless gloom of the deep ocean. His body cast back at ease, without fear of any to gainsay him, seeming languid. While his black eyes stare as unblinking as a snake - recording impassively every movement or word of mine.
I rise to my feet, unbidden, step silent to this glowering throne. Place my fingers on the smooth wood where strong hands have rested - touch the imperceptable layers of oil and sweat that Men leave as a trace of themselves. This close the chair holds his scent - cinnamon, mint and the musk of Men. It is enough to bring him fully here in my mind, in my senses. Startled at the strength of this conjuration I step back with a gasp.
I wait for a heartbeat, recalling that he is miles absent. Not here - not now. Moving forward again I run my hand over the cold impression of him captured in the seat and back of the chair.
Who is he... what is he? To leave such a presence in this chamber, this keep, in my mind and the mind and will of every living soul in this place?
