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Sitting in the center of a great stone hall—lit aglow by an abundance of torches—an old man leans back, worn and decrepit, on an upraised throne. He’s draped in elegant robes of aged purple cloth, finely embroidered with an odd, but matching, pointed cap. Cobwebs cling to him where he sits, unperturbed, and camouflage his thin white hair and beard. His sedentary posture suggests that he has not moved in a very long time. He seems more dead than alive.

The old man stirs and wheezes, producing dry sounds not far from the rattles of death. After a moment, the harsh rasping of parched, unused vocal chords settles into a hoarse voice.

“What if…”

While the old one slowly speaks, he centers himself in his seat and pulls himself up to stand through great effort. The creaking of old bones and ancient wood echo through the hall. The wispily-bearded man’s hunched back straightens as he meets the challenge of the stairs downward. Each step he takes seems to invigorate him. His withered body begins to grow fuller and his hair darkens by shades as he moves toward the viewer.

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