It was maybe sad, how quiet, how dark, how cold the room ahead.

It was not tight and cozy; it was claustrophobic in another sense, so vast and poorly lit that its sheer emptiness was what stood out. The stone of the floor was worn quite smooth, scarred here and there by the drag of heavy chains over time. A faint frost slicked it, and from the center, where a dim light would normally shaft down--right now, in near pitch darkness--the great stone throne awaited. The figure atop it, clad in its worn dark cloth, sat hunched and silent. Long hair, thin and white as the frost, hung in a drape around its face, which was shadowed and not visible.

The black chains led out from the throne, in loops and loose lines, before drawing back to the figure's wrists and ankles.

It looked like a sculpture, a statue cast into faint relief in the light of Amun's Wisp, but for the cloud of breath that plumed forth now and again in the cold. The breath was faint, slow. Perhaps the creature on the throne was currently asleep, for it did not stir at their approach.