It was raining. It always rained.
The swampland quivered under the deluge, the water pattering on swollen leaves and the patches of open ground, rapidly turned to soupy mud. The rooftops had long fallen in, but the columns were still standing, and some of the walls.
The statue regarded the scene. It still held its marble sword upraised. Its expression was still the triumphant sneer of the conqueror.
The rain fell. The statue slipped another fraction of an inch into the swamp. It was up to its waist.
It held its sword high. There was nothing else it could do.
Whimpers From My Bed Of Woe
4 hours ago