I am a sleeping mountain, rumbling and seething, but my heart is far too deep and hidden to be heard or felt. My rivers of fire surface in places that seem to have nothing to do with me at all. Most of the time, people just think I'm dead. Besides, I am an old mountain, shrouded with too many superstitions and defined by too hard traditions. I have warning signs fenced by my feet, pushing away the curious and the adventurous. Only the foolish and the mad dare to venture into my borders. Faery-touched, not quite right in the head and the heart, they are so few nowadays.
The cities have grown away from me. I am left behind, fading into the past. The old roads are overgrown. No one can find me now unless they follow a trail of magic, the random impossible flower amidst the multitude of the ordinary, spread out and seeded in by the soldiers of a Queen nesting along the hidden pathways of my forests.
My sky is circled by ravens, waiting for their king, tracing a labyrinth in the air that is mirrored in the trees below, with hedges of thorns and dead ends that gather bones. The flower-marked hold the key that opens the walls where there are no doors.