Creative Writing: The Statue Of Lindimaitar

There are three statues in the room, each of the larger points pointing at one of them. The first one is a statue of a man, Arâr, made of marble with touches and highlights of gold. He’s wearing a robe that exposes only his midriff, and all the delicate folds carved into the rock are topped with gold where it comes to a point, which forms the look of a delicate gold chain encasing him. I step towards him, to see the closer details of his face, and slide my hand against the wall which is so polished it feels like velvet. The face is carved with such intricate details it seems he could take a breath at any moment, and I wouldn’t be surprised. Somehow, the chiseler used such finesse you could see every pore on his pointed face, and you could see

There are revered songbirds from every nation in here, even the Land of Bair, which are all silent, looking at me with cocked heads. There is no throne here, but I assume touching anything on that stand would get me killed instantly, so I walk up to it with mindfulness. The cover of the score states “Lindimaitar Sítë Vala” and is so thick that I can feel the soreness in my arms just imagining holding it. All at once, the birds recognize me as one of their own, a musician. They start singing to me; trying to impress me with their voices, their tones all clashing in the most beautiful way. The shrill tones of the Orwa from the Province of Calambar are a piccolo, and the deep notes of the Tumna from the Melmë Forest are a double bass, and all the others form an orchestra of noise, and they flutter around, some beckoning me towards a door on the left, others to one on the right. I start for the right door, and read “God of Instrumental Musics – Simpa,” and I

The yellowed parchment papers ruffle as if someone just blew on them, and I turn towards the next section.
I step over, and yet again, the environment changes. I’m assaulted with the smell of iron, possibly blood, and the light is a harsh magenta. There are symbols on the floor I don’t understand, and the word “Alchemy” gets pushed through my mind by some unknown cause. There’s a table pushed against the wall with a sterling knife on it, and a tome in a language I can’t understand.
I continue on and on through the rooms sections, like a rat running through a maze, trying to absorb everything, getting transfixed by even cracks in some of the tiles on the glistening walls. I get to the exit door, and push out to check the dial, being that sure I’m late. I walk at an animated pace towards the dial, and see I made it just in time to not receive retribution from the