A lonesome cabin in the woods stands in the middle of an open circle. There was a village but all the buildings but one brunt to ground. Piles of ashes lay all around the area with the paved roads all cracked and has over grown grass. The trees surrounding the town are tall, reaching the stars in the skies but they are not wider than the stump of a bamboo tree. The amount of trees there outnumbers the amount of humans on this earth. The roads did lead outside of the forest but the trees took over the roads. Now no one can find there way to the town or back.
One cabin is two stories and it once held the the Kings of kings. It's older than time and is slowly falling down like the walls of Jericho. The floor has been ripped up and replaced with a grass carpet all the way to the stairs. You can find all nice and neat nicknacks that are laying around this cabin. The fireplace still have ashes from the fire that was once there. Upstairs is one single room with one bed, one cabinet, one drawer, one desk, one mirror, and one chest. Slowly looking around on the bed, the sight of one thing that sends chills down your spine. There is the kings of kings, laying down sleeping but can never be awoken. There isn't a single piece of skin on him but his head has an odd shape. The town is so quiet its deafening. There is not a single soul in sight. No one, has been here until now and now there won't ever be.