Wildline

It knows not of speech, talking only in riddles.
Stories roll from its tongue, waves of legend twisting and unfurling from its lips.

Far and wide, people come to seek its words. Oracles and histories blend together in its mind, unable to tell the difference. Some revere it as a god, some as a beast, all seeking. All searching.

Outcast it sits, upon its ivory throne at the peak of crumbling cliffs, their jagged teeth shredding the edges of a long gone land. Thorns twirl around its feet, seeping power slowly, slowly. Seeking the stature it gained by no volition of its own.

It is a king of myths, an overseer, clouded gaze claiming dominion over fae and fiend alike. Those distant eyes always watching, watching. Perceiving the far future and even further past, one that has not yet— and may never— occur.

Its kingdom hidden, paradise lost, in misty Carcosa, land overtaken.