Headless Horseman Statue Novels & Stories

A Theolandian style statue that was made of fine material— and must have cost a fortune— stood at one side of the main staircase. It depicted a young warrior with a cloak, a torch in one hand, and an olive wreath on his head, holding a lion’s mouth open with a short wooden staff. The extremely sharp teeth of the beast were just a few centimeters away from piercing into the warrior’s hand. On the other side of the marble staircase was a statue of a woman with brown hair who wore a long white robe sitting on a stool underneath an open roof that was covered in vines. She seemed to be watching the young man with fascination as he fought the dangerous creature.

Tonight, no one left unmarked. “It is nearly time,” Waylon said neutrally. Marvin nodded, taking one last hit before he found himself standing on the raised platform at the far end of the grand hall. Above it towered a statue, thirty feet high, an ancient faceless god, hewn from black marble and studded with rare gems, its form both masculine and feminine, androgynous. The eyes were hollowed out sockets that appeared to watch over all. Everyone knew what it represented: power, fertility, submission, the exchange of flesh for favor.

He recognized Charon ferrying tormented souls on the River Styx, a battle scene showing soldiers being trampled underfoot by Hannibal's war elephants, and gladiators battling to the death in one of Rome's arenas. At the center of the hall was a crystal chandelier that brilliantly lit the room. Near the stairs, there was a bronze sculpture that Jon was eager to look at. He approached it and he was reminded of Michelangelo's sculpture of the Rebellious Slave. However, aside from being made of metal instead of white marble, the sculpture did not seem to show defiance, but pain and torture. Jon once again remembered the grotesque rock formation he saw while on board the Golden Cowrie and heard t

Master Greendrake, for one, was the main culprit of this thought. For one, though Master Greendrake had said that he didn’t know the secrets of the seventy-two mounds, he seemed to have a rather good understanding of this place. That aside, according to Finnley, the headless general was a corpse that had turned into a devil. Master Greendrake should know this much, yet in the end, he still led so many experts over and even got them to prepare angelic formations to deal with the headless general.

A rather mundane celebration of the deer god that Xanwed had established, but it's almost obvious that he wants everyone to remember the Rebellion, and the repercussions. I lead my horse through the street on the lookout for a less conspicuous inn. Garlands of flowers line doors and roofs of buildings, poles of metal and wood are at every turn mounted with a carving of deer's horn. Children run about with hats emblazoned with hoof signs and carry sticks. It takes me a moment to notice that these sticks are topped with carvings as well, but not horns. I bristle with anger as I realize they are wolf heads, mimicked in exact detail, to look like a staking.

he gave me a lackadaisical response, not even flinching. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing and looked at him. “Why are their heads there? Where are their lower bodies?!” “Isn’t this self-explanatory? They’ve had their head on public display! And what about their lower body? Don’t worry, we’ll get rid of them appropriately.” I no longer replied to what he said. If that’s the head of those who were beheaded, it signifies... “After a horrific night today, we’ll add your head to the collection and set it on the chair in the movie theater,” Adrastos stated one by one before chuckling shamefully at me.

I jumped off again, skidded past the man who yelled, and entered the alley. Market stalls crowded the entire shaded area. Tourists and locals haggled over cheap tchotchkes everywhere I looked, but on the other side, I saw the sun. She wouldn’t have stopped here. I wove through the crowd, dodging calls of “Replica pyramids, sir?” or “Present for the wife, sir?” My breath began to race. One merchant stepped in front of me with a miniature statue of some dog-headed guy in a chair. “Statue of Anubis, sir?” he said. “Real alabaster.”

The head of one of the massive wolf statues had collapsed onto the forest floor. I felt my lips part slightly in shock, and my hands trembled as they gripped the edge of the chariot's seat. The statue’s once-majestic head now lay on its side, half-buried in moss and dirt, its hollow eyes staring up at the sky like a warning from the gods themselves. “No...” I whispered, my voice barely audible above the frantic snorts of the horses. “This has happened before.” David, who had been scanning the area with narrowed eyes and half-drawn claws, turned to me sharply. “What do you mean?”

We were silent throughout Camilla’s tour of her not-so-humble abode, but when we saw that ungodly statue, Hank broke that silence in the only way he could. “What in the actual fuck is that?” Camilla beamed, prancing across the living room toward the statue. She ran her fingers along its chest and looked back at us. “I commissioned this piece. Isn’t he beautiful? Our King Hastur, frozen at the moment of his unmasking.” Bobby and me, we sort of mumbled our approval to be polite, but Hank just stared at it slack-jawed. “That is the god-awfulest thing I’ve ever seen, darlin’, and I’ve seen some shit.”

Large opened windows with no glass had servants leaning across the edge watching as we descended. Wildlife on the other side of the sphere watched as our carriage finally sat at the large roundabout with a colossal stone statue with a buff, muscular man holding a trident. He was in the position of throwing it at an imaginary beast. His beard was long and curled and the lower half of his body was that of a fish.