The symbols on their surfaces bothered him more than he wanted to admit. There was no language or magical script he recognized.
When he tried to focus on individual symbols, they seemed to resist comprehension, sliding away from his understanding like oil on water.
All of the statues were clearly warriors – their builds spoke of strength and training, their poses those of fighters who had known countless battles.
The craftsmanship was impossibly perfect. Every detail was rendered with such precision that Leon could make out individual strands of hair, the texture of fabric, the fine lines of age or laughter around eyes that would never blink again. These weren't carved statues – or if they were, the artist possessed skill beyond mortal comprehension.
