She reclines on a throne upholstered in twisted curtains of dark silver leather, its curves echoing the bone-like protrusions of bleached skulls stacked around her, their empty sockets seeming to stare back with a hint of warning, as if to ward off any temptresses who'd try to usurp her fragile beauty; beneath the throne, dark crimson petals spill from delicate, porcelain vases like blood from wounds, spattered across the dark stone floor, yet it's the thunderbolt-studded silver serpents that coil around her neck, tongue between her raised knees, which ensnare the eye, as if holding fast her secrets and seductive charm