Majora’s Mask laid down on a stone. It had been there… one, two… three thousand years? No. It had been there, untouched by man for dozens of millennia. The ancient ruins of a tribe long forgotten, long unimportant. Located deep, deep within the outskirts of the cursed woods within Termina. Part of the Lost Woods that no animal or plant could thrive in, surrounded by dirt, dry land and infertile soil. Dead trees that loomed like hands, outstretching for relief and nourishment. Black smog coating the floor, where stone and cobble evidence of an ancient temple poking out of the dark fog laid waste. And on one of those fallen walls, the mask laid there. Just looking at the sky. Bored. Alone.