Before them loomed a great, towering mountain hewn of black and dark grey stone alone on a sea of black dunes. The only overt indication that any great battle took place at this sight in a bygone era was the front half of a colossal Draconic skeleton that protruded from the base of the mount.
When last Arcas arrived at Kaladon, it was a simple, lonely mountain in an otherwise empty stretch of desert. In and of itself the site bore no strategic advantage. It was simply where the marshalled forces of Arcas and Raxen reached the Solunarian crusaders as they advanced toward more populated parts of Ailizane.
When last Arcas left Kaladon, the peak of the mountain crumbled inward as the new forged volcano rose from the site at which Varvara and Aværys fell. The sands were scarlet and heaped with corpses. Today the sands were a shimmering black.
To their rear, the party would find a newly constructed temple built of transparent crystal. The architecture was a unique marriage of Aurisian and Solunarian designs. The pyramid was imposing, and it was populated. Faintly, they might even hear the chanting of the congregants within, led by the Princeps Pontifex.
“Ultima Cumæi venit iam carminis ætas;
Magnus ab integro sæclorum nascitur ordo.” Droned the voices of the elves and Vastian humans within the structure.
“Deus Vult!” Vrædyn called.
“Eos alit!” Replied a chorus of congregants.
“Sicut Domina imperat!”
“Eos alit!”
The phrases repeated and the chanting persisted. Perhaps Dæmon’s Sembling eyes would notice that Vrædyn was changed since they’d last parted, and that Phocion Princeps, also altered, was amongst those gathered before the Pontiff. Both were graced with gifts unknown to the world for millennia. Vrædyn’s voice surged with novel Majesty, and the chains of Supremacy clung taut to Phocion’s soul. The congregants watched the visitors, but they seemed content to chant and made no moves to engage with those outside the temple.
Though the majority of the party was winged, drawing closer to the mountain would reveal a footpath began at the Draconic skeleton and wound the mountain leading up to the maw at its peak. It was well trod by pilgrims who’d been making the climb for millennia. Something else would become apparent when their attention was cast toward the mountaintop.
Perched on the edges of the volcano’s mouth were all five of Zalkyrion’s brood. The largest of the dynasty was the colossal Crownwyrm, Zalkyriax, whose scales favoured golden overtones though his proportions were more consistent with the silver side of his ancient heritage. He was flanked by two slightly smaller dragons whose scales glinted more on the silver side of the spectrum and another pair of golden-scaled Zalkyrians bookended them. They perched there still and silent- imposing sentinels or perhaps witnesses to the paradigm shift promised by whatever transpired this portentous day.
Down the slopes of the mountain came a gust of wind. It sent up a cloud of black sand as it rolled over the dunes toward the party, and as it passed over them it carried a lot hissing whisper.
“Hie thee hither.” It urged, and all the would know innately that their destination lay at the summit of Mount Kaladon.
When last Arcas arrived at Kaladon, it was a simple, lonely mountain in an otherwise empty stretch of desert. In and of itself the site bore no strategic advantage. It was simply where the marshalled forces of Arcas and Raxen reached the Solunarian crusaders as they advanced toward more populated parts of Ailizane.
When last Arcas left Kaladon, the peak of the mountain crumbled inward as the new forged volcano rose from the site at which Varvara and Aværys fell. The sands were scarlet and heaped with corpses. Today the sands were a shimmering black.
To their rear, the party would find a newly constructed temple built of transparent crystal. The architecture was a unique marriage of Aurisian and Solunarian designs. The pyramid was imposing, and it was populated. Faintly, they might even hear the chanting of the congregants within, led by the Princeps Pontifex.
“Ultima Cumæi venit iam carminis ætas;
Magnus ab integro sæclorum nascitur ordo.” Droned the voices of the elves and Vastian humans within the structure.
“Deus Vult!” Vrædyn called.
“Eos alit!” Replied a chorus of congregants.
“Sicut Domina imperat!”
“Eos alit!”
The phrases repeated and the chanting persisted. Perhaps Dæmon’s Sembling eyes would notice that Vrædyn was changed since they’d last parted, and that Phocion Princeps, also altered, was amongst those gathered before the Pontiff. Both were graced with gifts unknown to the world for millennia. Vrædyn’s voice surged with novel Majesty, and the chains of Supremacy clung taut to Phocion’s soul. The congregants watched the visitors, but they seemed content to chant and made no moves to engage with those outside the temple.
Though the majority of the party was winged, drawing closer to the mountain would reveal a footpath began at the Draconic skeleton and wound the mountain leading up to the maw at its peak. It was well trod by pilgrims who’d been making the climb for millennia. Something else would become apparent when their attention was cast toward the mountaintop.
Perched on the edges of the volcano’s mouth were all five of Zalkyrion’s brood. The largest of the dynasty was the colossal Crownwyrm, Zalkyriax, whose scales favoured golden overtones though his proportions were more consistent with the silver side of his ancient heritage. He was flanked by two slightly smaller dragons whose scales glinted more on the silver side of the spectrum and another pair of golden-scaled Zalkyrians bookended them. They perched there still and silent- imposing sentinels or perhaps witnesses to the paradigm shift promised by whatever transpired this portentous day.
Down the slopes of the mountain came a gust of wind. It sent up a cloud of black sand as it rolled over the dunes toward the party, and as it passed over them it carried a lot hissing whisper.
“Hie thee hither.” It urged, and all the would know innately that their destination lay at the summit of Mount Kaladon.
