...Yew Lions...Hag Rams...Old Crows...Storm Hawks...Dead Rabbits...Blood Bears. . .Iron Elks. Like a pestilence they crept en masse along ancient pathways, unstable bridges, narrow chasms and deadly-steep slopes of firm-footed granite. Streams of bronze and iron glittered up the slopes from every direction, as if the very lifeblood of the region had suddenly decided to pool and coagulate, and strangle the heart with its encroaching volume. For a night and two days they rose along their ancestral passages, marching ever onward to crest the summit of their great journey...and what a marvel they beheld upon arrival: A flat, sparsely decorated plateau stretching three miles and five deep, plastered with a dull stone-grey between specks of green. Above it rode misty warriors in their puffy chariots, observing the sacred battleground from on high with a gentle ease; The old ones seemed pleased by the presence of their progeny.
Krolm's Anvil - a place of great honor, and yet greater loss; As Yullar sniffed the air from atop his sturdy mount, he noted the faintest traces of iron wafting about the decrepit bones of the dead. Here had many strove to be deemed worthy of entrance into Krolm's eternal halls, and many more would yet. It was a place of rock, bones and the idle bit of well-fed vegetation - a place where, they say, the souls of the damned and dying still wandered in strife, looking to redeem themselves in the eyes of their ancient lord. A place of sorrow for many, yes...but also of unrivaled wealth for the lucky few. Yullar would be sure to place himself among the ranks of the latter - it'd always sounded incredibly aggravating to die and live on forevermore as a wraith, a permanent mark of a warrior's inherent failure. He clutched the reigns in his left a little harder, easing the beast forward towards the preset camps that the clans' camp-followers had erected mere hours earlier. Seven distant spots, yet to each there seemed only the space for one - the anticipation was the real killer up here.
The Iron Elks would be resting in the southwest-most corner of the summit, as was tradition. He figured that to be quite unfortunate - they'd have to be downwind of the Hag Rams all over again.
Krolm's Anvil - a place of great honor, and yet greater loss; As Yullar sniffed the air from atop his sturdy mount, he noted the faintest traces of iron wafting about the decrepit bones of the dead. Here had many strove to be deemed worthy of entrance into Krolm's eternal halls, and many more would yet. It was a place of rock, bones and the idle bit of well-fed vegetation - a place where, they say, the souls of the damned and dying still wandered in strife, looking to redeem themselves in the eyes of their ancient lord. A place of sorrow for many, yes...but also of unrivaled wealth for the lucky few. Yullar would be sure to place himself among the ranks of the latter - it'd always sounded incredibly aggravating to die and live on forevermore as a wraith, a permanent mark of a warrior's inherent failure. He clutched the reigns in his left a little harder, easing the beast forward towards the preset camps that the clans' camp-followers had erected mere hours earlier. Seven distant spots, yet to each there seemed only the space for one - the anticipation was the real killer up here.
The Iron Elks would be resting in the southwest-most corner of the summit, as was tradition. He figured that to be quite unfortunate - they'd have to be downwind of the Hag Rams all over again.
