10 – The Star Sapphires: Trials of the Mountain

Date: 11/6/2024

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The forest was still, as though mourning the battle that had just unfolded. The bodies of the hill giants lay strewn across the clearing, their blood seeping into the earth, mingling with crushed leaves and the acrid scent of sweat and steel. Above, the evening sky began to darken, painting the scene in shades of deep blue and purple. Johnny lay where he had fallen, eyes closed, his breathing steady and deep as he completed the strange ritual that had pulled him into a trance. Around him, faint motes of energy shimmered, barely visible in the twilight, like the last remnants of a dying fire.

Clovis surveyed the clearing with the practiced eye of a hunter, the grip on his blade loosening only slightly as the tension ebbed from his muscles. He glanced at Johnny's still form and frowned, then set to work restocking his potions, the familiar routine grounding him in the aftermath of the skirmish. Narvane, curiosity piqued by the ethereal glow surrounding Johnny, stepped forward to get a closer look. But as he approached, a regal hawk with silvery-blue feathers materialized from the shadows and settled on a branch above, watching him with eyes that seemed far too knowing. Narvane halted, a flicker of surprise crossing his features as the hawk stared him down, unblinking. It was as though Johnny’s spirit was embodied in the bird, and it wanted nothing to do with Narvane.

Janos, ever cautious and not one to idle, gathered stones and branches to stoke a small fire, its crackling warmth a stark contrast to the chill that settled in the air. He unsheathed his axe and began sharpening it, the metallic scrape breaking the silence. His eyes occasionally darted toward Johnny, wary of what might happen when his friend finally stirred.

 

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Johnny’s fingers twitched, his eyelids fluttering before opening to the darkening sky. The spirit hawk spread its wings and swooped down, landing beside him, talons sinking lightly into the forest floor. The hawk’s gaze met Johnny’s, and in that moment, the bond was sealed. Johnny sat up, feeling the connection settle into his very being, an extension of his soul. He met the curious eyes of his companions, explaining in short, cryptic phrases about the powerful magic he’d encountered and the spirit that now accompanied him.

The group decided it was too risky to continue without rest, so they set up camp as night descended. The spirit hawk took to the sky, scouting for threats under Johnny’s silent command. The silence of the night was shattered halfway through by the hiss and pop of a flare arrow soaring above them, erupting in a burst of light and sound that turned the clearing into day. Janos, startled but quick to react, raised his shield against the glare while the others blinked at the source of the ambush. It had come from the west—the Wild Hunt was closer than they’d thought. Narvane, ever resourceful, attempted to dispel the flare’s magic, but the incantation twisted on his tongue, backfiring with a surge of energy that intensified the light. The clearing glowed painfully bright, visible for miles around.

With sleep no longer an option in the blinding light, the party abandoned the idea, breaking camp and pressing on into the forest. The air was thick with the tension of unseen eyes, but it wasn’t just the Hunt that haunted their steps. Tiny blue lights, darting and laughing like mischievous children, began to weave around them. Forest sprites. They tugged at straps and snatched at packs, giggling as Janos cursed, the trinkets from his pouch scattering into the underbrush. One sprite managed to drag a torch out of his pack, leading him a few paces away from the group before Clovis’s voice, rough and commanding, rang out. The sprites scattered, startled, their lights first turning red then winking out as they disappeared into the dark.

With the forest sprites driven off, the party pushed forward through the thinning trees and up toward the mountain’s edge. The path turned steeper, gravel and loose stones shifting beneath their feet as the dawn broke over the jagged peaks of the Saltmire Mountains. Their breath came in white puffs, the air colder and sharp with altitude. Each step was a careful negotiation with gravity as they scaled a steep switchback. Clovis moved with a hunter’s grace, navigating the path effortlessly, while Janos used his axe as a makeshift pick, digging in for leverage. Johnny’s hawk, a spectral guide, soared above, spotting safer routes, while Narvane invoked his shadow magic, an inky arm lifting him past the trickier stretches.

By mid-morning, the ascent leveled, and the party paused, sweat and exhaustion painted across their faces. As they caught their breath, the wind shifted, carrying the scent of old stone and something electric in the air.  The temple loomed above them, a dark shape of stone and shadow carved into the mountaintop, ancient and silent. The pathway they followed wound upward, cutting across sheer drops and narrow ledges, an echo of past pilgrims and guardians who once walked the same route.

As they pushed onward, a single pebble skittering past Johnny’s boot rolling to a stop on the path. There was no time to react before a sudden rumble grew into a cascade of rock and earth. Clovis was the first to move, his eyes darting to Janos who stood a heartbeat away from the avalanche. Without hesitation, he reached out, gripping the head of Janos’s axe and yanking him beneath a jagged ledge. Dust exploded around them, clouding the air and coating their hair and armor in ashen grey. The rumbling subsided as quickly as it had begun, leaving the mountain once more cloaked in silence. They exchanged glances, breaths heavy, before pressing on without a word.

The path leveled as they approached the main road, a wide, flat stretch of stone carved into the mountain itself. The closer they drew to the temple, the more the atmosphere thickened. The sky churned with dark clouds, bruised purple and grey, rolling above the peak as though drawn by an unseen force. An unsettling wind whispered around them, carrying scents of moss and cold stone, and even the distant cry of birds had silenced. A foreboding stillness wrapped around them.

Worn statues, almost indistinguishable from the rock they stood upon, flanked the road. Each figure had been weathered by centuries, their faces blurred into expressions of stoic defiance or quiet watchfulness. But as the party moved past, some statues seemed to shift—an arm tilted, a head angled. Their eyes, hollow and dark, seemed to follow with an ancient, knowing gaze.

With one last push, they crested the final incline, and the temple’s entrance came into sight. Massive and intricate, the archway was flanked by columns cracked with age but still strong, crowned by carvings of beasts and heroes, its towering arches silhouetted against the eerie glow of a purple light that pierces the heavens. The shadows were deep, almost impenetrable, cast by the storm clouds that had gathered above.

At the threshold of the temple grounds stood a figure, cloaked in shadow and waiting.

The man’s dark cloak billowed faintly in the wind, its edges catching occasional glimmers of something not quite natural—shadows that seem alive. His posture is calm, his hands resting at his sides, but there’s an unmistakable tension in his stance—a readiness, as if he’s been standing there for some time, prepared for this exact moment.

Behind him, the light streaming from the temple framing him like a silhouette carved from the mountain itself, more specter than man, stands Alastor Thornveil.

“Well, it’s about time you got here. I’ve been waiting.”