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The Mountain has always stood, looking over the land. It has been the Creator, the Destroyer, provided, and punished, but the Land was always grateful. A great Kingdom once thrived here, but now, darkness. The Mountain sleeps, and has done so for centuries ... The sky is a dark and empty blue. The moon is a crescent. Mysterious creatures writhe about, black and nebulous at the foot of the Mountain where the poison water creeps silently towards the Door. Its smell is sweet and terrible and reeks of Death. With this pungent tide comes a wind—a chilling wind that moves swiftly and silently. It whips over the rocks to the Forest and back. At the edge of the Forest a cyclone is formed, greedily tearing from the Earth centuries-old trees whose bows are heard snapping amidst the roar of the Beast. Frightened Creatures seek sanctuary beneath the rocks, shrieking in ancient tongues as the storm of dust and sand reaches upward toward the ominous swirl of black clouds that envelope the sky. The sky reaches down toward the tempest, as the neck of an hourglass. Then suddenly, a great bolt of lightning shoots down the axis of the cyclone to the ground, and inferno rages up toward the sky! A blinding whiteness is cast over the Mountain. The spirits of Creatures not yet having found cover flee and squeal as their former host is turned to coal, then ember, then ash ... All is silent and dark once more. In the faintest glow It can almost be seen. Is this the mountain? No. Where once was

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