Author: Ferrell Riley

If you haven’t been following #JulyRogueChallenge on the SwordsWithoutMaster community, you’re missing out on some excellent writing and pictures of places that will make you want to sell it all & get your hiking boots on!

I’d like to see if we could come up of any of our own as well, considering the creative talent I’ve seen come up in our games

Originally shared by Lavinia Fantini

#JulyRogueChallenge    (Gosh, I got a bit carried away. Sorry.)

The locals won’t talk to you. Oh, they’ll take your coin in exchange for a bed, a meal, watered-down wine, maybe even an old donkey that knows the way to the mountain. Rest assured, though, they won’t be your guide, no matter how much money you’re willing to pay. To be sincere, that’s to be expected. The only prayers answered by the mountain are dark, twisted ones.

Maybe you’ve read about it in an old book, or maybe it was a stone tablet. Maybe it was a whisper heard among the market stalls, or in a dream. It doesn’t matter. All it matters is that you reach the foot of the mountain, leave the donkey (it knows the way home), and walk.

The minute black rocks make crunching noises under your feet, and the light has a translucent, eerie quality.Your feet sink in the sand, making every step slow and deliberate. The silence and the monotonous black expanse leave you no company but yourself. You have plenty of time to think about why you’re here. Plenty of time to ponder and consider. Plenty of time to turn back and put this place behind you.

It’s also plenty of time to linger on every grievance, vengeance and pettiness, and if it wasn’t for the abruptness of the sky surrounding you, you probably wouldn’t realise you’ve made it to the top. You stop a moment, take in the landscape. A deep breath is cut short by the sulphurous miasma that creeps around you in lazy tendrils.

This means… yes, there it is. A white stone, so old and worn that it might be mistaken as part of the mountain, if its colour didn’t set it apart. You close the distance and touch it, as if wanting to ascertain its reality. Your hand outlines what once was a bas-relief, but it’s impossible to discern what it depicted.

They told you how to do it, and it’s so simple it seems a joke, a hoax: pray. Breathe the fumes, close your eyes, and focus your mind, will and soul into one purpose. Do it, and it will be granted to you, as long as your wish is harmful towards another.

You’re not sure how long it’s been since you closed your eyes. The haze makes every hour look the same, the sun invisible above smoke and clouds. Your mouth is parched dry. Right now, that wine doesn’t seem a bad idea. Your first step is a bit unsteady, but it won’t take long to go down, and maybe the donkey is still there… Cool wine and a warm bed, and sweet dreams of wrongs set right.

Your body feels tired, and your feet drag in the sand. It won’t hurt resting a bit against that tree, close your eyes just for a moment…

Night falls, and when the following morning the sun rises it’s as if you were never here. Maybe one of the villagers will say a prayer for your soul, or for your victim. Maybe someone swears that next time they’ll speak, try to dissuade the foolish stranger from climbing the mountain. They never do. Everybody knows that the whispers will always find a way. Aitho’s hunger is insatiable. 

(Inspiration: Mount Etna, Sicily)