Graven's Climb

[LaCabra (Soda) 1519]

The algid winter winds blow torrentuously through the dark and almost lonely night. A snow encased mountain roars in fury, and frozen trees creak in the wind’s force. A once proud and might river is still, resting in its ice form at the base of the majestic mountain. About three kilometers from the mountain’s peak resides a man.

Although his form is microscopic compared to the mountain’s mass, the man’s determination is immense. His will to conquer the mountaintop is unstoppable, and could never falter. Mountain climbing is his most favored hobby, and the icy mountain is an intimidating and worthy challenge. The freezing wind screams its voice endlessly, carrying thick sheets of snowflakes to the East.

The climber has had an exhausting ascend so far, beginning two days prior. His limbs are stiff from the bitterly cold air, and his fingers can hardly bend. He holds his hands close to his mouth, and breathes a warm cloud of steam onto them. A sense of heat comforts the chilled appendages, but quickly departs with another strong gale of wind.

As the cold becomes overwhelming, the mountaineer searches for a flat rock to sleep on. His efforts are soon rewarded, as he finds a smooth overhand, where he sits down and pulls a thick and inviting bear skin blanket from his pack. A fire is impossible to create in the frigid climate, so he pulls the soothing hide close to his body. Exhaustion sets in, and the man falls asleep; sleep that seems to only last for only one second.

As his eyes quickly slide open, the climber, named Graven Wolfblade, groans in pain. His legs and arms are fatigued, and his vision is weak in the blinding sunlight. The only sun is only peering through a few dark storm clouds, yet its reflection on the snow is brighter than a summer’s day. Graven pulls a device of his own making from his pack, a headband made from wool. The fleece pulled extremely tight, providing slight visibility if looked through, without being stunned from the sun’s rays.

Graven places the wool onto his face, and stuffs his blanket into his backpack. After doing so, Graven grabs a loaf of bread from one of his bag’s many pockets. He bites a few large chunks from the bread, and flushes them down his throat with a handful of melted snow. Fitting the rest of the bread into his mouth, he departs higher and higher up the unforgiving mountain.

The sun is quickly overpowered by the storm clouds, while a strange mixture of snow and rain pours down to Graven’s hair. He lifts his eyes to the stinging sleet, and curses as his woolen shade device is rendered useless. The rain makes the ground slippery, and Graven climbs up into a layer of clouds.

Graven, unable to see albeit a few feet in front of him, comes unto a steep wall; A wall where simply walking is impossible. A sturdy ice pick helps him to rise a few slow feet at a time. After an hour or so, Graven looks down to the clouds that once were above his head. They are no longer. The air is clean, and the sun has a softer gaze than it did that morning.

Graven swings his pick into the hard rock, securing it and providing an anchor for himself. He pushes his body up with his legs, finding a secure foothold, and repeats the process many times. As the sun begins to set, Graven finally reaches the summit of the cliff. Looking down at the sheer wall he just scaled, he emits a hoarse victory cry. The sound, unusually loud, echoes around the ancient mountain. Suddenly, a deep crack comes from within it.

The man is shocked to hear the startling noise, and sprints as quickly away from the cliff’s face as he can. Rocks crumble and shake around him, and a small fracture in the earth begins to form a small distance away from Graven. After a few seconds pass, the fissure begins to grow, until it is a lightning shaped crack on the peak. Screaming in confusion, he bolts towards the fissure, and jumps swiftly across its form. As he lands on the opposite side, a resounding crash is heard behind him. What once was firm and secure was now falling to a lower elevation.

The amount of noise is earsplitting, and Graven writhes on the cold stone ground in agony. The falling rock grinds upon the mountain’s side with brute strength and overwhelming force. After a couple seemingly endless minutes, the clashing subsides, and plumes of dust rise into the air. Coughing and hacking, Graven looks over the edge of the destroyed land. It is as if a knife has cut cleanly through the earth like a slab of warm butter. Small caves are now open, agape and wide, from where hefty rocks used to cover. A steady stream of bats issue from one cavern, gliding through the dreary and cold currents of air.

Graven, exhausted and confused, falls to the floor. He nearly topples from the edge of the earth’s incision, but does not. A strange dream seems to overcome his mind.

The shadowed bodies of great felines rush throughout a lush forest, while birds whistle in the gigantic leaves. A soft, feminine voice speaks many words, but only a few are recalled by Graven. “Faith… Importance… Love… Strength… Honor… Duty… Metzli…”and finally, “Kharajyr.” A large stone temple, covered in grassy vines, is sat on by a great white creature. The figure is far away, but Graven notices its pointy ears and waving tail. Thoughts of perplexity run through his mind, such as, “Is this magic? Trickery? Sorcery? Am I going insane? But… It is beautiful. I wan- need it. I ache for it. Please, please, let me find it! I will die for it!”

Graven awakes to the feeling of raindrops. As they slide down from his dirt covered face, his deep blue eyes flick open. Shivers jerk and jolt his movement, and more rain falls. Not just a pitter-patter, pitter-patter, but a tremendous PITTER-PIT-PAT-CLASH-PITTER-PITTER-PAT-BOOM, as the night sky illuminates and reverberates with lightning and thunder. Despite the deadly temperature, he searches for a route down the mountain. Luckily, a small path made by herds of animals provides a safe, yet long and descending trail. The bite of hunger digs through his belly, but is not satisfied. “Find the Kharajyr. Find the Kharajyr,” mumbles Graven, not fazed by his need for nourishment.

Down the soiled path he trots, lightly and with rapidity. What might have taken hours to climb up was being scampered down in minutes. Although a gathers a fine collection of scrapes and bruises from falling, he does not halt until the sun has risen.

((And this is what I have so far. Ta-da!))

[0000 175]

Wow, this is a very rich and wonderful story. Keep up the awesome work!

[LaCabra (Soda) 1519]

Wow, this is a very rich and wonderful story. Keep up the awesome work!

Thanks!!! :) This is what my lore was for the Kharajyr... But seeing as the Kharajyr lore changed, it's a bit useless for my character. It was extremely fun to write, though. :D

[Knox213 10]

Moved to the Archive. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.