Biography
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 hour glass.
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 with a 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 a pillar of fire and ash raging in a furious cyclone now
stands the Fulgurite. Then suddenly, a stunning flash of ultraviolet,
and in the afterglow, a shower of shining dust. A luminous rain of
sky-forged glass falls gently as the first snow of the first winter and
comes to rest on the bare shoulders of the Hero. He rises from a crouch
and stands: indomitable as the mountain before him, and naked as the
sky above. He walks north, bare feet falling on scorched earth. It
seems as if no force in the Land could impede his steady march towards
the towering bulk of the Mountain.
Time passes, no sun and no moon to judge the
progression of the day, days, weeks. He walks, until he came to the
sloping foot of the mountain, and stands before the Door. The ancient
Door is covered in dust and shrouded in twisted rock, the closed eye of
a sleeping giant. The Hero approaches. He raises a hesitant hand and
with his finger tips lightly brushes away the soot, revealing a rich
metallic glow. He steps back, mouth slightly agape. He resets himself,
and with right and authority places his right hand, fingers spread,
against the surface of the Door. The Hero’s hand glows red and he
warmth consumes him in the frigid wasteland. He closes his eyes and the
fingers of his right hand curl into a fist. He opens his eyes to find
his fist grasping air where once stood the Door. A darkness is
revealed. An inky pitch, beyond which seems an infinite void. Only the
Sound escapes… a high and whirling peal… a distant bell ringing in the
depths of what once was the Mountain. It is of no consequence to the
Hero, he pays it no mind. It is only sound. And so he walks again,
straight into that blackest of blacks. An eternity of darkness. And
then a glint, a glow, growing and growing until…
Yellow light fills the cavern. All around the
Hero, treasure, armor, weapons. Vestiges of the Ones for whom the Hero
now lives. He walks slowly through the center of the cave, past spear
and shield, past bow and arrow, past sword and rapier, then he stops.
At his feet lay a suit of armor. The breast plate bears an inscription
in an unknown language. Still, it is strangely alluring. The Hero dons
the armor, and as he examines the gauntlet on his right hand, the
cavern about him begins to spin. A swift wind whips through his hair,
but is he not in a cave? He feels himself being lifted from his feet,
and before him appears a woman, silver and diaphanous. The wind carries
her voice to the Hero’s ear. She is repeating a single word in a
mysterious unfamiliar language, but he understands: The Hammer. The
woman fades away. The roar of the wind becomes deafening. The Hero
allows his eyes to close and drifts away, the woman’s words ringing in
his head. The Hammer, The Hammer…
When he awakens, he finds himself on the floor
of the grotto, confused by his dream. His vision is blurry as he pulls
himself up onto his feet. He scans the cavern, the yellow glow replaced
by a colder light. He knows he has not yet regained sight, for in the
furthest reach of the cavern a mysterious form glimmers in the dark.
Intrigued, he investigates the strange spectacle. As he approaches, he
remembers the voice from his dream… The Hammer… and then there it was…
Suspended above the dirt and emitting beams of
silver light, a massive Hammer whose head is forged from the heaviest
metal and whose handle is carved from the hardest wood. As the Hero
reaches for the Hammer he hears the woman’s voice again. He understands
he is meant to wield the Hammer’s holy power.
The Hero emerges from the Mountain, armor-clad
and bearing the Magic Hammer, looking out across the land, considering
especially the remains of the Fulgurite. As he looks on the gray and
disused landscape, a sense of purpose fills him. He must rebuild the
kingdom that once thrived under the Ones over whom He now reigns.
With a mighty arm, he raises the Hammer. At the
Hammer’s apex, the world around him seems to stand still. The wind not
blowing. The black water not crashing on the rocks. The Hero takes one
final view of the world around him, not that he may remember, but that
he may never forget.
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 hour glass.
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 with a 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 a pillar of fire and ash raging in a furious cyclone now
stands the Fulgurite. Then suddenly, a stunning flash of ultraviolet,
and in the afterglow, a shower of shining dust. A luminous rain of
sky-forged glass falls gently as the first snow of the first winter and
comes to rest on the bare shoulders of the Hero. He rises from a crouch
and stands: indomitable as the mountain before him, and naked as the
sky above. He walks north, bare feet falling on scorched earth. It
seems as if no force in the Land could impede his steady march towards
the towering bulk of the Mountain.
Time passes, no sun and no moon to judge the
progression of the day, days, weeks. He walks, until he came to the
sloping foot of the mountain, and stands before the Door. The ancient
Door is covered in dust and shrouded in twisted rock, the closed eye of
a sleeping giant. The Hero approaches. He raises a hesitant hand and
with his finger tips lightly brushes away the soot, revealing a rich
metallic glow. He steps back, mouth slightly agape. He resets himself,
and with right and authority places his right hand, fingers spread,
against the surface of the Door. The Hero’s hand glows red and he
warmth consumes him in the frigid wasteland. He closes his eyes and the
fingers of his right hand curl into a fist. He opens his eyes to find
his fist grasping air where once stood the Door. A darkness is
revealed. An inky pitch, beyond which seems an infinite void. Only the
Sound escapes… a high and whirling peal… a distant bell ringing in the
depths of what once was the Mountain. It is of no consequence to the
Hero, he pays it no mind. It is only sound. And so he walks again,
straight into that blackest of blacks. An eternity of darkness. And
then a glint, a glow, growing and growing until…
Yellow light fills the cavern. All around the
Hero, treasure, armor, weapons. Vestiges of the Ones for whom the Hero
now lives. He walks slowly through the center of the cave, past spear
and shield, past bow and arrow, past sword and rapier, then he stops.
At his feet lay a suit of armor. The breast plate bears an inscription
in an unknown language. Still, it is strangely alluring. The Hero dons
the armor, and as he examines the gauntlet on his right hand, the
cavern about him begins to spin. A swift wind whips through his hair,
but is he not in a cave? He feels himself being lifted from his feet,
and before him appears a woman, silver and diaphanous. The wind carries
her voice to the Hero’s ear. She is repeating a single word in a
mysterious unfamiliar language, but he understands: The Hammer. The
woman fades away. The roar of the wind becomes deafening. The Hero
allows his eyes to close and drifts away, the woman’s words ringing in
his head. The Hammer, The Hammer…
When he awakens, he finds himself on the floor
of the grotto, confused by his dream. His vision is blurry as he pulls
himself up onto his feet. He scans the cavern, the yellow glow replaced
by a colder light. He knows he has not yet regained sight, for in the
furthest reach of the cavern a mysterious form glimmers in the dark.
Intrigued, he investigates the strange spectacle. As he approaches, he
remembers the voice from his dream… The Hammer… and then there it was…
Suspended above the dirt and emitting beams of
silver light, a massive Hammer whose head is forged from the heaviest
metal and whose handle is carved from the hardest wood. As the Hero
reaches for the Hammer he hears the woman’s voice again. He understands
he is meant to wield the Hammer’s holy power.
The Hero emerges from the Mountain, armor-clad
and bearing the Magic Hammer, looking out across the land, considering
especially the remains of the Fulgurite. As he looks on the gray and
disused landscape, a sense of purpose fills him. He must rebuild the
kingdom that once thrived under the Ones over whom He now reigns.
With a mighty arm, he raises the Hammer. At the
Hammer’s apex, the world around him seems to stand still. The wind not
blowing. The black water not crashing on the rocks. The Hero takes one
final view of the world around him, not that he may remember, but that
he may never forget.
