The mist does not merely drift over the Jotun-Spires; it breathes.
In the silence of the black peaks, the stone remains vigilant. Folklore suggests these jagged crowns are not rock, but the calcified remains of the First Kings—monstrous titans caught by the sun’s first rays an eon ago.
At the center of the ridge stands the Obsidian Spire, a sharp, singular tooth of basalt pointing toward the churning grey heavens. It is said that when the clouds thicken to the color of bruised iron, the veil between realms thins. Those who stand beneath the spire do not see shadows; they see the ancestors moving within the fog, waiting for the long winter when the sun never rises, and the stone will finally soften back into flesh.
The mountain is patient. It has outlasted the gods, and it will outlast the stars.
BitByHenke.com 