Deep in the heart of the treacherous
remains of what was once Britain lies a mass of mountain islands.
Jutting up from the sea, the sharp cliffs seem to try to pierce the
sky. Wind howls through the crevices and along the cliff faces.
Along with the wind comes terrible sounds. Shrieks, horrible
agonizing shrieks. It is as if the sea itself is crying out in agony,
waiting to die and be put out of it's misery.
Should a foolish soul, thinking they
are being brave, venture further inwards they are met with many
challenges. There are men, or what is left of men, seemingly rotting
in the ocean. They warn the traveler to turn back. Should he not heed
their warning, they strike. They are fearsome warriors indeed,
surprisingly resilient and vicious for their rotten appearance.
If he can make it past the rotted ones
he begins to see ribbons of light in the air, streaming across the
sky in the same direction as him. Pulled, as if by some unseen force,
that perhaps pulls the unwary traveler as well. The shrieks get
louder as he progresses forward. Shadows streak across the sky. Those
few who have made it this far and returned have lost their minds.
Only fragments of what exists beyond
the reaches can be obtained from these damaged souls. It is hard to
say if any of it is even real or if it is a part of their psychosis.
They speak of spirits, faces contorted in pain. Giant birds fly
through the air, doing battle with each other. The lights in the sky
grow brighter. A mountain rises up before them. Light emanates from
the peak, brighter than the sun. Cliffs on every side, nearly
impassable.
One man has reached the peak and
returned. They call him Old Man Marbles, and believe me, he's lost
all of them. He rarely speaks, and when he does, it is usually only
after he's nearly ready to collapse from the alcohol. Hushed tones
and cryptic phrases are all he uses. Bright stones... Pillars of
sky... Ritual... Man but not man... Death...
