/ Dawn / 6:12 AM / Moonday, Third day 3, Year 522 AC / Waxing Crescent / Mountain Trail, Northern Aetherium Expanse / Late Spring / Crisp air, with faint wisps of fog clinging to the ground /
The biting chill of the northern mountains lingered in the air, though the melting Frost on the boulders around me hinted that spring had finally begun to take hold within the high peaks. Ancient pines loomed tall on either side of the narrow trail, their branches heavy with dew. Somewhere in the distance, a hawk cried out, it's piercing screech echoing down the valley. Below my feet, the dirt path crunched lightly, still damp from the morning dew. Behind me, the imposing silhouette of the Frost Giant enclave I once called home faded into the misty distance, the final few traces of my giant family disappearing over the ridge.
For the first time in days, there was no towering presence to look up to, no deep voices booming orders or advice. Freedom tasted both exhilarating and uncertain. The weight of my longsword at my side and the tingling crackle of latent lightning within my fingertips were all that anchored me as I stepped forward into this new chapter of my life. Above, the sun crested the distant Ridgeline, it's light filtering through the thinning mist and striking crystals of frost that still clung to the rocks. It almost felt like the earth itself was urging me onwards.
Ahead, the trail forked. To the left, the path descended sharply into a deep Alpine valley where I could make out the outline of distant smoke tendrils rising from what must have been a village. To the right, the trail climbed, zigzagging higher into the jagged peaks where the mountain passes yielded to greater mysteries. A few scattered footprints along the dirt suggested others had travelled this route recently, though their direction was not immediately clear.
As I contemplated which path to take, a soft rustling caught my attention from the nearby bramble on my left. A pair of amber eyes glinted from the shadows. Slowly, a figure imerged - a fox, it's sleek fur caught the light as it regarded me curiously. It held something on its mouth - a folded piece of parchment - and cautiously approached, all the while keeping it's gaze fixed on me. The moment felt strangely significant, as though this was no ordinary mountain fox.
The parchment dropped from the animal's mouth, landing at my feet. It sat there innocuous and slightly smudged, but undeniably placed before me with purpose.
Without another sound, the fox retreated back into the undergrowth, vanishing as quickly as it appeared.
I knelt, my scaled fingers brushing away the damp earth as I picked up the folded parchment. It was slightly thicker than I had expected - good quality vellum, sturdy enough to survive the mountain damp. A faint, earthy scent of moss and ink clung to it. One edge was torn, and the wax seal that once held it closed was broken, leaving only a smudge of dark blue wax and the impression of what might have been a stylised wing or feather.
Carefully, I unfolded it. The handwriting was elegant but hurried, written in Common with a fine, dark ink.
"If you are reading this, time is already short. The Veil between the elemental currents grows thin near the Shattered Spire. I cannot return -they are watching. Seek the Guardian of the Howling Cleft. Show this, and you may learn what stirs in the shadows. - A"
There was no date, no further explanation. The "Shattered Spire" could have been a landmark, and the "Howling Cleft" sounded like a place - a canyon or a pass, perhaps. The note's urgency was palpable but it's origins were mysterious. Who was "A"? Who were "they"? And why had it been delivered by a fox?
As I was pondering, the chill wind picked up, rustling the parchment in my hand. The trail ahead still forked - one path leading down towards civilization, the other climbing, deeper into the unknown peaks. The note seemed to point towards the mountains, but I had no guarantee whether the sender was friend or foe.
The decision made, I shrugged, tucked the mysterious note into a secure pouch on my belt and turned towards the right-hand fork. The trail immediately began to climb, the packed earth giving way to loose scree and weathered stone steps that looked carved by time more than by hand. The air grew thinner, cooler. Each breath carrying the crisp, clean scent of pine and stone. Below, the valley receded, the tendrils of smoke from the distant village became mere grey smudges against the green.
Travelling for hours, my monk-trained endurance made the ascent steady if not easy. The path wound along a narrow ridge with dizzying drops on one side, then ducked into a sheltered gully where the previous season's ice still lingered in shadowy patches. I passed a few markers of previous travellers - a cairn of stone, a faded ribbon toed to a branch, the cold ashes of an old campfire.
Around midday, the trail opened onto a wide, rocky plateau. Before me stood an impressive sight: a towering stone statue, weathered by centuries of wind and snow. It depicted a giant in archaic armour, one hand resting on the hilt of a massive sword, the other pointing further up the trail. The face was worn smooth, but the craftsmanship was unmistakably Giant-made - it seemed to be from the same culture that raised me. Inscribed around the base in runic Giant were the words:
"Here passes the road of the worthy. Beyond lies the Howling Cleft. Tread with respect, or be swept away."
The statue's pointing arm aligned with a narrower, steeper path that switchbacked up towards a sharp ridge. From said direction, a low, mournful sound echoed - the wind funneling through some unseen gap, creating a steady, whispering howl. The Howling Cleft. To reach it, I had to navigate a section of exposed cliff face where the trail had partially collapsed. Loose rocks and a tricky handhold sequence stood between me and the ridge above.