It wasn’t far from Ashvault to Ashfeather as the Slatewing flies, but to get there Sarah, Frostfire and Shadowsmoke had to navigate the ruined districts of Crystalvale and Serpentstreet, that latter so named because all its roads meandered and twisted quite maddeningly around its conglomerations of (now truncated) cylindrical towers, before descending into the rift depression in the shadow of Hallowpeak and Bittercrag in which the district of Ashfeather lay.
It was like a kind of flat-bottomed basin, with the rough, cliff-like sides arising raggedly all around a district of the city which seemed to have sunk below the rest. From a vantage point atop the northernmost cliffs, Sarah stopped to survey the scene and was surprised by how desolate it looked, even for this mostly-deserted region of Shadow. The ground was littered in crumbling ruins so ancient that in many places they seemed more like natural rock formations than manmade and between them lay sulphurous pools of steaming water glimmering darkly beneath the ash-clouded sky.
“And this is one of your sacred sites?” she asked, bewildered.
“It’s not much to look at,” Shadowsmoke agreed, “and indeed, like the other feather districts, it’s rarely visited now, but it’s history has formed a part of Stoneskin legend and it is very much revered.”
“It’s hard to believe we’ll find anything of use down there,” Frostfire commented.
“And yet, we must,” the old shaman replied, “for the sake of both our species, I fear.”
“Then let’s just get it over with.” And, with that, the ornery Spiketail began to climb down the sloping cliff-face into the Ashfeather proper.
Sarah followed after him as quickly as she could. The cliff was steep and covered in loose rock, which made the going slippery and treacherous, but with the additional balance given to her by her Slayer powers, she managed to make it down without falling, Shadowsmoke clambering down on all fours beside her. And then began the long trek through the lonely ruins, looking for something, but not knowing what it might be. Sarah wasn’t even sure Shadowsmoke knew exactly what he was hoping to find.
They wandered between the exposed foundations of what Sarah assumed must have been mansions or palaces – their footprints were enormous! Every now and then a blackened fragment of wall might survive and, amidst the charring and weathering and accretions of many ages, she could just make out the faint traces of elaborate carving, unlike anything she’d seen elsewhere in Shadow.
“These don’t look human at all,” she said, examining one that actually seemed to resemble a Spiketail.
“Legends say that, for a while at least, Stoneskins and Humans lived side-by-side in Ashfeather, as nowhere else. These tattered remains tells of what can be achieved during peace.”
“But what happened? Why is it a ruin now?”
“The peace couldn’t survive the catastrophe that sank the district into this rift. There was a might earthquake and the air was filled with noxious gas. Those who survived abandoned the district. Some even considered it cursed, though my kind never forgot its sacred importance.”
“It all seems so… sad.”
“There isn’t much of Stoneskin history that isn’t,” Shadowsmoke acknowledged with a sigh. “Our people seem to have been long-doomed to war and misery and so long as we continue to be lead into fights with humans, that will continue to be our story until there are no more of us left, which, I fear, is inevitable unless we can bring about a lasting peace.”
Sarah nodded. “War is the history of my own world, too. Humans can’t even seem to be at peace with each other, there.”
“Then, perhaps there is no hope for any of us, but we must try, mustn’t we?”
There seemed no way to respond to that save by tacit agreement, and so the trio continued on through the sulphurous ruins in silence, weaving through ruined streets and alleys, taking long loops to navigate around stinking, flooded avenues and, on one occasion, hauling Frostfire out of a rift in the ground which opened up under his feet with no warning at all.
Eventually, they came in sight of a tall monument which must have once marked the centre of the district. It was a rough pillar of rock over which appeared to be scrawled some ancient script. It had developed a slight incline over the years and much of the plaza it had once stood within had since been flooded with hot, caustic water, surrounding the pillar like a moat of rotten eggs.
“Is that what we need?” Sarah asked, holding her nose, as she gazed upon it from the far shore.
“I think so,” Shadowsmoke acknowledged.
“But how are we going to reach it?”
“Ah, well that’s not actually a problem for Frostfire and I,” the old shaman responded, before stepping forward to stand in the gently bubbling water, though Sarah could still see the heat haze above it.
“What about me?”
“Wait here,” Frostfire grunted, before beginning to wade across the water himself.
Sarah stared after them in disbelief and then found a piece of crumbling wall to perch on as she watched, so she was completely oblivious when a shadow loomed up behind her and brought a rough, clawed hand down on her shoulder.
She leapt to her feet, spinning around in an instant and took a stunned second to survey the figure before her.
“Rockspark!?” she exclaimed as the realisation hit her.
“Good evening, Sarah,” said Rockspark.
“What are you doing here?”
“I have a feeling that it’s the same thing as you,” he said calmly.
“I’m not even sure what we’re doing here, to be honest,” Sarah said with a sigh. “Something about the Feathers, I assume.”
“Something about the Feathers, yes.”
“I assume you’ll be heading over there?” Sarah glanced over her shoulder to where Shadowsmoke and Frostfire had reached the monument.
Rockspark nodded. “I can carry you, if you like.”
It was starting to grow dark as Rockspark set Sarah down on solid rock before the leaning stone monument. This close, she could see that the writing which covered it was unlike anything she’d seen before.
Shadowsmoke must have seen her quizzical gaze, for, without asking, he said, “It’s the ancient writing of the Stoneskins – long forgotten in most places on Shadow. Even I have trouble reading it.”
“I know what it says,” Rockspark stepped up to run his claws along the carved lines of the characters. “I have it written on a scroll, recorded a long time ago when all the Feathers still had such a stone standing at the heart of their district. This is the only one left, I believe.”
“What is it, then?”
“It’s a kind of summoning spell and I’ve come here to perform it. This is the last one, so Ashfeather has to come.”
“You’re here to summon it?” Shadowsmoke sounded impressed.
“I’ve been trying them all, but none have so far answered my call.”
“That’s not very encouraging.” Sarah observed.
“No. But there are more of us here. Perhaps that will make a difference. Besides, it has to work.”
“Yes,” Shadowsmoke agreed, “perhaps you are right. Should we get started then?”
Rockspark removed the scroll from his backpack and spread it out at the foot of the monument, then gestured for each of the others to join him in a semi-circle before it. He sat down cross-legged and the others obeyed.
“We must say it in unison,” he said, gesturing to the text before them, “and we keep repeating it until something happens.”
“How long could that take?” Sarah asked.
“All night perhaps.”
She sighed. “Alright, let’s just begin.”
Rockspark started to intone the words out and the others picked up the cadence and rhythm as he went along.
“Shadow of the day,
Dust you
mould as clay,
Cloud with
thunder rumbling,
Mountainsides
come tumbling,
Solemn, still
of soul
And fragment
of the whole:
Ashen one we
flee,
Hearken to our plea.
“Wings of
dust of grime
Soaring
through all time,
Murky mystic
one
Whose twilight
hour has come,
Dark mirror
of our minds,
Threshold of
all lines:
The one we
call by name,
Please answer
to the same:
Ashfeather.”
Sarah hadn’t really expected anything to happen at all, so when there was a tremendous crash of thunder overhead as they uttered the final syllable she nearly jumped out of her skin.
“We continue,” Rockspark said, unperturbed and began reciting the little poem once more, though it took Sarah a moment or two to catch up.
The thunder was even louder the second time and was accompanied by forks of lightning all around the basin of Ashfeater.
“Again,” Rockspark said, louder this time.
Upon the conclusion of this third reading the roll of thunder overhead was so loud that Sarah had to over her ears and the lightning grew so bright that she had to close her eyes as well, only able to open them once the darkness returned and the afterimage, like cracks across her vision, began to fade.
The first thing she saw, as her vision adjusted, was that the stone monument before them had cracked in two from the top to the bottom, so that each side had fallen in its own direction to splash into the caustic water, but far more interesting than that was what lay beyond the cracked stone and it seemed the answer to the question of just what that thing was came to them all at once as they spoke its name in unison one more time.
“Ashfeather!”
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