/ Early Afternoon / 1:08 PM / Moonday, Third day 3, Year 522 AC / Waxing Crescent / Below the Howling Cleft Ass, Northern Aetherium Expanse / Late Spring / Cold, damp air; constant echo of wind above /
The statue's pointing arm aligned with a narrower, steeper path, switchbacking up towards a sharp ridge. From that direction, a low, mournful sound echoed, the wind funneled through an 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 series of hanholds stood between me and the ridge above.
Taking a steadying breath, I began my ascent across the unstable section. My feet found purchase on the narrow ledge, and my hands gripped the cold, rough stone of the cliff face. For a few moments, my strength and balance, honed by giants training, served me well as I moved with deliberate grace, the howling wind tugging at my clothes.
About halfway across, the rock beneath my left foot shifted suddenly and without warning. A small cascade of gravel and dust spilled into the abyss below. Reacting quickly, I shifted my weight and reached for a firmer handhold, but the loose stone gave way entirely as my footing vanished.
The mountain was unforgiving.
I slid downwards, with the claws of stone scraping against my scaled forearms as I scrambled to arrest my fall. With a desperate lunge, I managed to hook my arm around a jutting rock, halting my descent, but not before I had dropped nearly fifteen feet into a hidden crevice below the trail. The impact drove the air from my lungs, and I landed in a crouch amid a shower of pebbles and dust.
I found myself in a shallow, cave-like opening beneath the overhang of the trail above. The space was dim, lit only by the faint daylight filtering down through the gap from which I fell. The air there was still and cold, smelling of wet stone and ancient earth. The constant whooo-oooo of the wind through the cleft above was muffled, yet omnipresent.
As my eyes adjusted I noticed two things:
1. The back of the shallow cave I found myself in narrowed into a downward-sloping tunnel, from which a faint, cool draught emanated.
2. Sitting perfectly still on a flat rock near the tunnel entrance and watching me was a figure.
It appeared to be an elderly humanoid, wrapped in layers of grey and brown furs, with a staff of weathered wood resting across their knees. Their face was hidden in shadow, yet I could make out the glint of eyes calmly observing me. They made nomove to help or hinder me; they simply watched, as if they had been expecting company.
Determining that a friendly greeting would be most appropriate, I pushed myself up from my crouch,brushing stone dust from my scaled arms. With a calm demeanor, I offered a greeting, cycling through the languages I knew, my voice echoing softly within the confined space.
"Greetings," I began in Common. The figure didn't react.
"A star guides your path," I tried in flowing Elven. Still there was no movement.
"Your hearth is warm," I said in the rumbling tongue of Giant. A slight tilt of the head, though there was still no reply.
Finally, I spoke in the sibilant, powerful language of Draconic, "I seek understanding, not conflict."
The figure stirred. A dry, rasping chuckle emerged from the shadows. It replied in the same ancient tongue; it's voice was reminiscent of stones grinding together. "Your accent is... curious. A blend of storm and stone. You are far from your roost, little one."
They leaned forward slightly and the dim light caught their features. The figure was an older Dragonborn , his scales faded to a dull, ashen grey, with deep creases around his eyes and mouth. Two short horns curved back from his brow. His eyes, however, were clear, piercing blue, similar to my own.
"You have the look of the North about you," he continued in Draconic. "And you carry something... a scent of urgency in parchment. Show me."
He extended a clawed hand, in an expectant manner.
I considered it for a moment, "I don't really know you. Then again, I don't really know the person that wrote the note either." I handed him the note.
..
"Are you dragonborn?"
"My family always said I resemble the dragonborn, and your definitely not an elf."
The elder dragonborn accepted the note with a slow, deliberate motion, and his blue eyes scanned the parchment quickly, then more slowly, absorbing every detail. A low hum vibrated in his chest. "Hmph. 'A' ... Althaea, unless I miss my guess. Impetuous as ever." Carefully folding the note, he handed it back to me, his gaze lingering on my scaled features and frost-streaked hair.
"To answer your question," he said, still in Draconic, "I am dragonborn, yes.
"Of the Ashen claw clan, though I have been guardian of this cleft for longer than most clans remember." He gestured vaguely upwards, where the wind continued it's mournful song. "And you... you are not Dragonborn."
"Not fully."
He leaned forward; his voice became a conspirrational rumble. "You carry the blood of two worlds. The disciplined grace of the elf is in your posture. The storm of the blue dragon runs in your veins - I can smell the ozone on you. And your size... the giants raised you, did they not?" This wasn't an accusation, but rather an observation, stated with the certainty of one who had seen many strange things in those mountains.
"Your family was not wrong. You resemble us in form and scale, but you are something else."
"Something rare. A true child of storm and stone." He settled back, a hint of what might be respect in his eyes. "Alathaea's note speaks of the Shattered Spire and thinking veils. That is no small matter."
"Why have you come this way, child of two bloods?"
I shrugged, "I have no set destination for my travels and the note piqued my curiosity."