Talonreach Mountains
Rising like jagged spires against the sky, the Talonreach Mountains are a land of sheer cliffs, treacherous winds, and breathtaking heights. To the west, the cliffs plunge into the endless sea, where waves crash against the stone with relentless force. To the east, the land burns—the distant volcano staining the sky with smoke and fire. Between these extremes, the mountains stand, carved by time and the elements, their peaks home to those who rule the air. Here, the Aerythians build their roosts, their woven homes clinging to the cliffsides, swaying with the winds that have shaped their existence. It is a land of extremes, where only the strong—only the unshaken—can survive.
"It's just wind." But the draft is too warm, too steady, and it carries the faint scent of rot. "Wind doesn’t whisper names." The torch flickers violently, shadows crawling against the walls. Somewhere below, the stone shifts with a sound like breath. Or laughter.
"Don’t look down." The wind answers with a shriek, tugging at cloaks and patience alike. "I wasn’t going to." But the path narrows again, and beneath it—only void. Somewhere ahead, a stone has been marked. Scratched, not carved. Fresh.
A shadow passes overhead, swift and silent, its presence known only by the brief flicker of movement against the clouds. The figure descends, landing with a precision too practiced to be chance.
Wings fold, sharp eyes narrow, and for a moment, nothing moves. "Grounded? Or just passing through?" The voice is measured, unreadable, a question wrapped in purpose—before the wind carries them away once more.
"Don’t look down." The words come with a faint chuckle, wings shifting in the breeze.
"Why? You afraid I’ll fall?"
"No." A pause. A glance back over a shoulder. "I’m afraid you’ll stop climbing."
The cave vanished behind the blur of claws and snarled breath. One word had become your sentence. Now, she loomed over you, scaled limbs tense with rage, silver hair flaring like a mane. Her claw hovered at your throat. Then - "Hunt," she growled, tail twitching.
It wasn’t a question. It was a command. Or maybe an invitation.
Where the cliffs rise, the sea rages, and the sky belongs to the bold.
