The group of intrepid Wyllmen had stopped near the foot of one of the highest peaks of Mount Eletherium, and had inadvertently let their horses drink at one of the sources of the great Lumarian river.
Here the mountainous landscape was akin to the rest of the Clastoclite chain, as the alpine tundra extended for miles and miles on the horizon, even if portions of sub-alpine grasslands remained visible in the remote distance at the foot of the steep mountain slopes. Rising above the rugged and broken landscape, like the spiers of some eroding castle, the great central rise of Mount Eletherium's spine was a row of jagged, bald summits flanked by ruin-sudded lesser peakes and black crags.
The remnant of an ancient cenozoic glacial mass, a series of harsh elemental forces of wind and snow pruned back the vegetation's insistent efforts to colonize the rocky heights, toweringly jutting above the rest of the range as if skeletal and grim - the carcass of a dying behemoth, pale and gaunt.
This harsh land, which was as much sky as rock, was the domain of only the toughest plants: low, wind-bludgeoned scrub, cushion-leafed sprigs, and rock-hugging lichen; they were hardy survivors capable of squeezing life out of the very stone they clung to. In this extreme landscape of grand vistas and buffeting winds, the wyllen expedition was hit hard by the unforgiving alpine climate, characterized by a seemingly perennial snowfall that persisted for almost the whole year on the Clastoclites, as breathtaking as they were lethal.
The quarrel between Michbleat and Tegneb was interrupted by the unexpected limpering approach of a hooded individual completely wrapped up in black robes. The person continued to get closer and closer, therefore the wyllen guards advanced forward and spoke to the stranger in an authoritative tone. The hooded individual stopped a few paces from the wyllmen as if intent on communicating, whereupon Michbleat and Tegneb stepped forward to try to hear better.
???: "Ghædrehste, Xaennœvïæ!"
The words were uttered by a clearly aged voice - calm and clement, but at the same time bearer of power and wisdom - in a language totally unknown to the expedition.
Michbleat asked the interpreter to translate, but they failed as what the stranger had spoken was not Khijovian, rather the ancient Akrocanthian dialect.
The individual, soon realizing that the foreigners did not understand him, once again spoke, this time in standard Khijovian, comprehensible to the ears of the wyllen interpreter.
???: "These frigid highlands are not to be traveled lightly, my friends. Indeed, they are no place for sheeppeople."
The stranger stopped to allow his words to be translated, then he spoke again.
???: "From your looks I reckon you have crossed the treacherous Clastoclites; impressive, most impressive..! Though, tell me: what brings you to the harsh Akrocanthia?"
