Wings of the Abyss

The cliffs of Virethorn did not welcome them.

They loomed like jagged obsidian fangs torn from the bones of the world, jutting skyward as though in open defiance of the heavens themselves. Towering and unmoving, they bore the scars of millennia—etched by wind, salted rain, and forgotten storms. Layers of ancient stone bore striations like the rings of time itself, threaded with veins of lichen that pulsed faintly in the silver, sickly light that washed across the land. Overhead, the flare still hung—a cold and unmoving orb in the sky, its eerie luminescence bleeding into every crack and crevice like the lidless gaze of a watching god. But the light brought no heat. No comfort.